The crystal chandeliers in the Crimson Court's grand banquet hall blazed with blinding light.

Dozens of high-ranking vampires stood in small clusters, holding delicate crystal flutes of blood wine. The air hummed with the sound of classical music and the rustle of expensive silk.

The heavy double doors opened.

Genevieve walked in. She wore a plain, oversized black dress that hung off her frame like a potato sack. It was a brutal contrast to the skin-tight, diamond-encrusted gowns she usually wore to these events.

The moment she stepped onto the marble floor, the conversations died.

Dozens of pairs of eyes snapped toward her. The aristocrats stared, their eyes wide with shock and burning curiosity. The scent of fresh gossip flooded the room.

In the center of the hall, Rosalie stood surrounded by a group of young, eager male vampires. She wore a stunning white gown covered in crushed diamonds. She looked like a flawless, untouchable princess.

Rosalie saw Genevieve. A dark, calculating gleam flashed in her eyes.

She picked up a glass of premium, high-tier blood wine from a passing silver tray. She plastered a gentle, forgiving smile on her face and walked straight toward Genevieve, playing the gracious victor.

Genevieve watched her approach. She calculated the distance.

Just as Rosalie stopped in front of her, Genevieve threw herself backward.

Her back slammed violently into the solid marble pillar behind her. The impact produced a loud, sickening thud that echoed over the music.

Genevieve let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp of terror.

Rosalie froze. Her hand, holding the wine glass, stopped in mid-air. Her perfect smile cracked, looking stiff and ridiculous.

Genevieve grabbed her own shoulder, rubbing it as if she were in agony.

"I'm sorry!" Genevieve shouted, her voice trembling and loud enough for half the room to hear. "A useless cripple like me doesn't deserve such fine wine. Please, Lady Rosalie, enjoy it yourself! Don't waste it on me!"

The surrounding nobles heard every single word. It was the exact, pathetic phrasing Rosalie always used.

A few of the older female vampires hid their mouths behind their feather fans, their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Rosalie's face turned stark white, then flushed a furious red. Inside her head, her system screamed. Her favorability points were dropping due to the sheer, suffocating awkwardness of the situation.

Desperate to save face, Rosalie forced her smile back. She took a step forward and reached out to grab Genevieve's hand, trying to force a display of sisterly affection.

Genevieve reacted like she had been struck by lightning.

She violently ripped her arm away. The motion was so exaggerated it looked comical.

Using the momentum of her own swing, Genevieve threw herself onto the polished floor. She landed hard on her side. She grabbed her own wrist, curling into a ball, and sucked in a sharp hiss of pain through her teeth.

The orchestra abruptly stopped playing.

The entire hall fell dead silent. Every single eye locked onto Rosalie, who stood over Genevieve with her hand still awkwardly extended.

Rosalie panicked. Tears instantly welled up in her eyes.

"I... I didn't even touch her!" Rosalie stuttered, her voice cracking. "I didn't use any force!"

The crowd parted. Lord Marcus strode through the gap, his face like a thundercloud. He stopped and looked down at the chaotic mess on the floor.

Rosalie braced herself, waiting for Lord Marcus to scream at Genevieve for bullying her.

Instead, Lord Marcus just sighed. He didn't even look at Rosalie. He snapped his fingers at two nearby blood servants.

"Help her up," Lord Marcus ordered tiredly.

The servants rushed forward and pulled Genevieve to her feet.

Genevieve leaned heavily against one of the servants. She looked at Lord Marcus with wide, watery eyes.

"Please don't punish Rosalie," Genevieve whispered weakly. "It's my fault. My bones are just too brittle now."

Whispers erupted across the hall. The nobles shook their heads. Half of them thought Genevieve had lost her mind; the other half thought she was a pathetic joke. The deep fear they used to hold for the pureblood genius vanished into thin air.

Lord Marcus's jaw tightened. This public humiliation was destroying the Court's dignity.

He grabbed Genevieve by the elbow and dragged her out of the hall, pulling her onto a secluded, wind-swept balcony.

The cold night air whipped Genevieve's hair across her face.

Lord Marcus let go of her arm. He glared at her.

"Since you are so restless in the Court, I will throw you into the Academy's rules to grind you down," Lord Marcus warned, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

Genevieve dropped her head. She twisted the fabric of her ugly black dress between her fingers, looking entirely clueless and submissive.

Lord Marcus watched her blank face and made a hard decision.

"Starting tomorrow, you will report to the Nightwalker Academy," Lord Marcus commanded. "You will attend classes, and you will act as Rosalie's personal bodyguard. If she makes a single mistake or suffers any harm, I will hold you entirely responsible. Let us see if having a real task cures your sudden frailty."

Genevieve's stomach plummeted. The Academy. That was the exact location where the prophecy said she would be framed and killed.

She snapped her head up.

"No," Genevieve said, her voice shaking with real panic this time. "I can't. The sunlight outside the Court... the silver weapons in the training grounds... I'm too weak!"

Lord Marcus's expression turned to stone.

"You will go," he said coldly. "Or I will cut off your blood supply entirely."

Genevieve bit her lower lip hard. She lowered her head, acting defeated.

"Yes, Lord Marcus," she mumbled.

But as she stared down at the dark balcony floor, a sharp, cunning light flashed in her eyes. If she had to go to the Academy, she would drag her trash persona all the way to the bottom. She would break every single plot point before it even started.

The smell of ozone and burnt copper hung heavy in the Academy's combat simulation room.

Instructor Elias Vance stood at the front of the massive, stone-walled classroom. He slapped his wooden pointer against the chalkboard, drawing a complex diagram of energy conversion.

"Half-blood Rosalie," Elias barked. "Come to the front."

Rosalie stood up, smoothing her perfectly pleated skirt. She walked to the center of the room. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and held her hands out.

A soft, warm, and incredibly precise wave of healing light bloomed from her palms. It illuminated the dark classroom.

The students erupted into applause. Whispers of awe filled the room. For a half-blood to possess such pure magic was incredibly rare.

Rosalie lowered her hands. She blushed, looking down at her shoes.

"It's nothing, really," Rosalie said softly. "My small tricks are completely worthless compared to the pureblood genius, Genevieve."

The applause died instantly.

Every head in the classroom turned. Like a physical spotlight, their stares pinned Genevieve to her seat in the darkest, back corner of the room.

Rosalie walked down the aisle, stopping right in front of Genevieve's desk. She smiled, her eyes shining with fake admiration.

"Sister, please," Rosalie said loudly. "Show us your power. Guide us."

Genevieve had been sleeping face-down on her desk. She slowly lifted her head. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were dull, unfocused, and completely devoid of the terrifying pureblood pressure she used to carry.

She pushed her chair back. As she stood up, she deliberately let her right knee buckle. She grabbed the edge of the desk, swaying dangerously, looking like a strong gust of wind would snap her in half.

Genevieve looked at Rosalie. She pitched her voice to match Rosalie's soft, helpless tone perfectly.

"My mind is completely blank," Genevieve dragged out the words, sounding exhausted. "I don't know how to do anything anymore."

Rosalie's smile tightened. She thought Genevieve was just being arrogant and refusing to perform.

"Don't be modest," Rosalie pushed, her voice sickly sweet. "We all know about your glorious kills during the Court hunts."

Genevieve didn't argue. Instead, she slapped both hands over her face.

Her shoulders began to heave. She let out a series of pathetic, breathless hiccups, perfectly copying Rosalie's signature silent crying technique.

"I lost my talent!" Genevieve wailed, her voice cracking in the quiet room. "I'm a useless cripple! Stop forcing a sick person to perform!"

The classroom fell into a stunned, uncomfortable silence. The students stared at each other. They couldn't connect this weeping, pathetic mess to the cold-blooded killer they had heard rumors about.

Rosalie's smile completely shattered. Her mouth hung open. She felt the heavy, mocking irony of Genevieve's performance slapping her right in the face.

As Rosalie stood up, her mind raced. She needed to drain Genevieve's reputation quickly; Lord Marcus's elite guards were already tearing through the outer clans, interrogating everyone about Genevieve's supposed 'curse'. The pressure was mounting.

To seal the deal, Genevieve pressed her thumb against her index knuckle. She let a tiny, chaotic fraction of her shadow magic slip out of her fingertips.

Black mist exploded from her hand. It didn't form a spell. It acted like a swarm of panicked hornets, shooting wildly across the room.

The mist slammed into the instructor's desk. It knocked over a row of glass reagent vials.

The vials hit the stone floor and shattered. A foul, acidic smell instantly flooded the room.

Panic erupted. The students in the front row screamed and scrambled backward, knocking over their heavy wooden chairs to escape the chaotic mist.

Rosalie saw the chaos. She immediately dropped to the floor, landing gracefully on her knees. She looked up with wide, frightened eyes, waiting for one of the male students to rush over and protect her.

Genevieve didn't give her the spotlight.

Genevieve let out an ear-piercing shriek. She threw herself onto the floor and scrambled directly under her wooden desk. She wrapped her arms around her head, curling into a tight ball, screaming louder than anyone else.

Elias Vance's face turned purple with rage. He slashed his wooden pointer through the air.

A blinding wave of white purification light blasted across the room. It instantly vaporized the rogue shadow mist and forced the students into silence.

Elias marched down the aisle. He stopped at Genevieve's desk and glared down at the shivering girl hiding underneath it.

Elias's face turned pale. He lowered his voice, his tone a mix of shock and cautious hesitation. "Lady Genevieve... with your bloodline, this... is this some kind of disguise I cannot comprehend, or is your body truly failing to control the most basic foundation of magic?!"

Genevieve poked her tear-stained face out from under the desk. She looked Elias dead in the eye.

"Because I am a complete piece of trash now!" Genevieve yelled back, sounding incredibly proud of the fact.

Elias choked on his own breath. His face turned from purple to a sickly pale. In his hundred years of teaching, he had never seen an Antediluvian descendant with absolutely zero shame.

Rosalie stood up from the floor. She dusted off her skirt and stepped forward.

"Instructor, please," Rosalie said gently. "Sister Genevieve is just nervous."

"I'm not just nervous!" Genevieve shouted from under the desk, cutting Rosalie off. "I'm uncoordinated! My brain is shrinking! I'm useless!"

Elias squeezed his eyes shut. He rubbed his throbbing temples. He had reached his absolute limit.

He pulled a red pen from his pocket and slashed a violent mark across his clipboard.

"Zero," Elias announced loudly. "Genevieve receives a zero for today's combat simulation."

Instead of crying, Genevieve let out a loud sigh of relief. She crawled out from under the desk, dusted off her knees, and sat back down in her chair, looking perfectly content with her failure.

The heavy velvet curtains in the theory classroom were drawn tight, blocking out the midday sun.

Elias Vance stood at the massive chalkboard. Dust fell from his chalk as he aggressively drew the intricate lines of a dark magic tactical array.

He stopped mid-stroke. He turned his head. His sharp eyes locked onto the back row.

Genevieve had an open textbook propped up over her face. Soft, rhythmic breathing came from behind the pages. She was fast asleep.

Elias slammed his knuckles against the chalkboard. The sharp crack echoed like a gunshot in the tiered classroom.

"Genevieve!" Elias barked. "Stand up and answer the question."

Genevieve jumped. The heavy book slid off her face and hit the desk. She rubbed her sleepy eyes, pushed her chair back, and stood up. She swayed slightly, leaning heavily on the desk for support.

"Assume you are trapped at the edge of the Abyss," Elias said, his voice dripping with condescension. "A high-tier shadow beast ambushes you. As a Child of the Night, how do you utilize the dark arrays to counterattack?"

The entire class turned around in their seats. They stared at the back row, waiting to see if the fallen genius still had her tactical brilliance.

Genevieve stared at the chalk diagram. Her Antediluvian instincts immediately supplied the answer: a single-strike obliteration spell, followed by three different escape routes.

She mentally crushed those thoughts. She cleared her throat and arranged her face into a mask of absolute, deadpan seriousness.

"The best tactic," Genevieve said loudly, her voice echoing in the quiet room, "is to immediately find a deep hole, bury yourself, and wait for the monster to eat its fill and leave. Rely on others to save you? By the time they arrive, you'll already be monster dung."

For two seconds, the classroom was dead silent.

Then, the room exploded. Dozens of students burst into roaring, uncontrollable laughter. The sound bounced off the stone walls.

Elias's face turned gray. His fist clenched so hard the chalk snapped into fine white powder.

He slammed both hands onto the podium.

"That is a disgrace to the Nightwalkers!" Elias roared over the laughter. "That is the behavior of a coward!"

Genevieve pouted. She crossed her arms, looking genuinely offended.

"Staying alive is the most important rule," Genevieve argued back. "Pride gets you killed."

She paused, then perfectly mimicked Rosalie's soft, breathy voice. "Besides, the weak should be protected, right?"

In the front row, Rosalie stiffened. Hearing her own manipulative catchphrase thrown out as a joke made her blood boil. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

Elias took three deep breaths, trying to stop his heart from exploding. He glared at Genevieve through narrowed eyes.

"And what if no one comes to save you?" Elias asked through gritted teeth.

Genevieve shrugged. She threw her hands up in the air.

"Then I'll just close my eyes and get eaten," she said matter-of-factly. "It's not like I can outrun it anyway."

The last shred of respect anyone had for her shattered. The pureblood aristocrats in the middle rows sneered, shaking their heads in absolute disgust.

But on the far left side of the room, Dorian didn't laugh.

The blood alchemy genius sat perfectly still. He pushed his silver-rimmed goggles up the bridge of his nose. His sharp eyes cut through the crowd, locking onto Genevieve's face.

He saw the lazy slump of her shoulders. But beneath that, he caught a fleeting glimpse of sharp, calculating clarity in her eyes. His instincts screamed that this girl was faking it.

Elias waved his hand dismissively at Genevieve, treating her like a piece of garbage.

"Sit down," Elias spat. "Stop embarrassing yourself."

Genevieve dropped back into her chair without a single ounce of shame. She picked up her textbook, placed it back over her face, and adjusted her posture to get comfortable.

Elias called on Rosalie. Rosalie stood up, her voice sweet and clear, and delivered the textbook-perfect tactical answer.

Elias nodded in deep satisfaction. He spent the next five minutes praising Rosalie, using her brilliance to highlight Genevieve's pathetic failure.

Under her book, Genevieve rolled her eyes. She didn't care about the comparison. She just wanted to sleep.

When the bell finally rang, the students packed their bags quickly. As they walked up the aisle, they actively swerved to avoid Genevieve's desk, treating her like a contagious disease.

Genevieve took her time. She slowly shoved her book into her bag, stretched her arms over her head, and yawned.

Dorian stood by the door. He watched her isolated, unbothered figure walk down the aisle.

Why would a pureblood intentionally destroy her own reputation? Dorian's mind raced. He was hooked.