"Why didn’t you use it? Your Origin. It should have given you a fighting chance."

Murphy spoke, his voice calm and steady.

Although he had defeated Margaret, he felt little joy in his victory. Instead, an indescribable solemnity weighed on him.

That’s right. Margaret was not without a true ace up her sleeve.

The so-called legacy of the "Enchanting Witch"—the power hidden deep in her bloodline, which she called the "Origin of Control"—was what made her truly terrifying.

It wasn’t a power gained through Cultivation during the apprentice stage, but an innate, higher-quality, special form of Mana.

Its essence and strength were far beyond what the Spiritual Power of an ordinary Wizard Apprentice could compare to.

Although Murphy had not witnessed its full potential, after using [Control Human] to subdue Margaret, he could vaguely sense the power’s obscurity and might.

Had Margaret used that power of the "Origin" in their clash just now, the scales of victory today might have truly tipped in an unknown direction.

Margaret raised her head. Sweat-soaked black hair clung to her cheeks, giving her an air of both fragility and strange allure.

She looked at Murphy and suddenly started to laugh.

"Master... didn’t you forbid it?" she said haltingly, her breathing still uneven. "Besides... Maggie’s... everything belongs to Master... even my ’Origin’."

Her gaze was fervent and pious, like the most ardent believer looking up at their one and only God, with no trace of falsehood. "If I used my Origin to fight Master... would Maggie still be Maggie?"

Her answer, rather than easing the solemnity in Murphy’s heart, only deepened it.

He couldn’t figure her out.

’What is it that this woman truly desires, deep in her heart?’

’Is it to bide her time, accumulate enough power, and then break free to enslave me?’

’Or is it the complete opposite—a yearning for a shackle she can never, and would never want to, break free from?’

RUSTLE!

The garden fell silent.

There was only the sound of the morning breeze rustling through the rose bushes and Margaret’s still-unsettled breathing.

Murphy watched her for a long time, the deep darkness in his eyes swirling slowly.

He stopped pursuing the unanswerable question and said flatly,

"Come here."

"Yes... Master."

Almost the instant the words left his mouth, a near-pathological glint of excitement flared in Margaret’s eyes, and an unnatural blush spread across her pale, sweat-dampened face.

She didn’t stand up. Instead, obediently, almost desperately, she began to crawl toward where Murphy sat, supporting herself with her hands and knees.

Her dark green velvet dress dragged across the cold marble floor, making a faint scraping sound.

She continued crawling on her knees until she stopped right before Murphy, tilting her head up to look at him. Sweat-soaked black hair hung down, and her dark eyes, full of anticipation, stared at him without blinking.

Murphy reached out, plunging his hand directly into her thick, damp black hair. He closed his fingers, grabbing her by the roots.

Margaret drew a sharp, quiet breath at the motion. She docilely allowed him to control her head, even proactively pressing her cheek closer to his knee as if it were the highest honor.

Murphy looked down at this woman of immense power and noble status, who was now prostrated before his knees in absolute submission.

’No matter what...’

’I have Eleanor now, after all.’

’That five-year-old girl with the dark eyes who can "hear" my arrival in advance.’

Eleanor’s birth might have indeed stemmed from a union of convenience.

Margaret needed the child to bind him to her, and he needed an heir of their shared bloodline to ensure the Temeris Territory would belong to him in the distant future.

But now, when that small figure held his finger, looked at him with her clear eyes, and said earnestly, "I heard you coming," or said in a determined tone, "Then I’ll help Father look for it," something had quietly changed.

She was the continuation of his bloodline. She was his daughter.

His hand, gripping Margaret’s long hair, tightened again.

"Remember your place, Maggie," Murphy’s voice was low, yet exceptionally clear in the silent garden. "And remember Eleanor."

Margaret looked up at him, the fanatical adoration in her eyes not diminishing at his words, but seeming to deepen.

"Maggie... will always remember," she answered with a whimper. "Maggie is Master’s... and Eleanor’s mother." She pressed her cheek fully against his thigh and closed her eyes, as if she had finally found her safest haven. "Everything of Maggie’s... belongs to Master..."

The morning light gradually climbed higher, elongating the overlapping shadows of the figures in the pavilion.

The wind still blew, the roses still smelled sweet, and Murphy released his grip on her hair.

"Get up," he finally said. "Compose yourself. Eleanor will be back soon."

Upon hearing this, the obsession and fanatical love in Margaret’s eyes receded swiftly, replaced by a gentle calm.

Pushing herself up from the ground, she stood up, a bit unsteady but quick. She began to tidy her disheveled dress, smooth the wrinkles in the velvet, tuck her scattered, damp black hair behind her ears, and gently wipe the sweat from her cheeks and the side of her neck with her sleeve.

In the space of a few breaths, aside from her face remaining slightly pale and a faint, lingering redness at the corners of her eyes, the poised and composed Duke Temeris had returned.

She even raised a hand to carefully refasten the slightly loose Amethyst Silver Hairpin. Her movements were fluid and natural, as if the intense clash and humiliating prostration from moments before had never happened.