I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!!

The Head Butler's years of experience and mastery over mana manipulation guided him in this moment of unprecedented strain. Recognizing the futility of attempting to absorb the entirety of the potion's energy, he prioritized survival and preservation of his mana core.

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Carefully, though not without difficulty, he allowed his core to absorb only as much as it could safely handle—a mere forty percent of the potion's potent energy. The remaining sixty percent, however, was dispersed throughout his body, flooding his mana veins in an uncontrolled torrent.

This choice, though strategic, was not without consequences. The Head Butler knew full well the risks of such an action. The foreign mana now coursing through his veins was relentless, seeping into his system with no regard for its destructive potential.

The impurities left behind by unabsorbed mana accumulated in his veins, an ominous threat to his long-term health. Yet, he accepted this risk, prioritizing his core above all else; after all, a damaged body could be healed with potions, but a broken core was a death sentence for a mage.

The pain was indescribable—a constant, searing agony that surged through his body with every beat of his heart. His mana core burned from overexertion, while his veins screamed in protest against the invasive mana disrupting their delicate flow.

The strain on his body was unimaginable, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he might collapse under the pressure. But sheer willpower forced him to endure.

Through the blinding pain, the Head Butler clung to his purpose. He reminded himself of his commitment to the Young Miss, of his vow to protect her at all costs.

It was this unyielding determination that kept him standing, even as his body screamed in rebellion. And behind this selfless resolve, a darker thought simmered—his resolve to take revenge on Ashok should the Young Miss not be cured.

The burning resentment he felt toward the young man was like a second fire in his chest, fueling his will to survive, no matter the cost.

The Head Butler's remarkable willpower sustained him long enough to withstand the relentless pull of the symbol. At last, the glowing lines dimmed, and the symbol slowly ceased its ravenous absorption of mana. But the moment the symbol stopped, the Head Butler's body gave out.

With a soft thud, he collapsed onto the bed, his body slumping under the immense strain it had endured. Cassius, alert and quick on his feet, rushed forward and caught the older man before he could fall completely to the floor.

As Cassius cradled the frail body, his expression shifted to one of alarm. The Head Butler's temperature was unnaturally high, his skin burning to the touch like smoldering embers.

Faint wisps of smoke rose from his body, and his labored, faint breaths further deepened the Sword Saint's concern.

"Feed the Mind Recovery Potion," came Ashok's calm and detached voice.

The Duke moved toward the Head Butler without hesitation, his instincts driving him to act. But Ashok's sharp, commanding voice rang out again, stopping the Duke in his tracks. "Not him," Ashok said, his tone cold and authoritative.

"Feed him a Healing Potion. The old man will be fine—he's not going to die anytime soon. The Mind Recovery Potion needs to go to your daughter."

The Duke, with a solemn nod, handed the glowing vial of Healing Potion to Cassius. Cassius took it without a word, his grip firm as he turned his attention back to the unconscious Head Butler. Gently, he began administering the potion.

Meanwhile, the Duke moved to his daughter, his expression resolute yet tinged with visible hope. He knelt beside her fragile, motionless form and carefully lifted her into his arms.

The Duke slowly and with utmost care, began to pour the liquid into her mouth, tilting the vial just enough to let the potion flow in measured drops.

As the Duke carefully poured the last few drops of the Mind Recovery Potion into his daughter's mouth, Ashok approached Cassius with an air of detached authority.

His voice, calm but devoid of any warmth, sliced through the tense quiet. "Wake the old man up. He can't sleep in this state. The mana that enters his veins will take time before it solidifies and turns into impurities.

Thankfully, the potion was of the highest grade; if it were of a lower grade, the mana would have already started solidifying."

Ashok's sharp gaze remained fixed on the Head Butler as he continued, "Now, wake him up and tell him to start cleaning his veins. The cure isn't immediate, and the old man still has a lot of work to do. This is just the beginning."

Cassius stiffened at Ashok's tone. There was not a shred of sympathy in the young man's words—just cold pragmatism. Though the advice was for the Head Butler's benefit, Ashok's unfeeling delivery stirred anger in Cassius's chest.

Reluctantly, Cassius turned his attention back to the Head Butler, who lay unconscious but still breathing faintly. After ensuring the Healing Potion had been fully administered, Cassius knelt beside the old man and gently shook his shoulder. "Head Butler," he said firmly, his voice steady but respectful. "You need to wake up. Your veins need attention."

The Head Butler stirred faintly, his eyes fluttering open. The exhaustion in his gaze was evident, but he forced himself upright, understanding the necessity of the situation. His movements were slow and labored as he shifted into a lotus position, his body trembling from the strain it had endured.

Summoning what little strength he had left, the Head Butler began channeling mana out of his veins. The process was grueling; his body protested with every attempt, the lingering foreign mana resisting his efforts.

The faint smoke rising from his robes grew denser as he worked, the impurities slowly leaving his system.

Cassius stood silently, his fists tightening and loosening at his sides as he watched the Head Butler labor to cleanse his mana veins. A helpless observer, he lamented his inability to assist; Aura, not mana, coursed through his core, rendering him incapable of participating in such a delicate process.

Minutes passed, and the room seemed frozen in anxious anticipation. The symbol was letting out a faint shine though very dim compared to before. The Duke finally broke the tense silence, his voice low but pressing. "Now what?" he asked, his eyes fixed on Ashok.

Ashok's sharp gaze shifted to the Duke, his tone calm yet certain. "Now we wait," he said simply, his words cutting through the stillness. "It should be starting anytime soon."

The weight of Ashok's words hung in the air, reaching not just the Duke but also Cassius and the Head Butler. The Head Butler, his breathing shallow yet more controlled, took a moment to reassess his condition.

He had expelled more than half of the foreign mana from his veins, though his body still protested with sharp, residual aches. Despite his physical state, curiosity stirred within him. His hardened gaze turned toward the Young Miss, resting peacefully on the Duke's lap.

The thought of what might unfold—what this symbol and potion could truly achieve—pushed him onward.

With Cassius's steadying hand, the Head Butler slowly rose to his feet, his weakened body leaning against the Sword Saint for support. Together, they shifted their focus entirely to the Duke and his daughter, their eyes reflecting a mix of anticipation and doubt.

The room seemed to hold its collective breath as the transformation began. The Young Miss, once frail and ghostly pale, started to regain a healthy flush to her cheeks.

Her malnourished frame, which had seemed so fragile moments ago, began to show subtle signs of vitality. The faintest glow of life returned to her skin, the ashen tone replaced by a soft, warm hue.

The change, though modest—a softening of her pale complexion and a steadying of her once-fragile breaths—was nothing short of a miracle in the eyes of everyone present.

For the three who had been helpless witnesses to the young girl's unrelenting decline, this moment was nothing short of groundbreaking.

They had endured the bitter sting of failure after failure, the endless attempts to halt her deterioration met with despair.

To now see even the faintest improvement—a warm flush of color returning to her skin, the stabilization of her shallow breaths—was nothing less than miraculous.

The realization that something as obscure as a symbol drawn with blood and a rare Mind Recovery Potion could initiate her journey back to her natural state felt surreal. It defied logic and their past experiences, yet it was undeniable, unfolding right before their eyes.