Chapter -09
After her seventeen years of life came to an end, Liddell’s soul wandered through a dim and frigid darkness.
It was said that when a human’s body perished, their soul would journey to the realm of the dead, where they would be granted an audience with Rex, the King of the Underworld.
Through a ceremony known as the Judgment of Souls, he would determine whether the person had been virtuous or wicked in life. Then, he would decide whether their soul should ascend to the heavens or descend to the netherworld—that, at least, was the teaching of the Spiuse Orthodox Church.
Yet before Liddell could verify whether those teachings were true, her soul was gently lifted out of the darkness by a vast, inhuman force.
That being—
It glowed softly in the darkness, round and radiant, like a gentle moon hanging in the night sky.
The moment that light enveloped Liddell’s soul, an overwhelming sense of peace filled her. It was like the warmth and comfort of being held in her mother’s arms as a small child.
She neither heard a voice nor saw a face.
And yet, faced with such a divine presence, Liddell understood instinctively.
This formless being was none other than Spiuse, the Goddess of Creation, worshiped in her world as the Mother of All and the one who sat upon the Throne of Heaven.
What followed was vague, as if it had all been a dream.
When she next became aware, Liddell found herself inside an unfamiliar mansion, gazing down—like a disembodied observer—at a frail little girl lying upon a bed, her breath shallow and fading.
The girl was perhaps four or five years old, lovely in appearance, with chestnut hair and pale skin. She was dressed in fine nightclothes.
Around her stood several people—her parents, most likely, and their servants—all wearing expressions of deep sorrow.
Their grief was unmistakable. It was clear at a glance that they loved the child dearly and were praying desperately for her recovery.
But Liddell, now a consciousness without form, understood the truth.
The child’s soul was too pure—too fragile to endure the heavy air of the mortal world any longer.
Her spirit, weakened beyond repair, was about to slip free of its body.
And once the soul departed, the vessel—the little girl’s body—would die.
At the very moment that the small flame of life before her began to flicker out, Liddell found herself reaching out with hands that no longer existed. No, she thought, I can’t let her go.
She hadn’t believed she could change anything. It was simply a reflex—the instinctive motion of her soul.
Then, something extraordinary occurred.
Liddell’s consciousness was suddenly pulled toward something—dragged out of the hazy realm where only souls existed, thrust forcibly into another state of being.
It was an overwhelming power, irresistible and immense, like being swept into the heart of a great vortex.
In an instant, Liddell’s soul was torn from the afterlife and drawn into the small girl’s body.
—I’ll give it to you. Take good care of it.
A faint, childish voice echoed in her mind.
When Liddell awoke, she had lost all memory of what had transpired.
Looking back, the sight of her overjoyed parents weeping tears of relief beside her—astonished by their daughter’s miraculous recovery—must have been the first scene she witnessed as Juliet.
From that moment on, Juliet lived peacefully, never once recalling anything of her previous life.
That is, until two days ago—when, by pure chance, she laid eyes upon Ashen Castle.
Now, Juliet pieced together her circumstances as best she could from the fragments of memory she had regained.
And she arrived at a single conclusion.
For reasons beyond her understanding, she had been granted a new life by a great divine power.
Whether it was mercy or whim, the goddess had taken the failing vessel—the dying Juliet—and placed within it Liddell’s soul instead.
Then, all memory of Liddell’s past life had been erased, and her existence overwritten with that of Juliet’s, as if the soul exchange had never occurred.
By her calculations, Juliet had been born sixteen years ago—when Liddell had been only thirteen.
It wasn’t impossible for a goddess, of course, but it was strange all the same: Juliet and Liddell had lived in the same era, though their souls were never meant to cross paths. But that, perhaps, was beside the point.
“Dear Goddess above… your handiwork seems a little careless, doesn’t it?”
Juliet muttered as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror.
Such words bordered on blasphemy, but she couldn’t help herself. If the goddess had gone to the trouble of erasing her memories and granting her a new life, she could have at least done a thorough job of it.
Thanks to that divine oversight, Juliet now remembered it all—
Her painful, sorrowful past life as Liddell, the scorned and forgotten princess.
“I never imagined something like this could happen…”
Pressing a hand to her aching chest, Juliet closed her eyes.
The soul within this body was indeed Liddell’s—but that did not mean Juliet herself had ceased to exist.
Even if her memories before the age of four had been fabricated by divine intervention, Juliet still possessed twelve years’ worth of real memories—of days spent in the loving care of her parents.
Those years were proof that she had truly lived as Juliet de Glenwalshire.
Her face, her temperament, her upbringing—everything about her was entirely different from Princess Liddell.
And yet… could she say that Liddell had truly disappeared?
Liddell was a part of her past, yes—but to call her a completely separate person felt wrong.
It was difficult, unbearably so, to draw such a firm line now that those vivid memories had resurfaced so suddenly and seared themselves into her soul.
Liddell and Juliet.
If her parents ever learned that two different sets of memories—two distinct selves—existed within their daughter, what would they think?
If they knew that the soul within her body had once belonged to someone else, and that the original Juliet—their child—had died at the age of four…
“…There’s no way I could tell them.”
Juliet whispered softly.
Even if they believed her, her parents would surely continue to treat her as their daughter. She knew how strong their bond was.
But hearts were fragile things.
Even if they tried not to, some part of them might begin to whisper—This isn’t really our daughter.
Perhaps, in an unguarded moment, the thought would slip through—She’s a thief, who stole our child’s body.
And Juliet could not say they’d be wrong.
Even the slightest crack in that trust could destroy the family they had built together.
And to see her beloved parents look upon her with doubt or sorrow—that was something she could never bear.
“Yes… you’re right. It’s best to keep this secret.”
These were memories that should never have resurfaced.
This secret, she decided, she would carry alone—to the grave.
At that moment, Juliet made her resolve.
