Reborn as the Psycho Villainess Who Ate Her Slave Beasts' Contracts-Chapter 172 --

’’Location:’’ Between Consciousness and Void

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"Elara, stop talking like a machine."

The voice came from above—clear, feminine, and carrying an edge that made even the white void feel sharper.

Elara paused mid-sentence, her clinical assessment of the space dying on her lips.

"Because right now," the voice continued, almost conversational, "there is no audience for you to perform for."

Elara’s expression didn’t change. "Define audience."

Laughter rippled through the white space—genuine, delighted laughter that echoed from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"Ha ha ha! You humans are really interesting things. I can never understand you, even after all these years." The voice took on a knowing tone, almost teasing. "You, Elara—acting like you cannot understand emotion, cannot feel emotion, cannot process emotion. You talk like a machine. Blah, blah, blah. Is that because you want people to know you are not the earlier Elara?"

Elara went completely still.

Her expression turned blank—not the casual blankness of her usual affect, but something deeper. Harder. She looked up at the white sky, and this time there was something in her eyes.

Coldness.

Pure, crystalline coldness.

The voice continued, unperturbed. "Do you think I am like those humans you perform for? That I’ll believe your little act? That I can’t see through your mechanical speech patterns and robotic mannerisms?" A pause. "Do you want me to show you a video?"

Before Elara could respond, a sharp ’snap’ echoed through the void.

The white space rippled.

And suddenly, directly in front of Elara, a screen materialized—translucent, shimmering, but perfectly clear. It showed a boardroom. Sleek glass table. Executive chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city skyline.

Her boardroom.

From her first life.

Elara’s breath caught—just for a second, but it caught.

The video played. A younger version of herself sat at the head of the table, twenty-seven years old maybe, wearing a charcoal suit and running a quarterly review meeting. Her voice came through clearly:

"The network infrastructure project needs revision. The current timeline is unrealistic given our resource allocation. I want a new proposal by Friday with adjusted milestones and contingency buffers for the database migration."

Normal speech. Direct. Professional. No "define" statements. No mechanical phrasing. Just... a CEO doing her job.

The video shifted to another meeting. Different room, same Elara:

"Good work on the encryption rollout. The client feedback has been positive, and we’re ahead of schedule. Let’s leverage that momentum for the next contract negotiation."

Praise. Strategy. Human communication.

Another clip. Elara standing by a window, talking to a colleague:

"I appreciate your concern about the deadline, but we’ve handled tighter schedules before. We’ll manage."

Appreciation. Acknowledgment. Reassurance.

The screen froze on that last image—Elara’s face in profile, looking out at the city with an expression that was focused, determined, ’alive’ in a way that had nothing to do with emotional warmth and everything to do with purpose.

The voice spoke again, quieter now but no less pointed:

"You see? Two years before you died, you talked like a normal person. You gave direct instructions, praised work, acknowledged concerns. You never once used phrases like ’define audience’ or ’calculate probability’ or ’processing error’ in casual conversation. You say you cannot feel emotion—I believe that. But it’s also true that you are a ’very’ petty person."

Elara’s hands clenched at her sides.

"Just because you know the previous Elara is someone who should be respected, someone you cannot compare to—someone whose mother was brilliant, whose bloodline is pure, whose potential was enormous—you started acting like a ’machine’ so people would notice you’re different. Maybe some even suspect you’re not the Elara they knew. You want to create your own identity. You don’t want to live under someone else’s name, someone else’s shadow."

The voice paused, letting the accusation hang in the air.

"What should I call you, Elara?"

Silence stretched between them—heavy, weighted, sharp.

Then Elara looked up at the sky with that same cold expression and said, voice flat but laced with steel:

"And is that so wrong?"

The white space seemed to hold its breath.

Elara continued, her tone devoid of emotion yet stating facts with absolute certainty:

"Yeah. I changed how I speak because I don’t want to live under someone else’s name. Even if I don’t feel emotions, so what? It doesn’t mean I want to live under someone else’s identity, behave like someone I’m not, be measured against a dead girl’s memory for the rest of my existence."

Her voice didn’t rise. Didn’t waver. Just continued with that terrible, mechanical precision:

"I lived like that my whole life. Acting. Performing for people to give them satisfaction. I acted like a daughter to Richard even though I felt nothing for him. I did everything he asked—if he wanted the sky, I would’ve tried to get it. I didn’t cry like other children when he punished me. I didn’t show gratitude when he praised me. But that doesn’t mean I was willing to just... ’be’ whatever he wanted me to be forever."

She took a step forward, staring directly up at where the voice originated.

"I am doing the work here. ’I’ am surviving assassination attempts. ’I’ am fixing corruption. ’I’ am reforming beast knight treatment. ’I’ am building merchant contracts and creating magical innovations. Not Yu Lian. Not the previous Fourth Princess. ’Me.’ Why would I let someone else’s name overshadow that? Why would I let people remember ’her’ when ’I’m’ the one doing everything?"

Elara’s expression remained blank, but her words cut like surgical instruments:

"You’re right—I started speaking more mechanically after I transmigrated. Because I needed people to notice I wasn’t the same person. I needed them to understand something fundamental had changed, even if they couldn’t identify what. Because if they thought I was still that scared, passive, ignored princess, they’d treat me the same way. They’d dismiss me. Underestimate me. And then they’d kill me."

She spread her hands slightly, a gesture of cold logic:

"It was tactical. Efficient. It created separation between me and her memory while being subtle enough that no one could prove I wasn’t just... changed by trauma or magical research or whatever excuse they invented. And it ’worked’. People noticed. People paid attention. People started treating me like a threat instead of a joke."

Elara’s voice dropped even flatter, if that was possible:

"So yes. I’m petty. I want my own identity. I want credit for my own work. I don’t want to be a ghost wearing someone else’s corpse, pretending to be her, living up to her mother’s legacy, carrying her burdens. I want to be ’me’—whoever that is—even if ’me’ is just a broken machine pretending to be human."

She paused, then added with that same terrible certainty:

"If that makes me selfish, fine. I’m selfish. But I’m not apologizing for wanting to exist as myself rather than as someone’s replacement."

The white void was silent.

Completely, utterly silent.

Then the voice spoke—and this time, it wasn’t amused. It was something else. Something older and far less forgiving:

"Selfish. Yes. That’s one word for it."

A pause.

"Let me show you what selfishness looks like when it’s taken to its natural conclusion."

Another snap.

The white void ’shattered’.