Chapter 955

He knows! He already knows!

Though she had vaguely sensed it before, hearing Andre casually reveal the truth she had desperately hidden still made Atifé 00 shudder all over.

Looking at Prince Andre, who was utterly absorbed in painting his oil portrait without even glancing at her, Atifé 00 fell silent for a moment, then forced down her wildly pounding heart and asked as calmly as she could:

“That incident… when did you find out?”

Upon hearing Atifé 00’s question, Prince Andre’s brush trembled slightly, leaving a smudged blot on the hem of Atifé 00’s dress in the painting.

“Not too early, not too late—just after I killed my father.”

Picking up the palette knife, Prince Andre scraped off the smudge on Atifé 00’s skirt, then dipped his brush again and painted over it, his expression distant:

“Like you said before, my ‘talent’ rivals Philia’s, but unlike her, mine lies in art—and in art, white means nothing more than sharper perception and a far more sensitive soul.”

“When Father heard my reason for acting against him, he didn’t look angry or hateful—he looked only sorrowful and full of guilt. That’s when I knew the truth of that incident couldn’t possibly be what I thought.”

After correcting the mistake, he gazed at the stern, heroic middle-aged man in the center of the canvas, then reached out and gently touched the face of King Fein in the painting, lowering his eyes as he spoke:

“A man who would sacrifice his daughter for power, who could betray even the natural instinct of parents to give for their children, must be profoundly selfish. Such a man, if wrong, would only shift blame and try to pin fault on others—he wouldn’t have shown that kind of expression.”

“But because of that incident, for years every time I saw Father, all I could picture was Philia crying uncontrollably from pain, begging how long the surgery would take—there was no room for any other thought.”

“And by the time I realized it all—that Father and Mother had their own reasons—my hands were already stained with blood. I had no right to turn back… Aunt Atifé.”

Here, Prince Andre suddenly lifted his head and called out to Atifé 00, then asked gently:

“I’ve finished your portrait. Come take a look—does it look like you?”

“I’d rather not come over…”

Seeing Andre’s increasingly gentle face, a primal instinct for self-preservation—even after being converted into a cybernetic core—flared up again, screaming warnings at Atifé 00.

Without hesitation, she shook her head at Prince Andre’s invitation:

“I’ve seen your painting skills. Even without looking, I know it’s an exact likeness.”

“Still, come take a look.”

Two gem-encrusted scepters, one long and one short, appeared in Andre’s hands. He smiled at Atifé 00, whose expression had tensed instantly, and said:

“Aunt Atifé, you wouldn’t want me to just shut you down outright for something as trivial as refusing to look at my painting, would you?”

“…”

Though her instincts screamed warnings, faced with the threat of total shutdown, Atifé 00 gritted her teeth and stepped forward, standing beside Prince Andre as she gazed at the slightly aged canvas.

The painting depicted a scene from a royal banquet.

In the long-abandoned garden behind the palace, numerous familiar royal family members sat cross-legged on the terrace behind King Fein and his wife, along with their two adult sons.

On the emerald-green lawn before them, over a dozen children chased and wrestled over a golden leather ball painted with bright colors—the leader, by appearance, was clearly young Andre.

Looking at this joyful, peaceful painting—and at the corner where herself, wearing thick glasses, held a brain model while measuring it and scribbling notes—Atifé 00 felt a quiet calm settle over her heart, and murmured with nostalgia:

“Was this the banquet King Fein hosted for Philia’s first birthday, inviting relatives and friends with their children to the palace?”

“Yes.”

Glancing at the pink infant with emerald eyes cradled in the Queen’s arms, then at the carefree child sprinting across the grass chasing the ball, Prince Andre set down his brush and scepters, his eyes warm:

“That was the happiest day of my life. Too bad time can’t stop flowing—if only it could stay forever on that day… Aunt Atifé, don’t you think?”

“…”

Watching Andre’s ever gentler expression, Atifé 00 unconsciously held her breath, then nodded in agreement:

“Those days really were nice. Very nostalgic.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

Smiling at Atifé 00, Prince Andre seized her arm and, to her shock, pressed her hand firmly against the canvas, pressing it directly onto the still-wet image of “Atifé.”

“Aunt Atifé, I hope you’re happy.”

“?!!!”

Hearing Andre’s strange blessing, Atifé 00 jolted in alarm—but before she could cry out, the figure of Atifé on the canvas twisted violently.

In her terror, the multicolored paint peeled from the aged canvas, climbing up her fingers, swiftly engulfing her entire body.

She felt a slight heaviness in her left hand—holding an old brain model—and her right fingertips gripped a feather pen. The world before her blurred slightly, and suddenly, thick bottle-bottom glasses rested naturally on her nose.

“Andre?!!!”

“Don’t worry, Aunt Atifé. Nothing will happen.”

Watching Atifé 00 completely covered in colorful oil paint, her form, clothing, and features steadily reshaping toward his memory of her, Prince Andre nodded in satisfaction and replied gently:

“Go ahead and wait for me. Philia and I will join you soon. No one will be missing.”

“You… you…”

“Look—the banquet has already begun.”

Pointing to the lively banquet now in full swing, guests clinking glasses and laughing, Andre said softly:

“Aunt Atifé, Father and the others have been waiting for you for years. Don’t wait any longer—they’re waving to you!”

As Andre spoke, the final patch of paint settled over Atifé 00’s terrified face. When she opened her eyes again, the secret chamber was gone—replaced by the long-ago banquet, filled with joy and merriment.

King Fein, long dead, frowned at her as she clutched the brain model and notebook, ink and coffee stains smudging her sleeves, his expression one of helpless fondness.

“Atifé!”

After calling her name, King Fein, seated cross-legged, waved her over, half-reproachful:

“Can’t you ever put down your research? Even for your brother’s banquet?”

“…”

Seeing her standing frozen, King Fein frowned in confusion.

“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you speaking?”

“I’m busy! The soul-coding project’s at a critical stage—if you hadn’t dragged me here, I wouldn’t have come!”

After a few seconds of hesitation, Atifé 00’s face twisted into the same weary expression, and she groaned:

“Just this once! Don’t call me again next time!”