Blood.
It was always blood.
Whether spilled on the battlefield or smeared on government papers, it never changed. Seraphina Valen didn't flinch at the sight of it anymore. As the youngest and deadliest tactical commander of the Eastern Military Front, she had bathed in it—cold, calculated, and undefeated.
Until tonight.
Betrayal wasn't a knife. It was a whisper.A nod.A signature.
And Seraphina fell, shot clean through the chest by the very soldiers she trained.
She lay still, staring at the stars through a shattered glass roof. Her blood pooled beneath her like a funeral veil.
"This is so… pathetic," she muttered weakly, coughing up irony. "I should've predicted this…"
She didn't get to finish her last thought.
Boom.A piercing migraine split her skull. The scent of perfume—sweet, obnoxious strawberry—invaded her nose.
She blinked.
No blood. No battlefield. No soldiers.
Only… pastel curtains?
She shot up—
—and promptly screamed in a pitch she didn't recognize.
"AHHH!!"
Her voice was… high. Shrill. Girlish.
A maid rushed in, nearly tripping over her frilly apron.
"Lady Seraphina! Please, calm down! You're still recovering from fainting at breakfast!"
"...Fainting?" she rasped, clutching her head.
"From crying too hard after your brother said you were useless again."
Seraphina blinked.
Excuse me, what?
She shot a glance at the ornate mirror nearby—and froze.
Looking back at her was a girl around 17. Pale skin, delicate frame, big watery eyes. Blonde curls tied with pink ribbons. A face that screamed "crybaby" in five languages.
It hit her like a slap.
She recognized this girl.
From a novel she once skimmed.
The mafia drama "Bloody Roses of the Underworld." A brutal underworld saga filled with cold-blooded heirs, power struggles, and the one character everyone despised:
Seraphina Celestina Delacroix—The dumb, spoiled, emotionally unstable youngest daughter of the Delacroix Mafia Family.
She cried when she chipped a nail. Screamed at insects. Ruined her father's negotiations by throwing tantrums. And she died early, humiliated and discarded.
Seraphina Valen stared into the mirror.
She had been reborn as her.
As the most useless daughter of the most dangerous mafia family.
"…I'm in hell," she whispered.
The door creaked.
"Ugh. What is it now?" a male voice growled, deep and annoyed.
Her oldest brother. Adrien Delacroix. Cold, ruthless, and openly hated her.
He stepped in, sharp suit blood-stained at the cuffs. He looked at her like she was trash.
"Tch. Still crying, Seraphina? How do you survive with half a brain?"
She opened her mouth, ready to curse in military code. But then paused.
Wait.
This was her second life.
In this world… the real Seraphina was weak, soft, and forgettable.
If she acted smart too fast, she'd be killed off again.
No. Not this time.
So she did what the old Seraphina would do.
She sniffled. Quivered her lip.
Then burst into loud, dramatic sobs.
"Waaaahhh! You're so meaaaaan!"
Adrien scoffed, rolled his eyes, and slammed the door behind him.
The moment he was gone, her tears stopped. Her back straightened.
And her violet eyes sharpened like blades.
Fine.
They wanted a crybaby?
She'd give them one.
But while they underestimated her…She'd study their weaknesses.Play the long game.Crush every future threat before it bloomed.
Because beneath the ribbons and ruffles…
…was a war strategist reborn.
And this time, she wasn't losing.