Reborn as the Psycho Villainess Who Ate Her Slave Beasts' Contracts-Chapter 179 --

**Location:** Elara’s Office, Two Hours After Waking

---

The first stack had gone down by roughly a quarter.

Ken stood by the wall, arms folded, watching Elara work with the same focused attention he gave potential threats. Not because he expected danger—just because watching her was genuinely difficult to stop doing once you started.

She’d been at it for two hours straight.

No breaks. No pauses. No staring out the window while processing—she processed *while* working, reading one document, signing it, reaching for the next, annotating in the margins with that precise economical handwriting, cross-referencing against earlier files she’d already memorized and hadn’t needed to look at again.

The speed was surgical. That was the only word for it. Not fast in the way someone rushed through work—fast in the way a machine operated. Methodical. Zero wasted motion. Each document received exactly the attention it needed and no more. Critical issues got immediate detailed responses. Minor approvals got a signature and a thirty-second review. Routine maintenance paperwork got a stamp and a note to Demerti to implement standard protocols.

Marcus stood on the other side of the door, and Ken could tell from the slight angle of her ears that she was watching too, even while maintaining guard position.

Neither of them had said anything.

Because what was there to say?

She’d been unconscious for three days. She’d survived enough poison to kill three people, a magical overflow that had nearly taken down the entire chamber wing, and whatever had happened in whatever space she’d been in while her body fought to stay alive.

And she’d been awake for two hours and had already cleared roughly twenty percent of the accumulated backlog.

Ken had watched Iris attempt the same task.

The comparison was not flattering to Iris.

Iris had spent three days managing public appearances, maintaining the glamour, attending meetings, deflecting questions—all of which she’d done admirably. But when it came to the actual *work*—the documents, the decisions, the endless cascade of administrative details that kept Elara’s household and merchant enterprises and reform projects running—Iris had managed approximately two percent.

*Two percent.*

And that had taken her three days.

Elara had done ten times that in two hours.

One of the newer beast knights on the rotation—a young man named Tae, barely eighteen, with small brown horns and the wide eyes of someone still adjusting to palace life—kept forgetting himself. His gaze would drift to Elara, watching her work, and his expression would cycle through confusion and disbelief before he caught himself and snapped back to attention.

He’d done it six times already.

Ken considered saying something, then decided against it. Honestly, the kid’s reaction was understandable. They’d all been told about the Fourth Princess—the weak one, the forgettable one, the one her own sisters ignored. Even after everything that had happened, even after witnessing the reorganization and the merchant contracts and the administrative reforms, there was still some part of everyone’s brain that expected a *princess* to be decorative.

Then you watched her read a forty-page budget report in eleven minutes, annotate twenty-three specific discrepancies, draft correction instructions, and move on without breaking rhythm.

And the decorative expectation died a quiet, embarrassed death.

The second document mountain was smaller than the first but denser—complex legal documents, contract terms requiring careful analysis, personnel decisions with political implications. These took longer. Not much longer. But Elara’s pen would pause for three or four seconds instead of one, her eyes going slightly unfocused in the way that meant she was running calculations.

Then she’d write something in the margin and move on.

Ken noticed she’d eaten exactly half the food he’d brought, drunk one full cup of tea and was working on the second, and hadn’t shifted her posture once in two hours. Her back was straight, shoulders level, breathing even.

Too even.

He knew what controlled breathing looked like. He used it himself during high-stress situations—a deliberate regulatory technique to maintain calm under pressure.

She was managing something.

Pushing through something.

He just couldn’t tell what.

---

Elara read the same sentence for the third time.

*The provisional allocation of funds from the secondary reserve account, pending ministerial approval, shall henceforth be subject to quarterly review by designated—*

She blinked. Reread it. The words arranged themselves into meaning eventually, but it took longer than it should have.

Two hours.

Two hours of continuous work immediately after waking from a three-day poisoning incident and a magical overflow that had apparently cracked the chamber floor and blown out every window in the wing.

Maybe—*maybe*—she should have listened when Cullens said rest.

But there was a mountain of work. Two mountains. Almost three. And every document sitting unprocessed was a potential crisis waiting to develop, a decision delayed that would cascade into a dozen downstream problems, a gap in her operational picture that could be exploited by any of the four sisters who were actively trying to destabilize her position.

Rest was inefficient.

*You treat your body like expendable equipment,* the goddess’s voice said in the back of her mind.

Elara mentally told the goddess to mind her own business.

She reached for the next document.

And her hand stopped halfway there.

Because her head was *hurting*.

Not the vague discomfort she occasionally noticed and categorized as minor sensory input requiring no action. Actual, specific, localized pain—a tight band across her temples, a deep throb behind her eyes, a sensation like someone was slowly tightening a vice around her skull.

She sat very still for a moment, assessing.

Cause: Three days unconscious, magical overflow damage to the nervous system, immediate return to cognitively demanding work without adequate recovery period, probably dehydration despite the tea, definitely insufficient food.

In other words: obvious and predictable consequences of ignoring basic physical maintenance.

*Noted,* she thought grimly.

Her hand reached the document, picked it up, positioned it for reading.

The words blurred.

She blinked. They resolved. She read.

But slower now. Everything was slightly slower. The calculations that normally ran in parallel—reading while processing while cross-referencing while planning next steps—were having to happen sequentially instead. One thing at a time. Like trying to run complex software on hardware with half the memory.

She was at maybe sixty percent cognitive capacity.

Which was still, objectively, better than most people’s hundred percent.

But it was annoying.

She made a note in the margin—shorter than her usual annotations, stripped down to essential information—and moved to the next page.

Her vision swam slightly.

She stopped. Set down the pen. Pressed two fingers to her right temple with precise pressure.

From across the room, she heard Ken move.

"Your Highness."

"I’m fine."

"Your Highness, with respect—"

"I said I’m fine." She picked up the pen again. "The headache is a predictable side effect of insufficient recovery time. It will resolve once I’ve slept. Until then, I’m managing it."

"Or," Ken said carefully, "you could sleep *now* and let it resolve faster."

"There’s work to do."

"There’s always work to do."

Elara sighed, ruffling her hair in frustration before speaking.

"Tell the physician and Demortito to come to my room."

With that, she turned and walked away.

The beast knights bowed at once, acknowledging her order.