“I’ll remember this. You hear me?”

The voice came through clenched teeth, hard and sharp.

The moment Lyra Whitmore opened her eyes, that was the first thing she heard.

Her mind was still muddled, but she turned straight toward the sound.

A man was kneeling there.

He was tall, young, maybe in his early twenties. Handsome in a harsh sort of way. His brows and eyes were keen as blades, his thin lips pressed tight. His short red hair was wet, hanging in damp strands, and his whole face was full of stubborn fury.

He was on his knees.

A tight combat suit clung to him, but the zipper on the upper half had been dragged open, exposing lean, solid muscle across his chest and waist. There was nothing weak about him. Even kneeling, he looked like a drawn blade that refused to break.

Lyra shut her eyes.

In that short instant, a flood of images crashed through her head.

She had transmigrated.

The former owner’s memories rolled through her mind like a film strip, scene after scene, not giving her a breath to sort them out.

Same name. Same face.

But a life completely unlike her own.

This was an interstellar age. Humanity here was split into three kinds: Guides, Sentinels, and ordinary people.

Sentinels were born with terrifying combat power. Their physical abilities far surpassed normal humans, and they could manifest spirit forms outside their bodies. They were the sharpest weapons humanity had.

But Sentinels had one fatal flaw.

They could not resist contamination from the polluted species.

Hundreds of years ago, animals and plants across the stars had mutated without warning. From that upheaval came a new threat to human survival: the polluted species.

The reason Sentinels and Guides existed was simple.

To fight them.

Sentinels held overwhelming force. Guides, by contrast, were physically fragile, but they could soothe a Sentinel’s mental sea and cleanse contamination. That was their worth. Their weapon lay in the mind, not the flesh.

The former owner of this body was an S-rank Guide.

In the interstellar world, both Guides and Sentinels were ranked by level, from F to SSS. F was the bottom. SSS stood at the peak.

Her name was Lyra Whitmore.

Second daughter of the Whitmore family, one of the great noble houses of the interstellar age.

She also had an older brother.

Dorian Whitmore.

Like her, he was a Guide.

But his rank fell short of hers.

He was only A-rank.

Dorian Whitmore had spoiled the original Lyra rotten.

She had been born high, and she had an S-rank gift on top of that. Family, status, talent—stack those together, and a person was bound to be drowned in favor.

She had grown up in honey.

Too bad that honey was poison from the start.

A girl raised to think the world turned for her alone would not soften with age. She only got sharper, harsher, more overbearing. By the time she grew up, arrogance had sunk into her bones. She looked down on everyone.

If she had only thrown her weight around at home, that would have been one thing.

But this was the war zone.

In the interstellar age, human lifespans had lengthened across the board. By law, twenty-two was adulthood. Once they came of age, guides and sentinels were sent to the war zones to fight the polluted species.

The original Lyra had been assigned to the Ninth War Zone.

As a guide, her main duty there was simple: soothe and clear a sentinel’s mental field.

Interstellar law set a fixed monthly task quota for both sentinels and guides. Once that quota was met, any further missions required extra payment.

And under interstellar law, guides were always meant to be protected, favored, handled with care.

But guides were scarce to begin with, and the original Lyra came from wealth. After finishing her required quota, she had no need for extra star coins.

The trouble was, she did not want money.

That choice did not break interstellar law. It did not violate war zone rules either.

Yet it still made the sentinels grit their teeth in hatred.

Because every time she guided someone, she demanded the same thing.

They had to kneel by her feet. Bow their heads. Obey her like dogs.

Not every sentinel would swallow that humiliation.

And so the original Lyra grew more vicious by the day.

Now the man kneeling in front of Lyra Whitmore was an S-rank sentinel—Rafferty Stonebridge.

Rafferty Stonebridge was one of the senior sentinels of the Ninth War Zone.

Lyra remembered it clearly. When he came to the original Lyra, his berserk index had already climbed to eighty-seven percent.

For a sentinel, once that berserk index hit ninety, they would tip into full frenzy.

And when that happened, force had to be used.

At 97%, it was as good as a death sentence.

Rafferty Stonebridge was at 87% frenzy already. That was dangerous enough to have one foot over the edge.

If it were not that bad, he would never have come to her.

Among sentinels, Lyra Whitmore was truly hated.

Lyra closed her eyes for a moment and let out a quiet breath. “Don’t tense up.”

The woman who had owned this body before her had left behind a whole heap of filth, and now all of it had landed in her hands.

Truth be told, she had no wish to inherit that woman’s rotten relationships.

But she had no choice but to deal with them.

She had taken this body. She was its master now.

Still, she did not intend to live the way the original Lyra had lived, making an enemy of everyone under heaven.

Yet just as she lifted her hand and laid it on Rafferty Stonebridge’s short red hair, about to guide his spirit, a brutal force slammed into her.

Her whole body was thrown clear off.

The one who had sent her flying was the very man kneeling before her—Rafferty Stonebridge.

His eyes were bloodshot, red clear to the rims, like he had endured all he could. He stayed half-kneeling on the ground, one hand clenched hard into a fist.

Behind him, a phantom shape gathered and rose.

It burned all over with scarlet fire.

The thing that had just blasted Lyra away was that scarlet phantom.

Rafferty Stonebridge’s spirit form—the Flintfire Lion.

“Lyra Whitmore.” Rafferty’s eyes were red as he slowly pushed himself to his feet, as if he had finally made up his mind. “Don’t even think about taking advantage of me again. Today, I’d rather risk going without spiritual guidance than let you lay a hand on me.”

Rafferty Stonebridge’s fist tightened harder.

He thought he could endure it.

He really did.

But the instant Lyra Whitmore’s hand came down on his head, something in Rafferty Stonebridge snapped. Cold and hard. In that split second, he realized one thing clear as steel—

he did not need this guidance that badly.

His patience broke clean in half. He flung her off without another thought.

Lyra crashed to the floor, flat on her back and limbs spread, the fall knocking the breath out of her for a beat.

She sucked in air, pushed herself up from the ground, and said with forced calm, “I wasn’t trying to take advantage of you.”

If she truly meant to take advantage, her hand would not have landed on his head.

She was not the original owner of this body.

And she had no wish to act like that woman either.

But Rafferty did not believe a word.

In his memory, Lyra Whitmore had always been the same—aloof, arrogant, viciously overbearing, the sort of cold bastard who never cared whether anyone else lived or died.

He turned and strode off at once.

“Wait!” Lyra called after him.

Rafferty stopped and looked back. His whole body stayed tense, guarded like a drawn blade. He frowned, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “What now? Another trick?”

“I’m not playing tricks,” Lyra said.

She only wanted to help him complete the guidance.

After all, Rafferty Stonebridge’s frenzy level had already hit 87%. That was no small matter. No joke. No room to gamble.

“You think I’d believe that?” A sneer curled at his mouth. “Lyra Whitmore, what kind of person you are, I know damn well.” He ground the words out through clenched teeth. “You filthy thing that preys on people when they’re down.”

Lyra had been trying to soothe him, trying to keep this from getting worse. But the moment those words hit her ears, her expression changed. Her brows drew tight. “What did you say?”

“What, can’t understand plain speech?” Rafferty folded his arms and gave a cold laugh. “I said you’re a filthy thing.” He bit off each word, hard and slow.

“I really came here for nothing this time. The fact I actually expected you to guide me—what a damn joke.” His eyes burned with anger. “Listen well. Even if I, Rafferty Stonebridge, die, I will never come back to you for spiritual guidance again!”

Damn it all.

She gives him an inch and he spits in her face.

A moment ago, only Rafferty Stonebridge had been in a foul mood.

Now Lyra Whitmore was too.

She had spoken to him just fine, calm and decent. He did not appreciate it. Worse, he cursed her.

Her face went cold, flat as ice. “You call me a filthy cur. Fine. Then tell me this—what does that make the one who came running over just now, dropped to his knees, and begged me for guidance?”

“You—” Rafferty was hit so hard by that line he opened his mouth at once, ready to snap back.

Lyra did not give him the chance.

“Rafferty Stonebridge, know your place. You’re the one asking me for help. This was a trade from the start. Willing on both sides. If you didn’t want it, you didn’t have to come.”

She stared straight at him, voice sharp and steady.

“You came here and still tried to throw your weight around. Did I beg you to come? Did I grab you by the throat and force you through that door?”

“What, before you came for guidance, you didn’t know my terms? Did those terms only appear after you arrived?”

The original host had been a real piece of work, sure.

But now that Lyra was here, it was not as if she refused to guide him.

She had even spoken to him properly. He had sent her flying once already, and she had not made an issue of it.

Then she tried to guide him for real, and he cursed her for it.

After hearing her words, Rafferty looked even more stunned.

Before this, he had only thought Lyra was arrogant and overbearing.

Now he found out her tongue was sharp enough to flay skin.

But for a moment, he truly had no answer. He could only stand there with a livid face and spit out his grievance through clenched teeth.

“I knew it. I knew you were up to no good. You even said you weren’t pulling tricks. Not even two minutes, and your true colors are already showing. If you weren’t the only S-rank Guide in the war zone, do you think I’d come to you?”

Lyra gave a cold little laugh. “So you do know I’m the only S-rank Guide in the war zone?”

“If you don’t want guidance, then get out.”

That choked Rafferty clean shut.

He stood there with his eyes wide, glaring at Lyra for a long while. At last, with anger all over his face, he whipped around and strode off.

Only after Rafferty left did Lyra finally get the chance to find herself a bed.

She lay on the bed and slowly sorted through the memories that had poured into her after coming here.

Then another set of scenes flashed through her mind—old, buried memories from Lyra Whitmore’s childhood.

A handsome, refined young man bent down and lifted the little girl from the floor with careful hands. His voice to her was soft as warm silk, but when he turned to the servant, it went cold as a blade.

“You dared defy Second Miss. Report to the wasteland planet for labor duty.”

The wasteland planet was a dead place.

Its energy veins had long dried up. No life. No green. No hope.

That kind of place was where criminals were sent to serve out their punishment. Once a person was thrown there, they usually never came back.

The servant dropped to his knees and begged without stopping. He kowtowed until his forehead split and bled, his whole body shaking.

It changed nothing.

In the end, he was still dragged away.

The child version of the original Lyra did not understand any of it.

Dorian Whitmore looked down at her, his gaze so gentle it was almost frightening.

“He disobeyed you. That means he does not love you.” He stroked her hair and spoke in that calm, patient voice. “A’Yu, our little princess is meant to be loved.”

From that day on, a crooked truth took root in the little girl’s heart.

Only those who crawled before her loved her.

Anyone who went against her did not love her.

And she had to be loved.

Lyra slowly raised an arm and covered her eyes.

For a moment, she did not know whether to laugh or sigh.

She had thought the original owner was simply spoiled rotten, wild with arrogance, trampling over everyone around her like it was only natural.

But who would have guessed that underneath all that swagger, what she had been clawing for all along was love?

Only, somewhere along the way, that hunger had twisted out of shape.

In the original Lyra’s mind, love meant kneeling. Love meant prostration. Love meant blind obedience, no matter what she said, no matter what she demanded.

Anything less was betrayal.

Anything less meant she was not loved.