What I hadn't expected was that Damian Roberts, my long-missing father, showed up the moment he heard the news.

The way he hovered around Elizabeth, all smiles and lowered head, almost made him look like the picture of a devoted son.

Elizabeth seemed to forgive him and allowed him to come along as well.

My cousins, Owen Roberts and Lisa Roberts arrived soon after, dragged in at Victor's urging.

After more than ten hours in the air, the private helicopter descended onto a remote island in the heart of the Otraonia—Blackreef Isle.

Perched atop a cliff stood a medieval-style castle, its silhouette cutting sharply against the sea and sky.

The great hall inside the castle was dazzling, almost painfully opulent.

The dinner was set along a long table draped in white linen, silver cutlery gleaming coldly beneath the candlelight.

Alfred stood beside the head seat and gave a soft clap.

"Distinguished guests, in accordance with Princess Elizabeth's wishes, the Hawthorne family will initiate Project Apollo."

He smiled, though there was no warmth in his eyes.

"The family's hundreds of billions in assets must be entrusted to an heir with the strongest constitution and the finest bloodline. Tonight marks the first round of the core selection."

The moment they heard "hundreds of billions of dollars" and "heir," the atmosphere shifted.

The relatives who had been pretending to be polite tore off their masks in an instant, scrambling for the so-called spot.

My aunt, Miranda Roberts shot to her feet, pointing at Lisa across the table as she shrieked, "Mr. Wexley, I have something to report! Lisa's nose and breasts are implants! She doesn't meet the 'naturally strong' requirement at all! She's defective!"

Lisa's face twisted with fury. "You old witch, are you even my mother? You're just jealous I'm younger than you!"

The dining hall descended into chaos—accusations, insults, even shoving.

I sat quietly to the side, utterly out of place.

"Some people are just born unlucky," Denise said, wiping grease from her lips as she glanced at me sideways.

"Unlike us, who actually have a shot at inheriting the estate. Someone like Selene probably won't even make it past the first round."

The others seemed to find a convenient target and began pointing fingers at me in unison.

I let out a cold laugh, unwilling to dignify them with a response.

Just then, Alfred pulled out a medical report and walked over to me.

"I'm sorry, Miss Roberts. After testing, your genetic profile shows a congenital defect. You do not meet the enrollment criteria. You are eliminated."

The knife and fork slipped from my hand and clattered onto the plate.

I rose to my feet, jaw clenched, fury and resentment burning through me. "This isn't fair! I'm Elizabeth's granddaughter too! On what grounds am I eliminated?"

"Please leave."

Alfred gave a subtle gesture. Two tall bodyguards stepped forward at once, seized my arms without explanation, and escorted me out of the hall.

From his briefcase, Alfred produced a thick stack of documents entirely in foreign language and smiled at the remaining guests. "Congratulations on advancing. This is the high-yield dividend agreement for the family trust. Once you sign, the first payout will be transferred immediately."

Blinded by greed—and lacking the education to question what they were signing—not one of them bothered to examine the dense clauses.

They rushed forward, scrambling over one another like animals fighting for scraps.

No one noticed that the bold foreign language title on the cover did not describe a family trust dividend agreement at all.

In the surveillance room, I crossed one leg over the other, lazily swirling half a glass of red wine in my hand.

Elizabeth sat beside me in her wheelchair, sharp-eyed and composed. There was not the slightest trace of the frail woman who had seemed on the verge of death.

The banquet ended in a haze of artificial celebration.

Those relatives who had just signed away their freedom were glowing with triumph.

Victor, Denise, my long-estranged father Damian, Owen, and Lisa were all crammed into the elevator car.

"Good thing you had the foresight not to completely offend mom back then," Damian said, straightening his tie as he handed Victor a cigarette with a flattering smile. He knew perfectly well he ranked beneath him. "When you make it big, don't forget to pull your brother up with you."

"Of course, of course." Victor tucked the cigarette behind his ear. "Once we pass the selection, we'll be core members of the Hawthorne family. As for Northgate, I'm never stepping foot in that dump again."

Owen rubbed his hands eagerly. "Dad, does this mean we're set for life now?"

Lisa stood quietly to the side, clearly calculating something behind her composed expression.

Alfred stood in the corner of the elevator, hands folded neatly before him, wearing a flawless professional smile. He said nothing as he reached out and pressed a button.

Not one that went up.

He selected Level B5.

The elevator began its descent, a sharp drop in gravity pressing against their bodies.

The red numbers on the display plummeted rapidly.

With each passing level, the temperature inside the car fell dramatically.

They all shivered.

When Victor exhaled, his breath formed a visible cloud in the air.

"Why is it so cold?" Owen muttered, pulling his collar tighter as he glanced at Alfred. "Mr. Wexley, where are we going? Shouldn't the selection be at the top of the tower?"

Alfred kept his gaze forward, his smile unchanged. "The deeper we go, the closer we are to the truth."

A soft chime sounded.

The elevator came to a stop, and the heavy brass doors slid open slowly.

There were no flowers, no applause, no golden hall waiting beyond.

Instead, a vast underground chamber stretched before them.

The walls were cold silver-gray metal.

At the center of the hall stood rows of dialysis machines and several metal surgical chairs that looked disturbingly like instruments of torture.

The smile on Victor's face froze.

"W-What is this place? There's been some mistake, right?" Damian's voice trembled as he instinctively stepped backward.

Before they could react, the four bodyguards standing behind them moved at once.

One seized Victor by the throat with a single hand, dragged him out of the elevator, and slammed him onto the nearest surgical chair.

The sound of straps tightening echoed through the cavernous laboratory.

Meanwhile Owen and Damian were restrained the same way.

"Let me go! What do you think you're doing? I'm the heir of the Hawthorne family!" Victor struggled violently. "This is a misunderstanding! I want to see Mom!"

Alfred stepped out of the elevator at an unhurried pace, even straightening Owen's crooked collar with unsettling politeness.

He stood before the surgical chairs, looking down at the men now weeping in terror, and delivered the line he had long prepared.

"You misunderstand."

Alfred picked up a pair of rubber gloves from a nearby tray and slipped them on, his tone horrifyingly gentle.

"You were never heirs. Mr. Valerius Hawthorne requires a full blood replacement to sustain his vitality. Your strong bodies and shared bloodline make you ideal vessels. In simple terms… you are merely filters."

The mechanical arms began to hum.

Four industrial-grade needles, each as thick as a little finger, gleamed under the harsh lights with a terrifying chill.

The arms adjusted their angles. The tips aligned with their carotid arteries and advanced—slowly, steadily, without hesitation.

"No—!!"

Their screams tore through the underground laboratory, sharper and more desperate than anything heard in a slaughterhouse at midnight.

The machines were not only cold—they were merciless.

The thick needles pierced Victor, Damian, and Owen's skin without a flicker of hesitation, driving deep into their carotid arteries.

"Ah—!!"

Dark red blood surged through the tubes at once, as if a floodgate had been thrown open.

"Mom! Mom, save me!"

"Mom! I'm your son! I was wrong—please make them stop!"

Their faces twisted grotesquely as they writhed against the surgical chairs.

The leather restraints bit into their flesh, scraping skin raw, yet they were beyond feeling pain. All they could do was howl and beg.

In the suffocating terror of approaching death, they still had not realized who their true executioner was.

A soft creak echoed.

At the far end of the laboratory, a luxurious leather chair that had been facing away from them slowly began to turn.

For a fleeting second, even the screaming faltered.

I stood in the shadows, watching the figure that felt both familiar and utterly transformed.

Elizabeth was no longer the hunched old woman curled beneath a stiff quilt.

She wore a custom-made black velvet gown. Her silver hair was styled to perfection, gleaming with a sharp brilliance beneath the pale lights.

But what struck deepest were her eyes.

Those once-clouded, gray-white eyes—said to have been blind for forty years—now shone with piercing clarity.

There was no trace of kindness in them. Only cold amusement.

She held a wine glass loosely, swirling it with quiet elegance.

The deep crimson liquid clung to the sides of the glass, richer and brighter than the blood flowing through the tubes below.

Victor's mouth fell open. The cry for help froze in his throat, his eyes bulging as if they might burst.

Damian trembled violently, as though he had just seen a ghost.

In that instant, their entire world collapsed.

The blind old woman they had despised, abused, and treated as a burden was now looking down at them from above.

Elizabeth took a slow sip of wine, her red lips parting slightly.

Her voice was not loud, yet amplified through the speakers, it echoed clearly across the cavernous laboratory.

"What are you screaming for?"

She leaned forward just a little, her gaze sweeping over the distorted faces below with playful contempt.

"Isn't this what you worship… blood ties above all else?"

A silence as heavy as death settled over the room.

Only the faint sound of blood coursing through the tubes remained.

She looked down at her own sons being drained, and there was not a hint of warmth in her eyes.

A splashing sound broke the stillness.

Victor's trousers darkened instantly as urine streamed down his legs, dripping onto the polished metal floor and filling the air with a sour stench.

He'd wet himself in sheer terror.

From her seat above, Elizabeth frowned faintly, as though she had just spotted something foul.

She lifted her hand—the same fingers accustomed to holding a wine glass—and tapped lightly on the armrest before speaking to the bodyguard beside her in an almost bored tone.

"It's too noisy. And too slow. Increase the pump's output. Let them… scream a little louder."