The screen showed countless scenes of the mother berating Seera:

"Put down that abacus! Pick up the embroidery!"

"No man wants a wife smarter than himself! You’re ruining your marriage prospects!"

"Why can’t you be gentle and soft like other girls?!"

"Your brothers are embarrassed by you! Stop showing off!"

The Marquis, caught between his wife’s traditional expectations and his daughter’s undeniable competence, grew increasingly distant from Seera.

He never defended her. Never acknowledged her contributions. Just withdrew into uncomfortable silence.

---

’’[Act Three: The Discovery]’’

The breaking point arrived when Seera, now seventeen years old, was reviewing the estate’s financial records.

The screen showed her sitting in the library late at night, oil lamps burning, scrolls and ledgers spread across multiple tables.

And then her brush stopped moving.

Her eyes widened as she traced a pattern through the accounts.

Missing funds. Doctored reports. Falsified merchant contracts.

Someone had been systematically embezzling from the estate for YEARS.

And the signature approving many of these transactions belonged to the ELDEST adopted son—the very one her mother had already chosen for her to marry.

The amount stolen was staggering. Enough to buy several smaller estates. Enough to ruin the family if discovered and prosecuted.

Seera had documented everything meticulously, prepared a complete report with evidence.

She planned to bring it to her father privately, give the eldest son a chance to confess and make restitution.

She truly believed that as the legitimate daughter, as someone trying to protect the family, she would be supported.

She had no idea how catastrophically wrong that assumption was.

---

’’[Act Four: The Pilgrimage]’’

The memory-screen shifted to show a steep, dangerous mountain path.

It was the annual family pilgrimage to the high summit temple—a traditional journey meant for spiritual cleansing and family bonding.

The entire household made this trip together: the Marquis, his wife, the four adopted sons, Seera, and a contingent of servants and guards.

The path wound up a treacherous mountainside, with sheer drops on one side and steep rock faces on the other.

Heena watched as memory-Seera deliberately positioned herself near the eldest adopted son during a rest stop.

She held the ledger of evidence. Her face was serious but not accusatory—she still believed this could be resolved reasonably.

"I know what you’ve been doing," Seera said quietly, showing him the documented proof. "I’m giving you a chance to confess to Father yourself. If you come forward, admit the theft, and return what you can—"

The eldest son didn’t let her finish.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t deny. Didn’t try to explain.

He just smiled.

A cold, calculating smile that made Heena’s blood run cold even watching through a memory.

And then, from the shadows of the mountain path, stepped another figure.

Seera’s own MOTHER.

The older woman looked at her daughter with an expression of such cold, terrifying detachment that it barely seemed human.

"You are too unruly, Seera," the mother said, her voice completely devoid of maternal warmth or affection. "A wife must be submissive, obedient, yielding. If you will not bend to proper feminine behavior, you will BREAK our family’s future."

She gestured to the eldest adopted son.

"He will make a fine Marquis. He understands his place. He knows how to maintain proper hierarchy. You are simply... in the way."

Seera’s face showed complete incomprehension. "Mother? What are you—"

The eldest son moved.

A sharp, violent SHOVE, using both hands with full force.

The memory seemed to slow down, showing every terrible detail:

Seera’s feet leaving the ground.

Her arms flailing, trying to grab onto something, anything.

Her mother’s face, watching with cold satisfaction.

The sickening moment of freefall.

---

’’[Act Five: The Fall]’’

The screen in Heena’s mind simulated the absolutely terrifying plunge.

Seera fell down the sheer drop of the mountainside—a fall of at least a hundred feet, probably more.

She smashed through thick pine branches, the wood tearing her clothes and skin.

Tumbled over jagged rocks, each impact breaking bones, tearing flesh.

It was a fall that absolutely, unquestionably SHOULD have killed her.

Any normal noble lady—fragile, delicate, physically weak from a lifetime of sitting in pavilions doing embroidery—would have died instantly.

But Seera’s body was NOT that type of vessel.

All those years of her mother criticizing her for being "too robust," "too strong," "too unfeminine"—

Those qualities SAVED her life.

Her body, which she had secretly kept in exceptional physical condition through practical work and physical activity, survived impacts that would have shattered a weaker person.

But even her remarkable constitution couldn’t completely protect her.

Near the bottom of the ravine, her head struck a massive boulder.

The impact was catastrophic.

The screen showed the moment of collision—and then everything went WHITE.

---

’’[Act Six: The Empty Vessel]’’

When the memory-Seera finally opened her eyes again, days had passed.

She was lying in mud and dead leaves at the base of the mountain, her body a mass of bruises and injuries.

But far worse than the physical damage was the mental void.

Her eyes opened, but they held no recognition. No understanding.

No name. No family. No memory of being a Marquis’s daughter.

No recollection of the betrayal, the ledgers, the embezzlement.

Nothing.

Just a crushing, empty VOID where her identity should have been.

The screen showed her struggling to sit up, looking around in complete confusion at the unfamiliar forest.

’Where am I? Who am I? Why does everything hurt?’

But no answers came. Just emptiness.

---

’’[Act Seven: The Traffickers]’’

The final scenes of the "broadcast" played out in rapid, brutal succession.

A group of opportunistic scavengers and illicit slave traders were traveling through the area, looking for anything valuable to steal or sell.

They found the bruised, disoriented girl wandering near the base of the mountain.

The memory showed them examining her—checking her teeth like livestock, squeezing her arms to assess muscle tone.

One of them ripped open her torn, muddy clothing to check for noble markings or expensive jewelry.

Finding nothing—all her identifiers had been deliberately removed by her mother before the "pilgrimage"—they made their assessment:

"Just a lost peasant girl. Probably ran away from some farm."

"But look at her build—strong arms, good legs. She could do heavy labor."

"Not pretty enough for a high-class brothel. Sell her to the domestic market."

They didn’t bother looking for her family. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t care.

They simply threw her into a wooden cart with other human merchandise and covered her with sackcloth.

Because her body was strong and capable of manual labor, the traffickers bypassed the brothels entirely and took her directly to the household servant auction markets.

That was how the brilliant, rightful heir to a powerful Marquis estate—a young woman who should have been managing wealth and land and political influence—ended up standing in a dusty courtyard.

Sold for a handful of silver coins to the Chen family.

Listed in the records as: "Female. Age approximately 16-18. Strong constitution. Suitable for kitchen work and heavy cleaning."

The daughter of a Marquis, reduced to a nameless maid.

All her potential, all her intelligence, all her birthright—stolen by her own mother’s greed and a worthless adopted son’s criminal ambition.

---

’’[The Screen Fades]’’

The broadcast in Heena’s mind faded to black.

The mental viewing room fell into silence.