CHAPTER 1: The Pink Curse and a Tattooed Lie

There was a voice. Or maybe just static.

Something fizzed like a broken radio in her skull. Ezra didn't move. Couldn't. Her eyelids weighed double. Her limbs, stuffed with wet sand. The air smelled too sweet. Too pink.

She hated pink.

The second she managed to twitch her fingers, a wave of cotton brushed her skin. Bed sheets. Fluffy. Floral. Soft. Not hers.

Ezra forced one eye open. A ceiling stared back-pastel pink with a spinning white fan.

"What the hell?" Her voice came out like gravel. Groggy. Young. Definitely not thirty.

The room was a crime scene. Ruffles. Stuffed animals. Pink everything. Her clothes, folded neatly on a chair, were pastel too. Her black hoodie was gone. Instead? A frilly blouse with a lace collar and a skirt that looked like it belonged to a cursed porcelain doll.

No.

No. No. No.

Her pulse spiked. She sat up. Head pounding. Same full chest. Same hips. Same proportions.

She yanked her left sleeve up.

Gone.

Her floral dreamcatcher tattoo, the one etched from inner wrist to nearly forearm-missing. Vanished. Like it never existed.

"Bunny System Booting!"

Ezra froze.

The voice was high-pitched, cutesy, and echoing from nowhere. Like a K-pop fangirl after three espressos.

[System Activated! Welcome, Hostie, to Arc One: "Professor Uncle x Adopted Niece." Version 1.00 loaded. Consent: Skipped. Body Sync: Complete. Memory Threading: 67%. Starting Tutorial!]

Ezra exhaled, slow. Cold. Calm. Her heart was racing, but her face didn't move.

"You put me in a child."

[Correction!] the Bunny chirped. [You are nineteen! Body age match successful. Host has been inserted into the real-time timeline of 1987, Year of the Rabbit. Cute, huh?]

Ezra stood, ignoring the puff sleeves and bows suffocating her arms. She padded to the mirror.

Brown eyes. Slim face. Slight overbite. Unibrow intact. Body: hers. Younger, maybe-but unchanged in shape.

[System Note: Your original body is in stasis. You're alive. Not dead. This is a temporary soul extraction. Mission type: Villainess Redeemer.]

Ezra blinked. "So I was kidnapped by a kawaii demon rabbit."

[Host is spicy~ I like it! Let's get you started with your Newbie Package! Opening Starter Inventory...]

A tiny pop. On the vanity desk appeared:

1x Basic Herbal Guide (1980s Edition)

1x Concealed Needle Kit

1x Allergen-Free Bento Maker

1x Basic Essence Tracker Bracelet (Pink. Sorry.)

[Your body has no piercings, no tattoos, and a history of violent outbursts. You're currently known as "Ezra V. Starvines," the adopted niece of Professor Lucien H. Vyer. Villainess Class: Psychotic. Your reputation? Unstable. Hated. Disposable.]

Ezra slid the bracelet on. It blinked. Cold against her skin.

[Mission Objectives Incoming:]

Survive the first 7 days without being expelled, arrested, or exorcised

Steal the Male Lead's attention WITHOUT manipulation (he hates you, good luck!)

Heal, seduce, and marry the ML within 90 days

Get pregnant. With a virgin.

[Failure to complete main tasks \= soul compression and total erasure. Cheers!]

Ezra stared at her reflection. Pink. Sweet. Powerless.

Then she smiled.

It wasn't kind.

It was sharp.

"Let's hijack fate, then."

~

Ezra stood in the middle of the pastel prison.

The moment the Bunny System went quiet, she moved. Not rushed. Calculated. Like a surgeon prepping for battle.

First objective: destroy the pink.

She yanked off the blouse, popping three buttons clean. The lace collar scratched like poison ivy. The frilly skirt followed-tossed into the corner like a carcass.

Underneath, she wore a soft cotton slip. Also pink.

Ezra stared down at it.

"You have three seconds," she muttered.

With a thought, her fingertip traced a slow circle near her pulse. The air shimmered.

[Infinity Pocket Realm: Access Granted]

A sleek portal rippled open beside her, invisible to any outsider. Ezra reached in, withdrew:

- Black racerback tank (her exact fit) - Dark grey cargo pants (adjustable waistband) - Sports bra (blessed be) - Underwear (no bows, no lace)

Clothes with weight. Function. Familiarity.

She changed fast. Practical. Clean. Efficient. Her body felt familiar again.

The moment she strapped the Essence Tracker bracelet over her wrist-still light pink, unfortunately-she took a breath. In. Out. Muscle memory returned. Grounded. Stable.

[You're now at 2% Emotional Sync with the new timeline. Nice!]

She walked to the vanity, pulling open drawers. Ribbons. Lip balm. Flower perfume. No weapons. No tools.

She lifted the pillow. Found a pink diary. Not useful.

[Hostie, don't forget: you're in the 1980s. No GPS. No phones. No Wi-Fi. Just eyeliner, enemies, and embroidered letters.]

Ezra ignored the commentary.

Instead, she studied the window. Third floor. Ivy climbing the sill. Could escape if needed.

Then: knock-knock.

A soft, slow rhythm. Like someone who'd rather not be there.

"Ezra," came the voice. Male. Deep. Cold.

She didn't answer.

The door creaked open. A shadow spilled in first.

Professor Lucien Vyer stood at the threshold-tall, sharp-suited, and colder than a Siberian winter. His eyes scanned her, impassive, flicking once to the pile of pink on the floor.

She stared back. No greeting. No apology.

He blinked. Like a man preparing to deliver a verdict.

"Breakfast in fifteen," he said. "Wear something appropriate. No tantrums."

And then he left.

Ezra let out a long breath. He didn't recognize the shift. Yet.

[New Task: Reach 5% Trust with ML by end of Day 2. Current Trust: -18%.]

She smirked.

Challenge accepted.

~

The heels of her bare feet made no sound on the cold, spiral stair tiles, but her presence fell like shadow across the room.

Lucien Vyer didn't look up right away. He sat at the head of the grand oak table, morning paper spread, black coffee untouched, a full American breakfast laid before him-bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns, butter-slathered toast.

Ezra stopped on the final step. Eyes flat. Silent.

But her face twitched.

Barely.

Enough.

A single blink slower than usual. A nostril tightening. Lips pressing together.

The scent of grease, sugar, and dairy smacked her senses like a perfume laced in acid.

> [System Note: "Pink Breakfast Detected. Hostie's face says what her mouth won't."]

She moved wordlessly past the table, stepping into the kitchen. Opened the fridge. No gloves. No apron. Just precision.

From the house fridge, she took:

- Fresh bok choy

- Silken tofu

- Carrot ribbons

- Ginger root

- Button mushrooms

- Rice noodles

From her magic pocket realm:

- Goji berries

- Dried shiitake broth cube

- Her hand-blended spice mix: white pepper, garlic flakes, turmeric oil

- Gluten-free rice wrap sheets

- A chilled vial of herbal soy-lemongrass elixir (fortified for male muscle metabolism)

She worked cleanly-knife tapping, pan sizzling, steam rising like incense from a ritual.

First, she rehydrated the shiitake cube into a golden broth, tossing in goji and ginger for warmth. Tofu was sliced in perfect white blocks, seared lightly in turmeric oil. Noodles were boiled and strained, tossed with blanched bok choy and shredded mushroom.

She rolled a few into translucent rice wraps, tying them with chive stems like silk bundles.

Two plates.

One for herself-balanced, hydrating, energizing.

One adjusted-for a male physique.

Protein-heavy. Rich in herbs that increased endurance, clarity, and quiet strength. No sugar, no dairy, no inflammation.

She walked out and set it down in front of him without a word.

Lucien glanced at it.

Then looked at her.

She sat across, began eating hers in silence.

He picked up his fork again. Tried his eggs.

Swallowed.

Then pushed his plate aside like it had offended him.

The scent of her cooking hovered like seduction: warm, herbal, low and clean. He tasted one roll. Chewed.

Paused.

A long breath slipped through his nose. His hand moved for another. Then another.

Ezra didn't look at him.

He swallowed again, sharper this time.

"...It's alright," he muttered.

But his ears were flushed.

His jaw clenched like he'd just lost a battle.

She sipped her elixir with quiet grace, licked a grain of rice off her lower lip, then finally spoke. Voice dry, clipped.

"I'm changing my major."

Lucien paused mid-reach.

"...Without discussion?"

She raised an eyebrow. One flick of expression that felt like a slap.

"Discussion implies equal ground," she said, tone flat. "This is a notification."

He watched her.

Silent. Studying.

She stood, rinsed her dish, and turned to leave.

Lucien stared at the rice roll in his hand like it had just rewritten the laws of authority in his own house.

> [System Note: ML Tastebud Loyalty: +20 | Domineering Aura Disrupted | Emotional Curiosity Unlocked]

[Next Task: Let him feel replaced. Then make him beg for his place.]

~

~University~

Ezra didn't speak much when she arrived at the university registrar's office. Her sharp gaze and clipped signature said more than enough.

Her request to change majors-from fashion to a medicinal culinary and botanical sciences hybrid track-startled the admin officer. It wasn't a common request. The original villainess had no talent nor interest in this field, and it showed in her poor academic record. But Ezra didn't flinch. She received the form, filled it out in seconds, and submitted it without a word.

> "You'll need to sit for evaluation exams. Today. Multiple subjects. Are you sure-?"

Ezra raised an eyebrow, then slid the pen back across the desk without answering.

An hour later, she sat in a sterile testing room, facing three thick exam papers-one on advanced herbology, one on nutrition-based medicinal preparation, and the last on applied survival botany. She didn't panic. Her fingers moved like they remembered centuries. Because they did. And because the system had transferred every bit of knowledge she'd mastered in her own world.

Three hours passed.

She stood, handed in the papers, and left the room.

> Results in 48 hours.

🌿

When Ezra returned to the estate, she didn't go inside immediately.

She turned toward the garden.

The floral landscaping-soft pastel petunias, violets, pink snapdragons, daisies-offended her on a spiritual level. It felt like the visual equivalent of being hugged against her will. She picked up a pair of gloves from a nearby bench and stepped into the flowerbed like an executioner stepping into a ballroom.

Mrs. Heong, holding a tray of iced lemon water, blinked.

> "Young Miss, the gardener will-"

Ezra yanked out an entire row of overgrown carnations.

> "He won't. I will."

Within minutes, the manicured garden became a battlefield of ripped-up roots and floral corpses. Mr. Smith and Michael arrived halfway through, stunned into silence. Ezra simply pointed at the south section.

> "That will be the herbal quadrant. Medicinal flowers here. Spices along the wall. Fruits and nightshade under the trellis. Build a drainage system."

She didn't just command-she worked. She rolled up her sleeves, kneeled in the soil, and began replanting. Her movements were exact, practiced, almost surgical. She harvested mint and holy basil from her magic pocket. Lavender, lemon balm, turmeric roots, butterfly pea vines. She dug trenches. She crafted raised beds. She used leftover bricks to layer the perimeters.

> "We'll need livestock pens. One for chickens, one for ducks. Goats for milk. Pigs only if waste control is manageable. Build them behind the storage shed."

Michael, flustered but eager, nodded furiously.

> "Yes-Miss-uh-Miss Ezra!"

Ezra didn't reply-just gave him a faint, natural smile.

She turned toward the compost pile, tossed the last of the dead roses in, and planted a line of marigolds in their place.

As the sun dipped low, she stood-mud streaking her gloves, the smell of mint and damp soil clinging to her skin.

Lucien watched from the upstairs library window. Behind his glasses, something sharp glinted in his eyes.

> He murmured to himself.

"So what exactly are you trying to do this time?"

🍱 Lunch Preparation

Ezra didn't rest. She made her way to the kitchen, washed up, and pulled open the fridge-gaze scanning the contents with calm distaste. She tapped her finger once on the countertop, and a soft shimmer brought ingredients from her magic pocket into reality.

From her stock:

Boneless chicken thigh, pre-marinated with soy, lemongrass, and garlic

Thai basil, cilantro, and green onion stalks

Pre-washed bok choy

Cooked rice cooled overnight for stir-frying

Sliced ginger, chili paste, sesame oil, and fermented soy sauce

She moved like a shadow. Silent. Precise.

Stir-fried ginger chicken with basil and bok choy

Garlic egg fried rice with sesame drizzle

Steamed tofu with soy-lime dressing

A light cucumber-carrot pickle on the side

Green chrysanthemum tea steeped with mint and licorice root

She plated for two. Her own portion was light-catered to her internal heat and dietary needs. The second-his-was balanced in protein, warmth, and herbs to ease chronic fatigue and regulate suppressed testosterone levels.

She didn't call him.

> "Mr. Haen," she said without turning from the sink, wiping her hands on the apron,

"Inform the professor that lunch is ready."

The old butler bowed slightly.

> "Of course, Young Miss."

Ezra walked past the dishes without hesitation. They'd do the cleanup. That was never her job.

She left the scent of stir-fried spice and quiet defiance in the air as she vanished toward the east wing patio-tea in hand, gaze resting on the garden she'd already started to claim.

Rather than sit in the formal dining hall, Ezra set the table for two beneath the shade of the newly constructed herbal garden house-a structure she'd ordered to be built using local resources. The estate's soil would take time to yield the herbs she needed, but until then, the garden house was stocked with imported essentials from nearby growers. It was quiet, shaded, medicinal-her version of sacred space.

And this? This was where she wanted him to eat.

Not surrounded by lace and crystal, but nature and intention.

~

~At his study room~

Lucien tried to concentrate.

The thick stack of papers on his desk-grant proposals, academic reports, lecture outlines-blurred in front of his eyes. He adjusted his glasses, tapped the pen against the edge of his desk, and flipped a page.

But his mind wasn't on the words.

It was on the scent.

Spices-sharp, warm, grounding.

Fried garlic clinging to steamed rice.

A whisper of lemongrass. Basil crushed in heat.

He sniffed once, sharply, and then rubbed at his temple. This wasn't the bland toast and boiled eggs from earlier. This was something else. Something rich. Homemade. Seductive.

> "Sir Lucien," came Mr. Haen's ever-polite voice outside his study.

"Miss Ezra has prepared lunch. She requests your presence in the east garden."

Lucien didn't hesitate. No remarks. No complaints. He set the papers aside, stood, and walked.

But halfway down the hallway, he paused.

> Garden? Why the hell is she eating outside...?

🌿 East Garden Patio

The midday sun filtered through vine-strung trellises as Ezra sat calmly at a small garden table. She hadn't dressed up. Her sleeves were rolled, her skin kissed by light, and her plate already half-empty.

She didn't bother to stand or greet him. Just kept eating, graceful and quiet-like a cat refusing to acknowledge your existence unless invited.

Lucien's eyes scanned the table. Two plates. Hers was light. His was full. Balanced. Thoughtfully portioned.

> "...You made this?" he asked.

She didn't answer with words. Just picked up a sliver of bok choy with her fingers and ate it in silence. No spoon, no fork. Just the casual elegance of someone who preferred the tactile feel of food. Indian by blood, but Asian at heart-Ezra didn't need tools when her fingers were part of the craft.

The smell hit him again-lemongrass, chili, sesame, warmth. He sat down, picked up his utensils out of habit, and took a bite.

The world tilted.

The fried rice wasn't just good-it was addictive.

The ginger chicken-tender, spicy, balanced with mint.

The tofu was smooth with a citrus punch.

The chrysanthemum tea cleared his headache within seconds.

He cleared half the plate before blinking.

> "Tastes... alright."

Ezra raised a brow, unimpressed by the false composure.

He'd just inhaled more food than he usually did in two meals.

She sipped her tea.

He stared at her, the breeze lifting a strand of her damp hair-matted slightly from the garden work.

Something unfamiliar tightened in his chest.

📓

> [SYSTEM PRIVATE LOG - FOR READERS ONLY]

Status: ML Lust +15, Suspicion +22, Food Dependency Activated

Essence Tension: "His fingers shook slightly when he held the chopsticks. Side effects of fried rice imprinting."

Snippets:

- "Hostie fed him once, now he's a hungry puppy."

- "Warning: His hormone levels just spiked. Blame the tea."

- "System Alert: He looked at her hands for too long. Suspected finger-kink awakening."

Next Chapter Forecast:

→ Misunderstanding with old heroine.

→ ML wakes up sweaty from food dreams.

→ Ezra starts building her moonlit herb lab.

> [End of System Gossip - Host unaware]

© S.J.Ez. All Rights Reserved.

This story is an original work of fiction by S.J.Ez. All characters, names, places, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons is purely coincidental. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

CHAPTER 2: A Tea War and a Wilted Rival

The first thing he noticed was the floor.

Warmed. Polished. Red-toned wood, slightly fragrant.

Lucien stepped into the pavilion cabin that Ezra had, somehow, built overnight. It was too quiet. Too intimate. The kind of place people poured wine in. Or confessions.

He’d expected a dining setup—formal. Stoic.

Instead, he was greeted by incense. Steam. Lanterns swinging faintly in the wind. Two low mats. One table.

Ezra was already seated. Legs folded under her. A book closed beside her. She didn’t wear anything seductive—just soft cotton pants, her wrists bare, a towel looped loosely around her neck from the garden.

But she was seductive. Not in form.

In function.

Lucien sat across from her.

No words. Just food.

---

🍱 Dinner Menu: Disarming

– Poached cod in ginger–white daikon broth, skin perfectly soft

– Red rice with pine nuts and garlic oil drizzle

– Charred long beans tossed with sesame and crushed pepper

– Chilled snow fungus salad, cut sharp with lime and plum vinegar

– Warm lemongrass–fig tea, served in clay cups that weren’t there yesterday

---

He took the chopsticks she laid out.

Ezra? Ate with her hands.

Gracefully. Cleanly. As though every movement had been trained.

Lucien blinked. He’d never seen someone eat with such discipline using fingers—no smacking, no mess. Just precision. Her thumb brushed rice. Her wrist scooped salad. She never licked—she wiped. With a small handkerchief tucked into her sleeve.

It unnerved him.

> Since when does eating look like control?

He reached for the tea, distracted. Took a sip.

Paused.

The tea—fig, lemongrass, and something cooling—settled into his chest like a balm. His pulse dipped.

Ezra glanced up finally.

> “The flowers you rejected today? From the original supplier?”

Her tone was conversational.

“Good call. They rot fast in this heat.”

Lucien didn’t reply. Just chewed slower.

She smiled, slightly. But didn’t explain how she knew.

---

When dinner ended, he realized something terrifying.

He wasn’t full.

He was… waiting.

For her to say something else. For her to glance his way again. For her fingers to lift another grain of rice.

But she was already clearing up—elegant, distant.

She poured the remaining tea into a flask. Placed it beside his satchel without asking. Added two rolled snacks in wax cloth.

> “Don’t sleep late.”

And then?

She left.

No bow. No eye contact.

Just steam. Fragrance. And the echo of his own breath.

---

> [System Internal Note: ML Dependency: Moderate]

[Dream Affliction Activated – Subject Lucien may now dream in scent triggers]

[Warning: Long-term denial of Hostie may cause Side Effects]

---

Lucien sat alone.

The chopsticks were still warm.

And her scent was already seeping into the grain of his walls.

~

The back gate of the Vyer estate clicked open.

Ezra stood already waiting, one palm on the frame, the other holding a cooling cloth she’d used to wipe garden dirt from her arms. Her cotton sleeves were rolled, revealing toned forearms speckled in dried turmeric and soil. Her nails clean, her scent — not perfume — but peppermint, soap, and crushed basil.

Marian Elsette blinked.

> “I—was just here to drop off the weekly arrangement. The usual bouquet… for Lucien.”

Ezra didn’t answer right away. She stepped forward slightly, blocking the narrow path where fragrant sweet peas once bloomed.

Now? Wild peppermint. Rue. Medicinal jasmine.

> “He’s no longer receiving florals,” Ezra said evenly.

“They're being redirected to the guesthouse.”

Marian froze, bouquet trembling slightly in her hand. The pinks and whites clashed against the new garden behind Ezra — no longer curated for looks. This garden breathed strong and clean, a living pharmacy.

Marian forced a smile.

> “I see. You’ve… made changes.”

Ezra tilted her head gently.

> “The decorative blooms were withering.”

“It’s better to replace what dies with what heals.”

A faint sound from the system pinged in her head.

> [OFML Proximity Alert – Emotional Discomfort: ↑ Steady]

Marian’s eyes flitted from the trellis—now wrapped in holy basil and climbing ginger—to the compost barrel where a few crushed peonies wilted like discarded memories.

> “They weren’t just for show,” Marian whispered, with a hint of plea.

“Some things are meant to be beautiful… even if they’re not useful.”

Ezra smiled politely.

> “That’s your belief.”

“Mine says everything must serve. Even pain.”

She gestured lightly at the herbal basin beside her, where mint, chamomile, and cloves steeped in warm water. No incense. No chants. Just practicality.

> “Would you like a tea sample? It helps with sleep.”

Marian hesitated.

Ezra already poured a vial into a small clay bottle and offered it — no push, no smile, just silent expectation.

Marian took it. Sniffed.

Then quietly handed it to her assistant instead, who recoiled, gagging slightly at the pungent bitterness.

Ezra didn’t flinch.

> “You needn’t force beauty on someone who’s already healing.”

She walked past Marian then, cool as winter mist. As she disappeared behind the rows of lemon verbena and mugwort, the bouquet Marian had brought… was left forgotten on the stone bench.

Later, Ezra would tear the petals and fold them into the compost barrel. Quietly. Purposefully.

> [System Update:

→ OFML Symbolism Neutralized: Wilting

→ Emotional Threat Level: Contained (for now)]

~

The estate didn’t feel like a professor’s home anymore.

It felt like a base camp—calm on the surface, but humming with silent command.

Ezra moved through the corridors like a new general in a conquered city. No noise, no threats, no ego. Just quiet, calculated presence.

She changed nothing loudly.

She didn’t yell at the maids. She didn’t touch anyone’s schedule.

She just started… rewiring everything.

A new keychain system for the tool shed.

A chalkboard over the pantry freezer—divided by temperature-sensitive storage.

A neat binder labeled “Seasonal Rotations and Soil Memory” appeared in the library, slid right between outdated war strategy books.

And no one saw her place it.

---

By midweek, the estate staff had a new name for her. Not “Miss.” Not “Mistress.” Just:

> “Her.”

> “Her said don’t plant mint near the cinnamon.”

“Her moved the compost dates.”

“Her fixed the leak in the shed roof before we noticed it.”

She wasn’t flashy.

She didn’t need praise.

But her grip? It was iron.

---

Mrs. Heong, the head maid for 30 years, found the linen closet rearranged—labels, flowcharts, emergency restock tiers. Her hands trembled as she folded the last towel.

Mr. Lim, the estate’s logistics manager, opened a supply box to find a clipboard tucked inside. Ezra’s handwriting.

> "Inventory lag: 4 days. Delay again and I’ll manage it myself."

He blinked. She hadn’t raised her voice once. But he never forgot to restock again.

---

Michael watched her sketch the new orchard layout in silence, notebook tucked under one arm, lips moving faintly as she calculated sun angles.

> “You ever run an estate before?” he asked.

She didn’t look up.

> “No. I just know what happens when it collapses.”

---

By the time Lucien returned from a lecture one afternoon, the estate smelled different.

Not sweet. Not perfumed.

Structured.

Like lemongrass, clove, and antiseptic intention.

He paused in the hallway, glanced at the labeled copper canisters on the console shelf. One read "Soothing Digestive — For Staff Use Only."

He said nothing.

But later that evening, he drank from one without asking.

---

📓 System Log:

> [Ezra’s Spatial Authority: 63% Synced]

[Staff Obedience: Passive → Respectful Curiosity]

[Male Lead Subconscious Trigger: “Safe Territory Identified”]

[Title Update (Unofficial): "Lady of the Grounds"]

The results were posted precisely at noon.

Ezra didn’t rush.

She arrived five minutes late, sipping barley tea from a flask wrapped in linen. The registrar’s corridor buzzed with soft chaos—students gathered in nervous clusters, fingers tapping against their screens or muttering under breath.

She didn’t weave through them. She walked straight, slow, certain.

At the noticeboard, names were listed by ID number. Sorted by subject. Ranked.

Ezra V. Starvines — once a failing fashion major with a reputation for emotional breakdowns and forged assignments — now topped all three advanced exams:

Advanced Herbology – 98%

Nutrition-Based Medicinal Preparation – 100%

Applied Survival Botany – 95%

> “Who the hell is that?” “Did she cheat? No way that’s real.” “Wait… that’s her?”

Some turned to look. Some stared openly.

Ezra didn’t blink.

She took another sip of tea.

Her expression didn’t shift, but her eyes moved fast—tracking not the grades, but the reactions. Who looked smug. Who looked nervous. Who started to whisper.

The system pinged:

> [Evaluation Thread: Secured]

[Class Access Granted: Advanced Medicinal Labs | Restricted Herb Fieldwork | Faculty Exemption from Attendance Checks]

[System Tree Expansion: ✧ Wild Foraging ✧ Alchemical Ratios ✧ Therapeutic Cooking ✧]

Then—

> [Side Mission Unlocked – “Hostile Praise”]

✦ Objective: Win over your harshest critic within 10 days.

✦ Hint: Wears glasses. Breathes like a disappointed thesis advisor.

Ezra smirked, but only slightly.

She turned away, calmly, just as a second-year boy blurted out:

> “No offense, but isn’t she the psycho that threw a chair at a professor?”

Ezra paused mid-step. Only once.

She looked back at him—just enough to meet his eyes.

And smiled.

> “That professor was allergic to belladonna. I warned him.”

She left the hallway silent behind her.

---

🌿 At the Estate

By evening, the sun had lowered into a honey glow over the south field.

Ezra had already redrawn the livestock pen layout, now optimized by species and waste conversion logic. The ducks would rotate twice a week. Chickens would compost their bedding directly. The goat shelter got shade nets and cooling moss along the back wall.

Michael trailed after her, holding a clipboard.

> “How… do you know all this?” he asked, hesitant.

Ezra didn’t stop planting.

> “You can learn a lot when no one’s speaking to you.”

She bent over the soil, pressing turmeric rhizomes into soft earth. One by one.

> “Or when you’re supposed to be locked in a room, screaming.”

Michael didn’t know how to respond. He just nodded and wrote things down.

From the far porch, Mr. Smith watched again. He had a tea towel slung over his shoulder and a mild frown tightening his features.

He murmured to Mrs. Heong beside him:

> “She’s not just planting. She’s building something.”

> “A garden?”

> “No,” he said, voice low. “A stronghold.”

Ezra, crouched by the mulch, heard it.

But she said nothing.

She only looked up at the setting sun and whispered to herself:

> “Almost ready.”

~

Evening – Kitchen

The sun had barely dipped past the treetops when Ezra returned to her domain: the kitchen she didn’t own but fully claimed.

She tied her apron, washed her hands in warm lime water, and began her quiet ritual.

First: the porridge. A medicinal base designed to soothe inflammation and encourage deep, dreamless sleep.

Short-grain rice, soaked since morning.

Goat bone broth, simmered with ginger, nutmeg, and dried lotus root.

A handful of fennel seeds, bruised in a mortar.

One dried tangerine peel for clarity.

Finished with a swirl of her homemade turmeric-laced sesame oil.

She cooked it slow. Low flame. The kind that whispered, not rushed.

Next came the side dishes:

Sautéed spinach with roasted sesame and white garlic

Pan-seared mackerel, soaked in rice wine and miso for six hours

Bamboo shoot salad with rice vinegar and pickled shallots

Light herbal jelly, made from agar, wolfberries, and snow fungus—served chilled

Lotus crisps—air-dried, flash-fried, dusted with cumin and ginger powder

The tea tonight was her own sleepy blend:

Blue lotus, lavender, rose hips, licorice root, and chamomile, steeped just warm—not boiling.

She lined everything into a smooth thermal bento, wrapped in pressed linen and sealed with a waxed cord.

It smelled faintly like late summer rain and warmth.

---

🌙 Lucien’s Wing

Lucien had been pretending to read for thirty minutes.

His shirt collar was loose, his sleeves unrolled. His hair was damp from a bath that hadn't relaxed him.

Then came the knock.

Ezra stood at the threshold—barefoot, wrapped in a cotton robe, her hair in a lazy twist, cheeks flushed lightly from the steam.

She didn’t enter.

She held the container and flask out wordlessly.

> “I adjusted the seasoning,” she said. “You were flushed this morning. Overheating. Yin imbalance.”

He blinked.

> “And you know that because…?”

She handed the flask into his hand—firm, calm.

> “Because you skipped lunch and didn’t sweat during your nap.”

Lucien opened his mouth. Then closed it. The food smelled divine.

> “Eat before it cools,” she murmured.

And turned.

But not before their hands touched. Just enough to spark.

---

🌫️ Later – Midnight

Lucien couldn’t sleep.

The food still lingered in his mouth—especially the lotus crisps. He didn’t even like lotus.

But her hands had shaped that meal.

He left his room, towel over his shoulders, shirt half-buttoned—and saw her.

Ezra stood by the hall window, holding her own tea, lit in moonlight.

The shawl slipped slightly down one shoulder, revealing smooth, clean skin. Steam curled from her teacup. Her profile—soft, serious—didn’t turn at his presence.

But she spoke.

> “You didn’t finish the tea.”

His throat tightened.

She turned. Stepped close. Held out a second cup.

> “Next time,” she said, “drink while it’s hot.”

Their fingers brushed again. The ceramic cup warm between them. The contact… lingered.

Lucien didn’t move.

She did.

Turning, walking away, robe whispering at her ankles, soft steps swallowed by old wood.

He didn’t know what to do with the cup in his hand.

Only that her fingers had burned hotter than the tea.

---

📓 [SYSTEM OUTRO – Private Gossip Log]

> 🟡 Trust: +14

🟣 Lust: +38

🔴 Emotional Confusion: +21

⚠️ New Status: “Fingertip Fever Syndrome” triggered.

System Snippets:

– “He sniffs her tea when she’s gone. Not normal.”

– “Heartbeat spike recorded when robe shifted.”

– “Warning: He almost smiled.”

– “Prediction: He’ll finish the tea. Slowly. Like a man unwrapping something forbidden.”

Next Episode Forecast:

→ Lucien’s jealousy gets its first spark.

→ Marian returns with backup.

→ Ezra’s test results arrive.

→ Nightmares… or memories?

---

© S.J.Ez. All Rights Reserved. This story is an original work of fiction created by S.J.Ez. All characters, names, places, and events are purely products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. No part of this work may be copied, republished, translated, or shared in any form without the written permission of the author. S.J.Ez holds full copyright and ownership of this content. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

CHAPTER 3: Rotten Scores & Sweet Spite

The envelope was crimson.

Not threatening red. Not danger.

No-this was a curated, ceremonial shade. The kind reserved for excellence no one saw coming. A color that flattered the rarest kind of scandal: genius in disguise.

Ezra slit it open in one swift motion. Her nail didn't even bend. Inside: heavy parchment, folded in thirds, stiff with institutional pride. It smelled like old wood and expensive failure-meant for someone else.

But the numbers on it were hers.

Top 3%.

Advanced Herbology - 97/100

Medicinal Culinary Integration - 95.5/100

Applied Survival Botany - 96/100

At the bottom, in a rare blood-ink signature:

> "We'll be watching you. Closely." - Dean Ilfen

Ezra folded the letter once. Then again. Slipped it into her pocket with the absentmindedness of someone pocketing a receipt.

She didn't need applause. She needed memory. She needed revenge.

---

The university gardens whispered around her like wind dragging silk through gravel.

"She must've cheated."

"That girl couldn't pass her previous major last semester."

"Maybe she was possessed by a ghost herbalist!"

Ezra walked straight down the path, leather satchel swinging against her hip, hymn on her tongue.

Not for anyone else.

A quiet, resurrected melody from a different lifetime-sung to weeds, ghosts, and the dead girl who used to cry in this same corridor.

---

🌿 Back at the Estate

Mr. Haen was already waiting at the door when she arrived. His posture perfect. His expression unreadable.

In his hands, a warm ceramic mug-lemongrass, butterfly pea, and mint leaves steeped just long enough to color the water indigo.

Ezra accepted it without a word.

He bowed low. "Congratulations, Young Miss. I heard."

She allowed a single corner of her mouth to curl. "Thanks."

Inside, Lucien was a storm pretending to read. Papers rustled. Ink bled. Ezra didn't need to see him to feel the air bend taut.

She dropped the folded letter next to his tea on the table. 'Accidentally,' of course.

She had almost reached the hallway when he spoke.

> "Perfect score... in Herbalist-handling?"

Ezra didn't turn. Just smirked. "Close. I don't handle herbs. I command them."

Behind her, the chair creaked-his weight shifting with a mix of irritation and something else.

Something less professional.

---

🥢 That Night - Dinner

Ezra prepared the fish first.

A silver pomfret-scaled, gutted, and scored twice across the skin. She filled the slits with crushed ginger, fresh garlic, green peppercorn, and a few thin shavings of preserved lemon peel.

The lotus leaves had been soaking all afternoon. She patted them dry, then folded the marinated fish inside like an offering-sealed with strands of lemongrass stalk.

She used a bamboo steamer over a medium flame, carefully timing it: 10 minutes exactly. No lid rattling. No steam screaming. Just slow, quiet heat.

While it cooked, she stir-fried fiddlehead ferns in sesame oil with a whisper of soy, five-spice powder, and one crushed chili. The red rice had already soaked; she simmered it low until the grains swelled fat and fragrant.

Tofu cubes were blanched, dropped into simmering bone broth, and topped with spring onion and crushed goji berries before serving.

Lucien sat at the dining table, posture rigid, eyes drawn to her fingers. She didn't use cutlery-never had.

She ate with her hands. Gracefully. With practiced elegance. Like her fingers were born for it.

He tried not to stare.

"Did you know you'd get those scores?" he asked, voice rough.

Ezra sucked a thumb clean and looked up through her lashes.

"I built those scores."

His chopsticks paused mid-lift.

"...Why?"

She tore a piece of fish with a motion too soft to seem violent, then replied:

> "Some of us were designed to be underestimated."

Lucien swallowed. Hard.

Under the table, her ankle brushed his. Light. Intentional.

He didn't pull away.

He couldn't.

---

📨 Later That Night

Ezra's herbal chamber smelled of sage, ink, and night rain.

She sat in her linen robe, hair loose, ends damp from her soak. She wrote with a calligraphy quill, each stroke deliberate.

> To: Faculty Administrator - Medicinal Research Integration

Request: Transfer into Tier-1 Advanced Research Track

Proposed Supervisor: Professor Lucien H. Vyer

She didn't plead. She informed.

Signed: Ezra V. Starvines

A dried lavender petal pressed between the paper folds.

She slipped it into an envelope, then glided through the hallway like vapor.

Lucien's office door was open. He stood inside, half-dressed, towel slung around his neck.

Their eyes met.

She said nothing. Left the letter on his desk.

He didn't speak either. But his gaze followed her until she vanished from sight.

She smelled like valerian root and memory.

And he would not sleep soundly.

---

~ Estate Library & Hallways ~

Lucien hadn't touched the letter.

Not since she dropped it like a dropped match-quiet, deliberate, knowing it would smolder even when she left the room.

It was still sitting there, that parchment envelope, puffed slightly with humidity and her nerve. The lavender scent still clung to the desk, refusing to fade.

He hadn't moved it.

He couldn't.

---

Outside his door, the staff passed quietly. Quieter than usual. Their eyes lingered on the envelope when they refilled the tea. No one asked.

Mr. Haen gave no commentary.

But someone whispered at the far end of the hall near the servant's alcove:

> "I didn't know a woman could walk like that after exams."

> "She walked like she'd already passed this life."

---

Lucien finally cracked the seal at dusk.

The handwriting was sharp, elegant, spaced with militant precision. Her signature bloomed across the page like a curse written in silk.

No request.

Only a statement.

> "I am enrolling in Tier-1 Research." "I expect the lab orientation schedule within the week."

Lucien blinked twice.

Then once again at the listed supervisor.

> Lucien H. Vyer.

His own name. Written like a dare.

His pulse thudded once. Loud in the silence.

---

~ Later that Evening ~

He found her on the veranda near the herbal quarters.

The moonlight was generous. Her robe hung loose at the shoulders-layers of cotton barely holding shape around her damp skin. She was reading something technical, a botany journal probably, while sipping tea through a bamboo straw.

She didn't look up when he stepped near.

He spoke first, low.

> "You planned this."

She didn't deny it.

Only turned a page.

> "You left that letter like a trap."

This time she met his eyes.

> "If you stepped in it, that's not my fault."

The silence that followed wasn't comfortable. It was alive.

He could feel heat rising-first in his palms, then his chest. Ezra's eyes held his too long. Challenging. Silken.

He should have said something else.

But he turned and left.

Fast.

As if distance would clear the lavender from his lungs.

-----

The kitchen breathed before the estate did.

By the time dawn painted pale veins into the sky, the hearths were warm. Ezra moved without announcing herself, sleeves tied, hands rinsed in mugwort water. Her hair was braided back, fingertips still scented faintly of ink and lavender from last night's letter to the Dean.

Mrs. Lucychan had already lit the small flame under the tea kettle. They didn't speak. They never needed to now. In the weeks since Ezra's arrival, the kitchen had turned from routine to rhythm-from labor to something like liturgy.

The first sound was the hush of soaked rice poured into a ceramic pot. Ezra's thumb ran over the rim. Purple rice today. She felt for the balance-earthy enough to anchor Mr. Haen's joints, sweet enough to lighten Miss Tessa's lingering cramps.

She opened the wooden drawer she kept locked-a quiet artifact of her transmigration. Inside, the magic pocket rested like folded air. When she reached in, the world rearranged to her fingertips: longan berries, a strip of dried foxnuts, aged black sesame, and dried lotus piths. Her fingers selected without conscious choice, like memory was doing the cooking now.

The staff filtered in over time, but no one interrupted. Mrs. Heong fetched clean cloths and laid out empty bowls without question. Mr. Smith left a crate of morning-harvested mint and shiitake at the door. Michael trailed behind with a basket of fiddlehead ferns, blushing when Ezra glanced up.

She added star anise to the bone broth-subtle, not sharp. A note for Mr. Lim's chronic headaches.

The rice steamed quietly. No excess. No smoke. Only the faint perfume of health, seeping into floorboards.

---

By the time the sun crested the orchard trees, seven trays had been plated-each one curated, balanced, and utterly silent about its purpose. Ezra said nothing. She never did.

Mr. Haen's hands moved easier as he lifted his teacup. He didn't comment on his knees. But his stride later, through the hall, was longer.

Mrs. Lucychan's usually pale cheeks glowed faintly pink. Her stomach didn't rumble between meals. She only grinned when she caught her reflection in the copper pot lid.

Mrs. Heong folded laundry without pausing to rub her wrists.

Mr. Smith whistled-actually whistled-as he carried compost out back, the stiffness in his lower spine forgotten.

Michael didn't faint after tending to the lemon trees in the sun that afternoon. His skin didn't flake. He looked taller, somehow.

Mr. Lim didn't complain once about the numbers not lining up. His penmanship was sharper. No mistakes.

And Miss Tessa hummed while sorting her tea jars. She didn't wince once bending down, and later that night, she'd sleep without curling into herself.

---

Ezra watched none of this directly. She had already packed her own bento for the university and left quietly, linen satchel over her shoulder, and two flasks clinking gently inside-one for tea, one for her 2L infused water: hibiscus petals, ginger skins, and cucumber peel.

Lucien's meal, of course, had been packed separately.

She hadn't said it was for him. She never did.

But the steamed lemongrass fillet was wrapped in lotus leaf with black garlic paste. Stir-fried bok choy laced with goji berries. A rolled omelet, the edges crisped just right. Herbal tea brewed with roasted barley and astragalus root.

He wouldn't know why his usual tension didn't throb behind his eyes that afternoon. He'd simply mutter that the air "felt easier today" and move on.

Ezra didn't need the credit. She only needed the silence after healing had begun.

---

System Snippet

> [Passive Healing Detected - Staff +6 | ML +2]

[Magic Pocket: Level Up → Increased freshness preservation]

[New Unlock: Root Storage Mode - Cold Root Compartment Activated]

Whispers (Overheard)

> "I swear that porridge could bring a ghost back full."

"Miss Ezra doesn't just cook-she rearranges your damn bloodstream."

"You think she's doing it on purpose?"

"Don't care. My knees don't hurt."

------

The corridor outside the study was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of stillness that usually followed good tea and unfinished conversations.

Ezra stepped lightly across the wood panels, a folded cloth in one hand and Lucien's forgotten flask in the other. The air still carried the faint scent of lemongrass and sandalwood. She was just returning it-nothing more.

Lucien had left his study open again.

Of course.

She expected the room to be empty.

It wasn't.

Lucien sat on the low bench near the window, one leg crossed, a folder open on his knee, head bent in thought. He didn't speak when he noticed her-just lifted one brow, the barest flick of acknowledgment, and tilted his chin slightly as if to say, Wait.

She misread it.

She stepped back.

Straight onto the toe of his boot.

Her balance tipped.

> Thump.

Ezra landed-squarely, firmly-onto his lap.

Her back against his chest. Her hip flush to his thigh. One arm flailed before it caught his shoulder.

And his hands?

His hands caught her waist.

Reflexive. Firm. Steady.

There was no time to apologize.

No time to rise.

Only the feel of his breath, sudden and sharp behind her ear.

> "You're... sitting on me," Lucien muttered, his voice taut and low, like a cello string pulled too tight.

Ezra tried to stand.

He stopped her. A hand pressed gently-deliberately-against her hip.

> "Don't move."

His tone wasn't commanding.

It was... warning.

Because something had changed.

She felt it.

She was still sitting on it.

Ezra's cheeks flamed, but her face stayed composed. She stared ahead, very still, very careful.

Lucien, behind her, was even more frozen. His hands remained at her waist, not wandering, not improper-but gripped tight with a restraint that had no reason to exist if there were no tension to suppress.

> This is fine, she told herself. This is fine. This is-

A sharp click of heels echoed in the hall.

> Not fine.

Marian stood at the end of the hallway, framed in the afternoon sun like a woman waiting to deliver judgment.

Behind her, a maid held an enormous bouquet-overdressed roses and too much lace-ribbon fluff for a professor's estate.

Ezra didn't move.

Lucien didn't either.

They both knew the scene couldn't be explained fast enough to undo what was already burned into Marian's vision.

> "Oh," Marian breathed, tilting her head just enough to imply a thousand things without saying one. "Did I... interrupt something?"

Ezra's voice came smooth and steady.

> "Just returning a flask."

She didn't stand.

She didn't squirm.

She just sat there, perched on Lucien like a queen on a throne she hadn't intended to claim-but wasn't rushing to leave either.

Lucien, to his credit, said nothing.

Marian's eyes swept over the scene, from Ezra's thigh grazing Lucien's knee to his hand resting-still-on her waist.

She smiled, sharp and syrupy.

> "You always did have... fortunate timing, Ezra."

> "Some of us make our own timing," Ezra replied. "And land where we're meant to."

The maid awkwardly stepped forward, extending the bouquet like a peace offering wrapped in artificial sweetness.

> "From Miss Marian. Congratulations on your... results."

Ezra accepted the flowers with one hand.

Held them just long enough to inhale once.

> Too much rose oil. Something synthetic. Something... overcompensating.

She placed the bouquet on the narrow table beside them with care. Like one places an offering they don't intend to consume.

> "I'll let the garden decide if they're useful."

Lucien made a sound-half cough, half smothered laugh.

Ezra felt it vibrate in his chest. Felt his fingers twitch faintly on her waist.

The moment lasted exactly three more seconds.

Then she rose.

Gracefully. Smoothly. Not flustered.

Lucien exhaled like he'd been holding his breath underwater.

Ezra turned to Marian with a small nod.

> "Thank you for the flowers."

Then she walked away.

Her heels didn't click.

They echoed.

---

🌸 Later - Ezra's Room

She stared at the bouquet on her side table.

Already, one of the roses had begun to wilt.

The petal drooped unnaturally fast, edges browned like bruised fruit.

Ezra said nothing.

She picked up the bouquet, pulled a single stem, snapped it at the base, and watched dark water trickle from its stalk.

The system chimed in her mind:

> [Floral Interference Detected]

→ Mild hormonal manipulation compound identified.

→ Threat Level: Low.

→ Suggested Response: Compost or Incineration.

Ezra blinked.

> "So. Poisonous and pitiful."

She dumped the bouquet in her compost barrel without another word.

The lid shut softly.

~

Midnight

The system didn't knock.

It never did.

It slithered into Ezra's skull like smoke through a keyhole, blooming bright text across her inner vision while she was brushing the sleep from her eyes with one palm and fighting a migraine with the other.

> [⚠️ Secret Task Unlocked: Collect First Male Lead's Vital Essence]

Method: Dream Infiltration

State: Dream-Induced Arousal + Sleep Paralysis

Target: Lucien Vyer

Reward: Root Core (Stage I) - Alchemical Crafting Enabled

Warning: May cause Subconscious Bonding / Emotional Echo

Ezra groaned into her sleeve.

> "Next time you wake me like this, I'm dissolving you in Marian's flowerpot," she muttered at the system.

No answer.

Just a quiet [Task Active].

She stood, barefoot, in her oversized sleep shirt and nothing else, hair a mess, her tea flask sloshing faintly in one hand and a jar of dreamroot balm in the other. The corridor floor was freezing.

Lucien's room was lit only by moonlight through half-open shutters.

She entered without knocking.

She always did, when it mattered.

---

🌫️ Dreamscape - Lucien's Room

He was tangled in his sheets, brow damp, mouth half-parted in sleep that looked more like surrender. Sweat clung to his collarbone. His breath came uneven. Caught.

Ezra crossed the veil without hesitation.

The air thickened, sticky with tension and the faint hum of male heat.

He flinched, murmured her name like it hurt.

> "Ezra..."

Like someone begging for a fever to break.

She knelt by the bed, slow and steady, her fingers dipped in dreamroot oil.

The scent of blue lotus and myrrh coiled around them, stirring the dream deeper.

> In this place, consent was folded into magic. The body welcomed what the mind denied.

She drew glyphs in the air above his chest-not touching, not quite. But he gasped as if she had.

Her hand slid beneath the covers. Met heat.

He hardened in her palm like he'd been waiting. Like he knew.

> "Forgive me," she whispered to the unconscious room, rubbing at her tired wrist. "This isn't even that romantic. Just-work."

What followed wasn't coy.

It was methodical. Ancient. A ritual disguised as pleasure. A root harvest done in whispers and restraint.

His body rose toward her. Moaned for her.

Not her, exactly-but the storm she carried.

He gasped her name when he came, full and helpless.

His essence spilled-hot, heavy, shimmering with energy invisible to all but her. It pooled, not just in her hands, but into her system like mist poured into bone.

> [✔ Essence Collected: Lucien Vyer - Core Flame (Stage I)]

[Unlocked: Bloodroot Affinity - Sensory Binding Enabled]

[Warning: Residual Echo - ML may remember the feel]

Ezra blinked through the dizziness. Her breath shook.

She wiped his sweat, cleaned his body gently, and-because she wasn't kind, but wasn't cruel either-kissed the corner of his lips.

Not a real kiss.

Just... sealing the harvest.

Then she vanished like a breeze escaping the seam in a window frame.

---

🌖 Lucien's Room - Just Before Dawn

He woke with his jaw clenched, breath ragged, and the blanket twisted low on his hips.

Sweat pooled at his collarbone. His hands shook.

The scent in the air-blue lotus. Mugwort. Ezra.

His chest ached.

His lap was warm.

His thoughts... disobedient.

> "What the hell was that?"

He stood and crossed to the window, trying to shake the lingering feeling of having been seen in a dream. Touched. Handled. Held.

Ezra's name stuck in his throat like an ember.

He didn't know why.

But he wanted her closer.

---

📓 System Log - Private

> [Essence Collected: 1/7]

[Root Crafting - Stage I: Activated]

[Dream Imprint: Lucien Vyer → Sensory Link Established]

[⚠️ Subconscious Bonding: 8% (Warning Threshold: 20%)]

[Next Task: Locked - Root Stabilization In Progress]

[Note: ML may seek physical proximity without understanding why]

---

🌞 Next Morning

Ezra looked... radiant.

She yawned at breakfast like she hadn't just rewritten alchemical law in secret. But her hands were tired. She dropped her chopsticks twice. Stirred her tea too long.

Lucien stared at her fingertips the entire time.

He didn't know why.

When her flask clicked against his cup, he flinched.

The scent.

Blue lotus.

It was her.

He didn't know what he wanted to say.

So he said nothing.

Ezra, cat-like, blinked once at him. Then hissed softly under her breath when her sore wrist flexed wrong-and glared at him like he was to blame.

Lucien straightened his collar.

Then left the room in a rush, heart pounding.

He would not stop thinking about her all day.

---

🌸 Bonus Whisper - Near the Maid Quarters

> "He looked like he hadn't slept a wink."

"But she was glowing."

"You think she dreams like that every night?"

"If I knew what was in her tea, I'd drink it twice."

© S.J.Ez. All Rights Reserved. This story is an original work of fiction created by S.J.Ez. All characters, names, places, and events are purely products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. No part of this work may be copied, republished, translated, or shared in any form without the written permission of the author. S.J.Ez holds full copyright and ownership of this content. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited.