’’[The Morning After]’’

The next morning arrived with little fanfare.

When Heena woke up, the household was already bustling with activity.

Clatter, chatter, noise—everything you’d expect from a house preparing for a funeral ceremony.

Servants rushing back and forth with supplies. Relatives arriving and being directed to guest quarters. Ceremonial attendants making final arrangements.

Today, as the daughter-in-law of the deceased, Heena obviously needed to attend the funeral proceedings.

Even though she had been seriously ill, that didn’t mean she could stay sequestered in her room all day and avoid her duties.

Heena dressed herself in the simplest white mourning dress available—plain, unadorned, appropriate for a grieving family member.

And of course, she wore the veil.

There was a specific ritual requirement: all women of the household, whether newly married or long-established wives, had to wear veils during funeral ceremonies.

Not necessarily to cover their faces completely, but as a sign of mourning and modesty.

However, as the newest bride in the household, Heena’s veil was more substantial—a partial covering that allowed her to see through the thin fabric, but obscured her features from others.

When Heena emerged from her quarters and joined the funeral proceedings, everything seemed to be progressing smoothly.

The ceremony was moving as quickly as Samuel could reasonably push it without appearing overtly disrespectful.

Heena stood calmly beside Samuel during the formal mourning rituals, her eyes downcast in appropriate grief, her posture demure and proper.

After the initial greeting ceremonies and departure prayers concluded, the guests began moving toward the designated reception areas.

And now Heena, as the hostess of the household (since there was no longer a legitimate mistress with Maya under arrest), had the duty to take care of the guests in the guest rooms.

She needed to ensure they had everything they required: wine, tea, food, comfortable seating.

Because regardless of the circumstances, guests who traveled to attend the funeral needed to be properly hosted. That was basic social obligation.

But of course, everything served had to follow funeral protocols—bland food prepared without spices, only minimal seasonings like sour vinegar and plain salt.

Nothing rich, nothing flavorful. Just simple sustenance appropriate to the somber occasion.

Heena performed her hostess duties admirably.

The visiting women had to admit they were genuinely impressed with the young bride’s composure and propriety, especially considering she’d been unconscious and near death just yesterday.

She sat with the aunts and elder women she’d just met (and honestly knew nothing about), smiling politely, making appropriate conversation, accepting their condolences with grace.

But, but, BUT—

There’s always someone who wants to cause problems.

Always.

---

’’[The Uncle]’’

Heena was calmly going about her work, moving through the guest room serving water to the various relatives, when suddenly—

As she was pouring water for one particular guest, someone grabbed her wrist.

Tightly.

Heena looked up to find Samuel’s uncle—the old Master’s younger brother, a man in his fifties with a leering expression—holding her arm in an inappropriately firm grip.

’Oh great,’ Heena thought with internal disgust. ’Pervertness really DOES run in this family bloodline.’

She tried to pull her hand back politely, but the uncle’s grip only tightened further.

He looked at her with a sleazy smile and said in what he probably thought was a charming tone:

"Well, well! We haven’t even seen our new bride’s face properly yet! Though I must say—"

He ran his thumb across her wrist in a way that made Heena’s skin crawl.

"—your hands don’t look like servant hands at all. Quite smooth. Quite delicate."

He leaned closer, his breath reeking of wine despite the early hour.

"I have to say, my nephew has downgraded himself marrying so far beneath his station. But perhaps there are... compensations... that make up for the difference in status?"

He was uttering increasingly crude implications, his words becoming progressively more inappropriate.

Heena clenched her free hand into a fist, her jaw tight beneath the veil.

She looked around the room at the other relatives present.

And not a single one of these bastards said anything.

Some were actively laughing and chatting with each other, deliberately ignoring the situation.

Some had amusement visible in their eyes, clearly entertained by her discomfort.

Some sat silently, uncomfortable but unwilling to intervene.

And some were actively AVOIDING looking in her direction, pretending they didn’t see what was happening.

’Cowards,’ Heena thought with contempt. ’All of them.’

She looked directly at the uncle and said in a respectful tone—but firm, with steel underneath:

"Uncle, please release my hand."

She tried to pull away again.

But it was like the man’s authority had been directly challenged.

His expression shifted from leering amusement to genuine anger.

He stood up abruptly and—

’SLAP!’

He struck Heena across the face with his open hand.

The blow was hard enough that even the System, watching invisibly from the side, was shocked into stillness.

One side of Heena’s face immediately turned bright red beneath her veil.

The force of the slap actually knocked the veil partially askew, revealing part of her face.

The uncle glared at her and shouted:

"You talking BITCH! How DARE you order me around?! You’re just a servant who got lucky! You need some beating to remember your proper place!"

Inside, Heena was absolutely SEETHING.

’I want to break his arm. I want to shatter every bone in his hand. I want to grab his head and slam it into the ground until he stops moving.’

The uncle raised his hand again, preparing to strike her a second time.

Heena was calculating whether she could "accidentally" kill him in self-defense without it looking intentional—

When suddenly—

’CRASH!’

A steel bowl came FLYING across the room and struck the uncle directly in the head with devastating force.

"ARGH!"

The uncle fell backward, clutching his bleeding head.

And the problem was, this wasn’t some fragile ceramic bowl that would shatter on impact.

This was a literal STEEL serving bowl—heavy, solid, capable of doing serious damage.

The uncle collapsed to the ground, dazed and bleeding.

Heena, seeing this intervention, immediately turned to look behind her.

Samuel was standing in the doorway, his face absolutely DARK with fury.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as he entered.

"How DARE you," Samuel said, his voice low and deadly calm.

As he walked into the room, a visible chill spread through the space.

Everyone present immediately fell silent, trembling at the sudden shift in atmosphere.

But these relatives—these entitled, corrupt relatives who had probably been taking advantage of the household for years—clearly didn’t take Samuel seriously enough.

One of the older men said with false authority:

"Samuel! Is this how you treat your elders? Throwing objects at your uncle? Where is your respect?!"

The uncle himself struggled to his feet, covering his bleeding head with one hand, and said indignantly:

"You—you—have you FORGOTTEN that I am your UNCLE?! Your father’s own brother! You dare attack me?!"

But before he could even finish his self-righteous sentence—

Samuel crossed the remaining distance in two quick strides, grabbed his uncle by the collar with both hands, and LIFTED the older man partially off the ground.

He looked directly into his uncle’s eyes with an expression of absolute, controlled rage and said clearly:

"Uncle, you say?"