Investing in My Yandare Villainess Fiancée:Each Reward Fuels My Growth

Chapter 70: Investment 70: The First Strike

Night fell heavier than usual over the Reingard estate, the moon obscured behind a thickening bank of clouds that hadn’t been in the sky that morning.

"I don’t like this weather," Seria muttered, standing watch at the manor’s east-facing window, frost already forming faintly along the glass beneath her fingertips despite the mild spring air outside.

"You don’t like most weather that isn’t below freezing," Elliot said, though there was no real humor behind it. He stood beside her, sword within easy reach, eyes fixed on the darkened tree line.

Cassian had made good on his word—guards now patrolled the estate’s perimeter in staggered shifts, torches lit along the outer fence, every entrance to the manor barred and watched. Mira had been settled, reluctantly, into her mother’s room for the night, under Lyra’s careful watch. It wasn’t enough to fully ease anyone’s nerves, but it was something.

"You should rest," Seria said, not looking away from the window. "I can take first watch."

"Not a chance."

"Elliot—"

"I’m not leaving you standing alone at a window after what happened to Old Harmon," he said flatly. "Not tonight. Not after everything."

She didn’t argue further, though her hand found his in the dark, fingers lacing together with quiet, unspoken gratitude.

The attack, when it came, came without warning.

The first sign was the torches along the eastern fence guttering out simultaneously, as if smothered by an unseen hand, plunging that entire section of the perimeter into sudden darkness.

"Elliot." Seria’s voice sharpened instantly, all traces of exhaustion burning away in an instant. "Fence line. Now."

He was already moving, sword drawn, shouting an alert toward the nearest patrol guard as he sprinted down the manor’s main staircase two steps at a time. Behind him, he heard Cassian’s voice booming through the halls, rousing the rest of the household with practiced, battle-hardened urgency.

"To the east wall! Now!"

By the time Elliot and Seria burst through the manor’s side entrance into the courtyard, chaos had already begun to unfold. Three of the estate’s guards lay motionless near the darkened fence line, and beyond them, shapes—easily a dozen, cloaked in matching dark uniforms marked with a symbol Elliot didn’t recognize, a stylized black insect wrapped around a broken crown—were pouring through a gap torn cleanly through the estate’s outer wall.

"They’re not subtle," Seria observed grimly, already summoning frost along both palms.

"They don’t need to be," Elliot said. "Not if they think we can’t stop them."

"Then let’s ruin their assumptions."

They moved together, the way they’d learned to fight in the dungeon—Seria laying down sheets of ice to slow and disorient, Elliot cutting through the enemy’s ranks with focused, economical strikes rather than the reckless fury he might have unleashed weeks ago. These weren’t Bug Lords. These were, by the feel of their mana, competent but ordinary mercenaries—dangerous in numbers, but nowhere near the level of threat they’d faced in the dungeon.

Still, there were a lot of them.

"Fall back to the second perimeter!" Cassian’s voice rang out across the courtyard, directing the estate’s guards with the calm precision of a man who had clearly seen combat before, whatever his current role as a minor noble might suggest. He fought alongside them with a longsword that had clearly seen better decades, but his form remained sharp, decisive, cutting down two attackers in quick succession.

"Your father fights well," Seria noted, freezing an attacker’s blade mid-swing before Elliot finished him with a clean strike.

"Apparently there’s a lot about my family I still don’t know," Elliot muttered, deflecting a strike aimed at his ribs.

The battle raged for what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, the courtyard slowly filling with the guttering light of scattered torches and the harsh clash of steel against steel, ice against dark, desperate mana.

Then, abruptly, the attackers began to withdraw.

Not in retreat, exactly—more like a controlled disengagement, falling back through the breach in the wall with a discipline that struck Elliot as deeply unsettling. These weren’t panicked mercenaries fleeing a losing fight. This was planned.

"Wait." Elliot’s blood ran cold. "This was never meant to actually breach the manor."

"What do you mean?" Seria’s frost-covered hands lowered slightly, confusion flickering across her face.

"This was a test." Elliot’s gaze swept the courtyard, counting guards, calculating numbers with growing dread. "They wanted to see our defenses. Our numbers. How we fight."

As if summoned by the thought, a single figure remained behind at the breach in the wall, having made no move to retreat with the others—tall, cloaked in the same dark uniform, but unmasked, watching the courtyard’s aftermath with an expression of calm, almost academic interest.

"Impressive," the figure called out, voice carrying easily across the courtyard despite its quiet, measured tone. "Rather more impressive than our intelligence suggested, actually."

"Who are you," Cassian demanded, sword still raised, blood—not his own—dripping from its edge.

"A messenger, mostly." The figure inclined their head slightly, almost politely. "Consider this evening a formal introduction, Baron Reingard. My employer has taken a considerable interest in what your family has been guarding beneath this estate for so many generations."

Elliot’s stomach dropped.

"You have two options," the figure continued calmly, as though discussing the weather rather than an act of open war. "Surrender what lies beneath your cellar willingly, and this family will be spared. Or resist, and we return with considerably more than a dozen expendable mercenaries next time."

"Get off my land," Cassian said, voice deadly quiet, "before I forget my manners entirely."

The figure’s lips curved into a thin, unbothered smile.

"You have three days to consider your answer, Baron. Use them wisely."

They stepped backward through the breach and dissolved into the darkness beyond, the same way Gion’s illusions had dissolved weeks earlier—a detail that made Elliot’s blood run even colder than before.

"They’re connected," he said grimly, once the courtyard had fallen silent again, guards moving to tend the wounded and secure the breached wall. "Whatever’s left of Entoma’s organization. This is the same darkness."

Seria’s hand found his, gripping tightly.

"Three days," she said quietly.

"Three days," Elliot echoed, staring at the ruined section of wall, at the strange insect-and-crown insignia scorched faintly into the stone where the figure had stood. "Then we’d better make good use of every single one of them."

Behind them, Cassian was already striding toward the manor, jaw set, expression grim and resolute.

"Get everyone inside," he called back over his shoulder. "It’s time we finally saw what our ancestors sealed away."