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.
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