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“What is the meaning of this—‘Shrine Maiden Princess’!?”

I had been led to a separate room, where I immediately began a furious protest to High Priestess Teressa, who had been waiting for me there. For some reason, Cardinal Callisto was lounging next to her in a most unseemly posture, sipping firewine in broad daylight—but I barely registered him in my mind.

“A special title?! The highest rank of active Shrine Maidens? A symbolic figure of the Church? A leading candidate to be the next Saint!? This is absurd! I’m just an ordinary first rank Shrine Maiden—how can I be promoted while skipping every official step and rank?! It’s outrageous! Positions and responsibilities aren’t something you just hand out like sweets! They should be decided through proper procedures, with the consent of those around, fairly and transparently—shouldn’t they?!”

Just as an aside, though it’s often misunderstood, even when a monarch grants a title of nobility to a vassal, it’s not normally done on a whim. There are advanced discussions, matters are presented to the assembly, papers go through proper channels, and finally, the national religion must give its approval before a title is officially bestowed.

This applies across the continent, with the exception of beastkin nations in the south and the lands of the demons. Even the most tyrannical rulers with immense power are, on paper, still subject to religious approval. A title granted without it is as good as a worthless scrap of paper.

Therefore, the Church is supposed to make such decisions with utmost rigor, guided by law, conscience, and doctrine.

In fact, in the Eunice Theocracy, the Church holds overwhelming authority. Even the Senate, the highest body in the land (as Eunice has no king), cannot confirm promotions in noble rank—whether merit-based promotions or hereditary succession—without first consulting the Church’s wishes. Without its endorsement, no noble title can ever be granted.

Meanwhile, in the continent’s mightiest nation, the Graviol Empire, the relationship between the state and the great continental religion of the Deva Kureha Faith is more relaxed—closer to a win-win arrangement. There, local nobles often handle ennoblements rather loosely, and the local church head simply retroactively affirms them. In return, the nobles donate to the Church or offer tax breaks, and the Church provides religious backing. It’s a well-oiled, mutually beneficial system.

However, it’s a different story when it comes to the central nobility. Unless someone has truly exceptional achievements or abilities, not even a decree from His Majesty the Emperor himself is enough to have a title of nobility granted. Most recently, my senior apprentice—and adoptive mother—Madam Christy was promoted in rank, but even that was considered an extraordinary exception. It’s not hard to imagine the intense jealousy and suspicious stares she must have faced from those around her.

So really, even a child could understand that the Church must never arbitrarily allow exceptions or show favoritism to specific individuals.

“In any case, I reject this decision! I absolutely refuse!!”
“—Yes, indeed… I quite agree. You make a very valid argument,” Lady Teressa said, gently nodding as she sipped from her teacup.

“That said,” added Cardinal Callisto with a grin, his glass of spirits in hand, “it’s usually the losers who complain. It’s rare for the winner to protest and try to get everything annulled. Hahaha… you’re a riot. Still, flailing around in here isn’t gonna do squat. If you wanna overturn this, you’ll have to convince the Council of Sages. That’s the only place it’ll matter.”

He chuckled to himself as if none of this concerned him in the least.

“This wasn’t some simple matter of protest!”

The moment the decision about Pope Theodoros’ judgment and the proclamation of “Shrine Maiden Princess” was announced, the templar knights—those divine warrior-priests stationed in the chamber—raised their right hands high and shouted in unison:

“All hail Lady Clara, the Shrine Maiden Princess!!”
“Long live the Church!”
“To hell with that old b̲a̲s̲t̲a̲r̲d̲ Theodoros!!”
“Lady Clara! Lady Clara!!”
“ “ “UOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH!!!” ” ”

It was well beyond spirited. They roared like warriors on the battlefield (though, admittedly, some of their words were more than a little disturbing), and they whipped themselves into such a frenzy that I, who had suddenly been thrust into the center of it all, could do nothing but freeze.

And then, in that moment—

“Guooohhh! So this is the end, is it?! If it’s come to this—”

Slumped over in the defendant’s seat, the Pope suddenly sprang to his feet, shouting like some shameless villain clinging to the last scrap of dignity.

“Then at the very least, let me grope those t̲i̲t̲s̲ and that a̲s̲s̲ to my heart’s content before I go into confinement!”

Like a grasshopper, or a frog, he leapt at me.

“KYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!?!?”

This heinous act was completely unexpected. The knights were so stunned that, for a moment, they failed to react—and I was almost pounced on. Somehow, I managed to throw up a desperate guard.

Even so, the Pope’s filthy hands kept reaching for my chest and butt, undeterred. Coppelia tried to smack them away with chopping strikes, but he dodged them with surprising agility and dexterity.

“What the… You evaded my aggressive defense techniques?!”
“Fuhahahahahaha! I didn’t get to be Pope for nothing, you know! You think you can beat me in a contest of footwork and split-second decision-making?!”
“Heeeeeehhhh…”

He slipped past Coppelia’s guard by the slimmest of margins and kept sneaking in pervy gropes whenever he could, until I was practically in tears.

At that point, Archbishop Georgios—who had been on the podium the entire time—was the first to act. He calmly grabbed the warhammer beside him, stomped over with heavy steps, and without warning shouted, “Divine punishment!” before raising the weapon high and smashing it down on the Pope’s head with deadly precision.

“NUWAAAAAAGHHH!! I’M GONNA DIE! You were seriously trying to kill me, weren’t you!?”

The impact was thunderous, smashing the thick floorboards—and even the foundation beneath—into pieces.

Through the cloud of rising dust and rubble, the Pope, having narrowly dodged death by leaping back just in time, scrambled on all fours and looked up to protest. Georgios, unbothered, raised an eyebrow and easily pulled the warhammer—now embedded deep in the floor—free, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Hmph. Missed. I must admit, when it comes to fleeing and shirking responsibility, you truly are the best in the land. …Very well. Since you’re still so full of energy, forget a mere one-thousand-day ascetic pilgrimage. I’ll amend the sentence to ten thousand days. Agreed?”
“Why do you always have to crank the difficulty up to insane levels!? Do you have something against me or what?!”
“…You mean you didn’t realize?”

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After a brief pause, the man seated at the very center—though the word “seated” feels misleading, given how his towering frame and overwhelming presence made it seem as though he were standing—broke the silence. It was Archbishop Georgios, and his voice, deep and rough as rusted iron, opened the floor.

“We’ve received the report. That a disturbance was caused in the heart of Sant’Angelo, of all places—an area off-limits to outsiders—is utterly inexcusable.”
“Indeed.”
“And by someone who ought to be a model of conduct for the entire Church, no less.”
“In the end, such disgrace can only be called corruption.”

One after another, the rest joined in with their reproaches. Only two remained silent.

One of them was my direct superior, High Priestess Teressa, who said nothing but stared at me with a harsh, watchful gaze, evidently withholding judgment for now. The other was the man with the afro—clearly a cardinal, judging by the sash on his vestments—who simply grinned like he was watching an amusing street performance.

“It is clear that strict punishment is warranted… however,” Georgios continued, “with the Northern Nations Summit only days away, we cannot afford to expose this shame to the world. As it is, one of our sacred Shrine Maiden has been kidnapped by a madman and her fate remains unknown—and now, another Shrine Maiden is at the center of a scandal.”

His gray eyes pinned me like spears. I straightened my back as if ice had been shoved down my spine.

As expected from members of the Church’s upper echelon—the so-called Council of Sages—every one of them possessed magical power (or “theocraft,” as the Church termed it) well beyond the Adventurers’ Guild’s A-rank standard.

Even among them, Georgios stood out—by a head? No, by two or three levels altogether.

The total magical output I could sense from him was about the same as my current level… yet just like me, there was a strong sense that he was hiding several aces up his sleeve. In short, his full depth was unknowable.

And above all else, his sheer physical bulk and the massive weapon at his side were absurdly threatening. That worn, two-handed warhammer looked like it could flatten an ogre in one swing. As a priest’s weapon, wasn’t that just pure overkill? What exactly is he planning to fight or defend against?!

“So frivolous, so shallow. That the Council of Sages must be convened for such a trifling matter—it is beyond shameful.”

His eyes, now filled with icy anger, slid from me—from the witness stand—to the defendant sitting right in front of us.

“—Wouldn’t you agree… Your Holiness?”

There is only one person in this entire Church who is addressed as “Your Holiness.” That man, His Holiness Pope Theodoros—whose robe was frayed here and there, as if he’d just been beaten up—was seated formally on his knees on the floor and looked up.

“Uh, I am the Pope, you know? Isn’t this treatment kinda off? Feels pretty unreasonable to me…”

He glanced around the room, pouting, as if hoping someone might fix this grave injustice.

In response, the Pope was met with a roomful of cold, disapproving stares. The afro-haired cardinal even gave a thumbs-down and booed. I later heard that he was Cardinal Callisto, one of Pope Theodoros’ closest aides. Though judging by the way he acted freely—as if confident the Pope wouldn’t notice—he seemed to be venting some frustrations. Maybe their working relationship wasn’t all that smooth?

At that moment, High Priestess Teressa, who had remained silent until now, motioned for the lighting to be dimmed slightly so everyone’s faces were more visible. Then, in a low voice devoid of emotion, she began her indictment of His Holiness.

“…It appears you still fail to grasp the severity of your actions, so allow me to reiterate. According to the report, today, during a visit by Shrine Maiden Clara Adelheid and her attendant, Your Holiness—who stands at the very summit of the Church hierarchy—committed an act of indecency against them. For you to behave lewdly toward Clara, a woman and a shrine maiden in a vulnerable position, is beyond outrageous. This isn’t merely a matter of dignity or decorum—it is abuse of power, pure and simple!”

Listening from behind, I found myself surprised to learn that the concept of “power harassment” actually existed in this world, too.

“Abuse of power…? Look, I got socked in the face and sent flying across the room. If anything, I’m the one with the serious injuries here…”

Pope Theodoros muttered, but Lady Teressa ignored him completely and pressed on.

“In an institution like ours, where so many shrine maiden serve, it is unacceptable for anyone—let alone Your Holiness—to engage in behavior that damages the trust between them and the upper ranks!”

She steamrolled over his attempted rebuttal without pause.

“Indeed!”
“Well said.”
“Precisely.”
“No objections!”

The others joined in the chorus, shutting down Theodoros’ protests before he could speak further.

Looking increasingly lost, the Pope scanned the faces of the Council of Sages for support—only for his gaze to stop on his supposedly loyal subordinate, Cardinal Callisto, who gave a snort and shrugged as if to say, “Tough luck.”

Realizing he could no longer count on support from his allies, the Pope closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and replied with a calm, composed expression.

“You all think I touched Clara’s behind out of lust, don’t you? But you’re sorely mistaken. I only pretended to be a lecherous old man in order to test whether this girl, so praised in the streets as the ‘Shrine Maiden Princess,’ truly has a heart worthy of that title.”

To be fair, that explanation almost sounded like something befitting His Holiness… if you squint hard enough.

Immediately, the members of the Council turned in unison to look at Father Lawrence, the monastic priest standing behind Archbishop Georgios.

“—Guilty. That statement was entirely false,” Lawrence declared.

Turning back again, the members stared down at the now sweat-drenched Pope Theodoros as if he were nothing more than an insect.

“For the spiritual leader of our Church—a man meant to be a paragon of purity and righteousness—to speak such deceit… how disgraceful,” said Lady Teressa. Her words sounded tragic, though her monotone voice suggested she’d expected as much from the start.

“According to the report,” said Archbishop Georgios, gravely nodding, “despite the unfortunate encounter, Shrine Maiden Clara took the initiative to heal His Holiness’ injuries on the spot. Truly, that is the model of a servant of the Church.”

Despite his stern voice and austere demeanor, it somehow didn’t feel much like praise.

“Well, I wouldn’t have needed healing in the first place if this girl hadn’t decked me with a punch…” the Pope grumbled, but was completely ignored.

The meeting continued, steamrolling over him.

“Excommunication would be appropriate,” Archbishop Georgios intoned, “but no one aside from Her Holiness the Saintess has the authority to excommunicate the Pope. Regretfully, until next week’s international summit, His Holiness will be placed under house arrest. After the summit, he is to undertake a solo pilgrimage of a thousand days through the sacred Mount Clorinda. Does anyone object?”

“““““““““No objections!”””””””””

Pope Theodoros shouted in protest, “Objection! I object! I’ll die out there! I’m serious—this is just a roundabout execution!!”

But his cries were met with unanimous approval, as if he wasn’t even present.

Mount Clorinda, after all, is an active volcano famous for housing an S-class dungeon, the Clorinda Flame Labyrinth, right inside its crater. To traverse it solo for a thousand days… that’s beyond cruel. It’s practically a death sentence.

I was just about to speak up—at least say something in his defense—when Archbishop Georgios’ eyes, hard as steel, turned on me. For a second—was it my imagination?—his lips curled in the faintest smile, leaving me stunned.

“And one more thing,” he said. “Regarding the Pope’s acknowledgment of Shrine Maiden Clara’s title, ‘Shrine Maiden Princess’—I propose that we officially approve it. Any objections?”

“““““““““NO OBJECTIONS!!”””””””””

The shout this time was even louder, practically shaking the chamber.

“…Huh?” I blurted, stunned.

Beside me, Coppelia muttered with a grumble, “Forget ‘Shrine Maiden Princess’—they should just go ahead and recognize Lady Clara as the True Saintess.”

Author’s Note:

Hiyuki: “No matter how you look at it, this relief is definitely of Mikoto, right?”
Mikoto: “The information seems to be mixed up. Would you like me to fix it?”
Hiyuki: “Hmm… It’ll be hard to move if the surface is cracked, so I think it’s fine the way it is. Still, I don’t personally dislike this pope, so I don’t think there’s any need to impeach him.”

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The room was wrapped in dimness and silence.

There were no windows. The space was nearly completely sealed off, supported by arched pillars at intervals, each with a brightly burning lantern affixed. But given the vastness of the chamber, such light sources weren’t nearly enough to illuminate it fully.

A rough glance told me the room was about thirty mertes wide, forty mertes deep, and—though I could only guess since the ceiling lay beyond the reach of the light—about twenty mertes tall. It felt less like a room and more like a gathering hall, or perhaps even a chapel.

(Feels like a courtroom…)

As soon as we were shown in, the most eye-catching feature directly ahead was a massive wooden wall that loomed like a cliff face. On its right hung a large tapestry bearing the symbol of the Saintess Church, while on the left, a flag emblazoned with the national crest of the Eunice Theocracy had been placed. Dominating the space between the two, however—commanding the entire wall with overwhelming presence—was a gleaming silver relief of Saintess Snow, nearly five by three mertes in size. It shimmered brilliantly. (Could it possibly be real silver?)

“…Hey, Coppelia. It doesn’t really look like her, but is that supposed to be Saintess Snow?”

“Probably meant to be, yeah. If you look closely, it actually resembles the face engraved on the gold and silver coins of this country… In fact, I bet this is the original they used as a mold.”

While gazing at the unavoidable relief, I whispered in secret to Coppelia, who stood beside me.

I hadn’t noticed until she pointed it out, but now that I thought about it, the coins of this country did indeed feature a woman’s face. I had always ignored it since it was so small, but pulling a silver coin from my pocket to check, I saw that it was unmistakably a shrunken version of the same face. It didn’t click right away since the coin’s surface had worn smooth from use, but the resemblance was clear.

“Ah… now that you mention it, you’re right.” I tilt my head slightly. “But doesn’t the statue we saw in the underground lab at Lake Quartz look completely different? Face, body, age—everything?”

For the record, the saintess depicted here is a graceful young woman, around eighteen to twenty years old, with a serene, benevolent expression and an excellent figure.

In contrast, the sealing statue from Coppelia’s—no, Victor’s—lab shared almost nothing in common with it, other than being female. That one had the innocent look of a girl around twelve or thirteen, and its overall vibe was much more… aggressive—ahem, energetic.

And first of all, the chest was completely flat, with what looked like padding. Could it be that she’s grown since then? A growth timeline, perhaps? But honestly, the difference is so dramatic, it’s like saying a wolf pup grew up to become… a manatee. That level of before-and-after.

“Since you’ve actually met the saintess, Coppelia, which one do you think is the accurate version?”
“What are you even saying? There’s no way someone like me would be acquainted with a shady, sideshow act like that ‘saintess,’ Lady Clara.”

Coppelia waved her hand in front of her face like she was batting the idea away.

“…Am I just misremembering, then? Back when we met her in the dungeon, I distinctly recall you saying things like, ‘She’s a monstrous abomination,’ or ‘A demon hiding behind the name of a saint.’ Pretty much insulting her from start to finish.”
“I have no memory of that whatsoever. I mean, thanks to that idiot Igoronak, some of my memory sectors are malfunctioning, so I get a lot of errors around that area. But no worries! My advanced fuzzy memory system helps me recover just fine.”

…That doesn’t sound like a fuzzy system. That sounds like you’re just winging it.

“Is that… safe?”
“Totally safe. I can make fuzzy judgments too, so there’s no problem at all. Like, if I run into trouble, I can instantly go: ‘Hmm, was it like that? Maybe? Possibly? Whatever, let’s go roast some pork instead!’ See? It’s a judgment system so unmatched, no one else can compete! Amazing, right? I’m the type who thrives on praise, so please don’t hold back, Lady Clara!”

Her brain is definitely not built on zeroes and ones. Honestly, I’d be more convinced if someone told me it ran entirely on random number generation.

“…Victor really did leave behind something quite terrific, didn’t he?”
“He sure did.”

As we wrapped up our slightly off-topic whispering and turned our eyes away from the relief, we noticed what lay beneath it: a raised dais two or three steps high, large enough to seat several people. In front of that, one step lower, sat the clerks’ and scribes’ desks, and to the left and right of those were curved, single-step platforms set with observer seats for a handful of others.

Behind all that was a gallery for spectators—but since this was an ultra-confidential meeting with no outside presence allowed, the oval-shaped room, nearly the size of a small auditorium, now held only a dozen or so individuals affiliated with the Church.

And at the exact center of the front of the room, a single accused figure stood in the spotlight.

Unlike the warm, dim light of the lanterns, this piercing radiance was clearly not of natural origin.

In this world, light sources were typically candles or lanterns fueled by animal fat (including fish oil) or plant oils. At best, these would produce a glow perhaps one-fiftieth—or at most, one-tenth—of what a 60-watt incandescent bulb would emit.

So when night falls, people generally go to bed. However, a few privileged elites or wielders of “light”-type magic or sorcery enjoy the luxury of lighting comparable to modern incandescent bulbs or even LEDs. That said, unlike the modern world, there are no businesses open at night (even the Adventurers’ Guild closes its doors after dark), so such lighting is more of a status symbol than a practical convenience.

As for this spotlight, it was likely created by some kind of magical device or spell. (Given the stable mana vibrations, it was probably a magical item.) And this wasn’t just a flashy showpiece—it served a very practical purpose.

From all directions, stark white beams shone precisely on the person at the center. The contrast with the surrounding dimness made it impossible for the one under the lights to see anything around them. Conversely, everyone outside the light could see every detail of the person in the center—their slightest movements, facial expressions, even the sweat on their brow.

In an otherwise open space, this was effectively a prison of light—a kind of isolation chamber carved out with illumination.

Squinting against the brightness, I swallowed hard.

“Kinda feels like a lynching, doesn’t it? Or like being strung up for public shaming.”

Coppelia gave her assessment in her usual unbothered tone, as if she didn’t quite grasp—or, inversely, perhaps perfectly grasped—the gravity of the situation.

No, anyone could see this for what it was: a courtroom, yes, but not one defined by democracy or fairness. This was a religious tribunal, a witch trial in all but name. Thank you very much, truly.

In that heavy silence thick with tension, I once again looked around.

Aside from the templar knights present for security, the ones lined up here—the judges, the condemners, the higher-ups of the Church—all wore expressions as if they’d just bitten into something incredibly bitter, staring daggers our way.

Among them were a few familiar faces—like Lady Teressa, my direct superior, or Father Lawrence, the monastic priest who’d accompanied us during the Maria Lou incident. (Though from the way he was positioned, it looked like he was more of a gofer, sticking close to the towering, boulder-like figure known as Archbishop Georgios—who stood well over two mertes tall.) Then there was that one cardinal with the Afro hair and wiry build, slouched with his feet propped on the seat in front of him, swinging his legs like he had nothing better to do.

The rest, however, were mostly unfamiliar. And yet, just from the atmosphere, it was obvious: every last one of them was a major figure from some division of the Church.

I’d heard whispers about them—members of the so-called Council of Sages, a tiny circle of clergy wielding real power and influence within the Church.

They didn’t openly exercise authority, but in truth, this group governed not only the Holy Eunice Theocracy but effectively dominated the northern nations as well. And now, almost all of them were here… their brows furrowed, their faces twisted in bitter, displeased grimaces.

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Type-Kou No. 27, after repeatedly reaching and stretching to grab the banana hanging from a rod extending from the platform, eventually noticed a box in the corner of the room. After a brief period of trial and error, it successfully stacked the box and retrieved the banana.

““Ohhh, impressive (isn’t it)!””

“Ahahahaha! Ideally, I’d make it human-sized, add a bit more flexibility, and perfect it… Well, creating intelligence equal to a human’s artificially may be impossible, but I aim to get as close as possible. Even so, for now, this is undeniably the most advanced autonomous golem on the continent—closest to a human in design.”

Buoyed by the textbook line from the female art of flattery—“Sasuga!” (“As expected of you!”)—Mr. Edward happily launched into his explanation.

Well, given that this is the result of confidential research, he rarely gets the chance to boast about it. On top of that, the audience is a woman—it’s no wonder he’s over the moon.

“Oh, really? I had no idea! That’s amazing! Hey, Coppelia, how would you get that banana?”

Following up with another classic from the female flattery arsenal: “Shiranakatta!” (“I didn’t know that!”)—delivered with enthusiastic repetition.

When asked, Coppelia replied matter-of-factly:
“I’d kick the platform down and break it!”

Her deadpan declaration drew a wry smile from Mr. Edward.

Incidentally, other phrases in the female art of charming men include:

Su = “Sugoi desu ne!” (“That’s amazing!”)
Se = “Sense ga ii desu ne!” (“You have a knack for this!”)
So = “Sou nan desu ka!” (“Is that so?”)

I’ll be mixing those in as needed.

“Exactly. With that in mind, you can understand just how advanced Type-Kou No. 27 really is. Sure, there are rumors—urban legends, really—about an automaton discovered in ancient ruins that were supposedly indistinguishable from humans, or about some alchemist a few decades ago who allegedly created one. But speaking as a researcher, I can say without hesitation that the idea of artificial intelligence on par with humans is pure fantasy.”

And just like that, Mr. Edward, in his good mood, casually dismissed Coppelia’s existence.

A faint, twitching vein surfaced near her brow—perhaps my imagination.

Hmm… Still, to deny the accomplishments of the past just because they don’t fit within the boundaries of your own work—this man is certainly a serious and sincere researcher, but the type who’s too bound by established ideas to ever achieve true greatness.

Well, to be fair, Victor had the opposite flaw—he was so far ahead of his time that he forgot to watch his step and walked straight into disaster.

At any rate, the conversation had conveniently drifted into territory relevant to the purpose of our visit, so I feigned casual interest and asked:

“Oh my? I’d heard rumors that you once collaborated with that very alchemist on some kind of research into life itself?”

“Wha—!? Where on earth did you hear such nonsense? Well… now that I think about it, I did hear something from my predecessor about research into artificial lifeforms—homunculi—being conducted in the past. But that was abandoned quite a long time ago, I believe. You see, lifeforms tend to vary too much from one specimen to another, making them unreliable and impractical. They also have issues with durability. In the long run, mechanical models are far more dependable.”

“Mhm! You get it, don’t you? For a talentless nobody, that is!” Coppelia, clearly pleased, clapped Mr. Edward casually on the shoulder.

This is exactly why I keep telling her to stop speaking so informally… Ah—wait, could it be that she’s showing this friendliness because she’s adjusted her evaluation of him slightly upward, after initially looking down on him so completely?

“Um, so, just to clarify—there’s currently no ongoing research into homunculi, and no accessible records on the subject either?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Though I believe you can still access the records.” When I asked Mr. Edward—who looked a bit thrown off by Coppelia’s overly familiar demeanor—he seemed somewhat relieved as he gave a nod. “Ah, or perhaps the medical wing might have someone who knows more about it. I’ve heard rumors that some of the researchers involved in the homunculus project transferred over there.”

I see—so the next place to investigate might be the medical wing. I mentally filed that away while continuing the conversation with a show of interest.

“We’d eventually like to make them more human in appearance as well, but there are mixed opinions. The closer they look to humans, the more unsettling they can become. So for now, this is our compromise.”

Coppelia, meanwhile, was amusing herself by challenging Type-Kou No. 27 to rock-paper-scissors—cheating shamelessly with late plays, sudden rules like “no rock allowed,” and calling her move in advance only to switch it at the last second. Unsurprisingly, she was steadily increasing both her win rate and the automaton’s hostility level.

As I watched this unfold from the corner of my eye, Mr. Edward continued speaking with a cheerful smile about his dreams for the future—but from where I stood, the road ahead looked anything but smooth.

“Hah, laughable. To settle for such a compromise is the mark of a fool—owfgh!!”

Coppelia, about to lean back arrogantly and say something unnecessary, was cut off mid-sentence as I quickly stepped in, slipping a body blow into her side from a hidden angle and shutting her up before she could do more damage.

“I understand perfectly. To be allowed a glimpse of such remarkable research, despite being mere outsiders, I am deeply grateful.”

I gave a polite bow.

At that exact moment, an unpleasant sensation ran across my rear.

“～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～～!?!”

“Hmmmmm… what a supple rump! The shape, the firmness, the give—truly the backside of a temptress. I nearly lost my senses, I did.”

I turned to see a man—perhaps in his fifties—dressed in the ceremonial robes of a high priest, flexing his fingers as if savoring the memory of the touch.

He was a lanky figure with sloped shoulders and a spectacular bald crown save for the sides of his head, giving him the appearance of a matchstick or a lightbulb. Despite the sacred garments, his face bore more the air of a scholar than a priest, now lit up in a broad grin as he addressed me.

“I’d heard the rumors, but you truly are the real deal. No wonder they call you the ‘Shrine Maiden Princess’ out in the city. I’ve got no objections—none at all… but if you’d let me give that bum and those breasts one more feel, I’d be willing to officially recognize you as such. Let me just—ghah!!”

Before the lecherous high priest, hands writhing obscenely, could take another step forward, Coppelia’s rocket punch smashed square into the middle of his wide forehead, sending him crashing to the floor.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! YOUR HOLINESS POPE THEODOROS!!!”

Mr. Edward, who had been stiff as a statue this whole time, suddenly screamed like the world was ending.

“ “Pope…?” ”

Coppelia and I looked at each other in stunned disbelief, then down at the man now collapsed with a bloody nose and a weirdly satisfied smile.

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Sant’Angelo, the holy city and headquarters of the Saintess’ Church, is a vast and rationally designed urban complex, built in concentric circles with a magnificent cathedral at its center. Within its grounds are not only religious facilities but also a full array of institutions, such as seminaries, dormitories, specialized workshops, stores, stables, ranches, farms, and fish-rearing ponds.

In fact, the entire compound is completely cut off from the outside world by a surrounding wall roughly twenty mertes high. According to the priests and templar knights who guided us, the city is capable of sustaining itself almost indefinitely if need be—something they proudly declared in unison.

Entry and exit are limited to the main north gate, which is wide enough for three to four carriages to pass through side by side, and two smaller service gates to the east and west, each less than half that width. Once the appointed time arrives, the drawbridges rise, and no one can go in or out.

Interestingly, there is a local saying: “Evil comes from the south.” This is likely because monsters from the dungeons and past invaders tended to arrive from the south. In contrast, the north is guarded by a chain of steep mountain ranges. Thus, there is no southern gate. Still, from a structural standpoint, it would be strange for there to be nothing at all in that direction, so it’s likely there are hidden doors or underground passages meant for emergencies. If I ever get the chance, I’d love to investigate.

In any case, one could say that Sant’Angelo is, despite some vestiges of formality, a traditional city-state preserved from an older era.

In short, it serves as the nerve center of the Holy Capital Thera Maryth, and simultaneously functions as an entirely separate nation within the city, enjoying full extraterritorial rights. As someone who originally hails from another country, I can’t help but feel this is a rather distorted dual structure—but since the residents and affiliated individuals accept it as natural and the system operates smoothly, I see no need to raise objections.

While a system of nobility still remains, the Eunice Theocracy does not have a king. Instead, the figurehead of the nation is the “Saintess,” and the one who supports her—nominally, though in reality the one holding the highest authority—is the Pope, head of the Church. Given that arrangement, it should be obvious which hierarchy—or perhaps one should call it a caste?—takes precedence: the nobility or the clergy.

Of course, there are truly virtuous people among the clergy as well, and the fact that this country, which lacks any notable industries or special products, is held in high regard not only by the northern nations but across the continent, is due to the Church’s achievements and value—mainly its monopoly on Healing Art practitioners such as shrine maidens and advanced techniques of said art. So, I’m not trying to outright criticize the structure of this nation. Still, I can’t help but feel, time and again, that life would be much more pleasant if I remained ignorant of what goes on behind the scenes.

Now then, one of the many research institutions within Sant’Angelo—

As I was led through with Coppelia, who accompanied me as a maid, a strange humanoid figure—a roughly two mertes tall…doll? A golem? Something shaped like a human but clumsy and hard to classify—was clunking around, walking awkwardly and lifting a box off the floor.

“Ooooooooooh! It moved! Look, Lady Clara! This thing is actually moving!”

Coppelia’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she watched.

“Fufufu. This here is our Church’s research institute’s proud creation: Autonomous Golem Type-Kou No. 27, a project thirty years in the making. Up until now, golems could only carry out commands mechanically, but this one—”

Edward, a magical tool craftsman affiliated with the Church—apparently granted the rank of deacon, though he didn’t give off even the faintest impression of a clergyman—was a man in his thirties, wore glasses, and had that unmistakable “researcher” look about him. In high spirits, he began explaining the golem.

“Nice to meet you, Lady Shrine Maiden. I am Autonomous Golem, Type-Kou No. 27.”

“It spoke! Amazing! So the Church’s alchemy has advanced this far!!”

Coppelia cheered in delight, and Edward seemed rather pleased by her reaction. On paper, it looked like she was showering him with unreserved praise—but really, it was Coppelia’s classic flowery sarcasm, wasn’t it?

I mean, before we even came here, I had firmly reminded her not to offend anyone…

♢♦♢♦♢

“So basically, you want me to play nice with those degenerate priests?”

During last night’s strategy meeting, Coppelia had tried to grab the winged cat (Sechs) curled up on the sofa and plop it on her head, only to be warned off with a swift paw slap from the cat. Clicking her tongue and tilting her head, she bluntly blurted out my roundabout request in the most tactless way possible.

“That’s about the size of it. After all, the only things we learned from spending more than half a day at the slave dealer’s estate were: Maria Lou was picked up in the slums, she was mistaken for a scrawny vagrant child and tossed into a bargain sale, and that the editor-in-chief—the journalist in question—bought her. Those three things. Which is to say, we’ve learned virtually nothing.”

I counted them off on my fingers with a sigh.

I’d expected as much, but the trail to uncovering her past had been completely severed.

“I got pretty much the same result on my mission with the plebeian. That gossip rag’s editor-in-chief clammed up the second he realized I was affiliated with the Church. Wouldn’t say a word. We left because it was going nowhere, but he’s definitely hiding something.”

Oh my? Coppelia backing off just because the other party turned hostile? That’s unusually restrained for her. Normally, she’s all about charging headfirst, zero hesitation, punishing first and asking questions never—a complete menace who couldn’t read the room if it were printed in bold letters.

Maybe after spending a year out of that underground dungeon of hers, she’s finally starting to grasp human emotions and social norms.

“Well, I was ready to cut an ear and gouge an eye and threaten to castrate him if he doesn’t want to talk, then I might consider granting him a quick death, a proper step-by-step interrogation. If not for the pleb freezing me with his talisman spell.”
“…Right. I understand now. Hoping for common sense from you is a pipe dream.”

Also—bravo, Cestlavie.

“Why are you weeping, Lady Clara? —Anyway, I got carried out of the house like luggage, but managed to analyze the spell and break free. Then the plebeian said, ‘This kind of person won’t crack under threats or brute force. We’ll need to take a more roundabout approach,’ so we left the area. He stayed at a nearby cheap inn and released a simple familiar using talisman magic—I think it’s called ‘shikigami’ in the archipelagos—to keep him under surveillance.”

I see—that explains why Cestlavie still hasn’t returned.

“Well done. At this point, we have no choice but to take some risks and try to uncover the Church’s hidden ‘Artificial Saint’ project. But only high-ranking clergy and their affiliates can enter the depths of Sant’Angelo Sanctuarium, so either way, we’ll be acting separately from Cestlavie and the others tomorrow.”

Thankfully, I’ll be able to bring Coppelia along, since she’s officially registered as my lady’s maid. But the rest… Even if Cestlavie is originally a priest of the Church, access will be impossible. It’s not the most reassuring lineup, to be honest.

For now, I’ll ask Kaisa and the others who are cooperating with us to continue gathering intel and keep in contact with both the slave dealer and Cestlavie, who’s still observing things. Then I turn back to Coppelia and firmly remind her:

“Listen. Tomorrow, absolutely no speaking rudely to Church officials, no rocket punches if something annoys you, and definitely no vaporizing obstacles with a death beam, understood!?”

…Why must I go over such insane things so seriously?

“I got it, Lady Clara. I’m a capable woman, you know? I am equipped with proper TPO-awareness and at least a basic function for flattery. Back in the day, I made full use of that skill to butter up Master Victor—‘You genius!’ ‘What a looker!’ ‘Absolutely perfect!’—I used to praise him to high heaven.”

“…”

To think that Victor was satisfied being flattered by an automaton he made himself… Honestly, how much happier would we all be if we could go through life without ever seeing the backstage of the world?

“By the way, do you know the trick to buttering up men? It’s the ‘Sa-Shi-Su-Se-So’ rule.”
“Sugar, salt, mayo, back fat, and gravy.”
“That’s the seasoning ‘sa-shi-su-se-so,’ Lady Clara. And actually, the second half’s kind of wrong. Back fat isn’t a condiment.”
“What? It’s not!?”
“Wait—that wasn’t a joke!?”

We exchanged puzzled looks. On the sofa, Sechs let out a wide yawn, looking bored out of his mind, as if to say, “A conversation between two jokers without a straight man has no punchline.”

Mab’s explanation corner!

The “Sa Shi Su Se So” rule is a standard seasoning/cooking rule in Japanese cuisine! Sa refers to Satou (sugar), Shi refers to Shio (salt), Su refers to Su (vinegar), Se refers to Seuyu (old writing for soy sauce), and So refers to Miso (miso). However, it has also become a meme that it is the seasoning for praises towards men.

Sasuga desu ne! (As expected of you!) / Saikou! (you’re the best!)
Shiranakatta (Wow, I didn’t know that)
Sugoi (That’s amazing) / Suteki (you’re amazing) / subarashii (how amazing)
Sense aru ne (You have a knack for this)
Sounanda (So that’s how it is) / sou nano? (is that how it is?) / sonkei suru (i’m amazed)

Btw, what Jill said is

Satou (sugar), shio (salt), mayoneesu (mayonnaise), seabura (fatty upper part of roast pork), and soosu (worcestershire sauce/any kind of sauce/gravy)

Well, you’ll see the application in the rest of the chapter.

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Overhearing Luke’s disjointed mutterings, Eren’s suspicions hardened into certainty.

“That’s why I’ve decided, dear stars. I won’t rely on anyone else. I’m going to save Jill all by myself!”

She declared it with firm resolve. At that moment, the girl whose drive, emotional toughness, and sheer devotion to Jill far surpassed that of Luke or Cestlavie, resolved to fight with her back against the wall.

“—You’re not alone!”

Just then, the door behind Eren swung open, and Bruno—dressed in loungewear—burst in with gusto.

“I’m going with you to save Jill! I always thought that pampered pretty-boy wasn’t reliable. Leave it to me, I’m an F-rank adventurer now!”

He struck a smug pose. Eren slowly turned to glare at her childhood friend, her eyes half-lidded in cold disdain.

“…Were you eavesdropping? You’re the worst! And on top of that, barging into a girl’s room without permission? Have you no manners!?”

Without waiting for a reply, she stomped over to the doorway and slammed the door shut right in his face.

As Bruno stood dumbfounded on the other side, Eren could hear his foolishly confused “Huh…!?” through the door while she calmly turned the key in the lock.

♢♦♢♦♢

Due to an unavoidable matter, Mr. Cervantes had to return to his duties with apologies, so we were guided instead by his trusted aide—“Steel Ball” Dan—to a separate room, which, like the others, was another gaudy space full of eye-straining gold and vivid primary colors.

The reason we came here was to look for clues regarding the whereabouts of Maria Lou, a girl with a peculiar ability who goes by the name of the phantom thief “Red Ram.”

I’d rather not use the blunt term “purchased,” but the man who acquired her at an auction here three years ago—now her adoptive father—is the editor-in-chief of the Holy City’s tabloid, The Daily Septentrio. Cestlavie and Coppelia have gone to speak with him, but from what we’ve heard, when questioned previously by members of the Order, he consistently played dumb and denied everything, so we’re not expecting much from that lead.

So, while they pursue that angle, we came here to approach the case from another direction by tracing her past.

“A girl handled here three years ago, around eleven or twelve years old at the time? No rare beastfolk traits? No added value like noble blood, fallen knights, or gentry background? Hmm… That’s a bit like grasping at clouds, isn’t it?”

Not exactly a promising response.

Still, we did receive a tentative commitment that they would look into it as best they could. While we waited for them to check their records, they invited us to enjoy lunch in a separate room.

The meal was fairly extravagant, and I, along with the members of Twinfang of the Snowy Peaks, savored it. Also present was Luke’s cat, Sechs, chewing contentedly on some mysterious meat served on a flat plate.

Emil, on the other hand, politely declined the food with a “I’m on duty,” and opted for a drink instead.

In that regard, adventurers and soldiers see eating when they can as part of the job, so Kaisa and the others were helping themselves to seconds and thirds of the luxurious ingredients without hesitation.

Watching them out of the corner of my eye, I tried to stick to eating only about 70% full, but I couldn’t deny the surge of joy I felt at the rare intake of protein—and just barely stopped myself from crossing the line into “Danger: one more bite and you’ll revert to Ragweed Mode.”

While we devoured the meal with healthy appetites, Dan stood silently by the wall, observing us with sharp, calculating eyes.

Normally, with this many attractive women eating together in a cheerful mood, you’d expect a bit more friendliness, wouldn’t you?

I mean, come on—watching beautiful women enjoy a meal should be a treat for the eyes, right? And yet, rather than admiring, Dan was clearly studying us. The word “observation” suited his detached stare far better than “appreciation.”

Even the young, pretty boy slaves serving the meal showed a hint of interest in us, but Dan kept looking at us like we were nothing more than furniture. I guess you could say it showed admirable professional focus…?

Speaking of unchanged expressions, the young demon boy assigned as my personal server was also moving with mechanical precision, clearing dishes and bringing extras without a hint of emotion.

Back when they offered to gift him to me, I hadn’t given a clear answer—just smiled vaguely to deflect—but now I had a strong feeling they were going to foist him on me regardless.

“I’m quite full now, thank you. By the way, I don’t think I ever asked your name. What should I call you?”

Only after asking did I realize I hadn’t even heard the boy’s voice, let alone his name.

Oddly, when asked, the boy’s gaze flicked briefly to Dan by the wall.

“He has no name,” Dan said gruffly in his place. “If you must call him something, we took the ‘Ma’ from ‘mazoku’ and call him Ma Number Six. He’s the sixth demon we’ve handled here.”

With a sharp look and gesture, Dan pointed at the elaborate Stigma collar around the boy’s neck.

“That collar is a special make. He can’t even open his mouth without a direct command from his master. …I don’t need to spell out the reason why, do I?”

If a demon is born with an immense amount of mana, then even the simplest household spell—like lighting a match—could have enough power to completely incinerate a human being.

So this was a safety mechanism, plain and simple.

Suddenly, the once-delicious food turned to ashes in my mouth.

“Right now, I’ve temporarily borrowed master authority from the boss… but well, once you officially become his master, you’d do well to watch yourself too, Shrine Maiden.”

For an instant, a flicker of scorn passed across Dan’s face.

…Could it be that this man actually dislikes me?

Realizing that a bit late, I found myself inwardly tilting my head, wondering what on earth I’d done to earn his contempt.

Author’s Note:

A typical human mage has about 1,000 MP.

Elves average around 10,000, while demons generally range between 10,000 and 50,000.

Incidentally, demons have their own nation (naturally, their king is the Demon King), and the countries on the continent officially recognize their autonomy and human rights. On the surface, at least.

The Demon Nation Dormeet comes up in “The Misadventures of the Demon King Subjugation Squad” (currently on indefinite hiatus), where it’s touched on briefly.

Also, the idea of an itinerant preacher playing a hand accordion is quite rare—if it exists at all—since the hand accordion itself is an instrument that didn’t appear until the 18th century, which makes it a somewhat questionable anachronism.

That said, the image of a missionary with an organ is famous from the Middle Ages. It’s often said, “There are cultures without writing, but none without song,” and missionaries used music to aid in religious instruction.

During the Tokugawa shogunate’s ban on Christianity, many organs were destroyed, but among them were reportedly some extremely valuable instruments—rarities even in Europe. From both a historical and cultural perspective, it’s truly a shame.

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“—Please, oh stars. Let Jill know. Tell her about what happened today—this fateful day!”

In the third branch of the light meal cafe Letindüte, located in Cilento Central Capital, a petite girl with a bob haircut, Eren, was leaning out toward the window frame of a private booth, gazing up at the night sky. Her hands were clasped earnestly in a gesture of prayer, her expression one of pure devotion.

Incidentally, Eren—or rather, people in the western frontier village—weren’t particularly devoted to any specific religion.

Though technically under the influence of the Deva Kureha Faith, the state religion of the Graviol Empire, people would go to a Deva Kureha church when the need arose, like for blessings when a child was born, ceremonies for changing professions, receiving treatment through healing arts, or confessing sins. But since churches only existed in large towns to begin with, even someone like Eren’s father, Village Chief Aroldo Baresi, would only visit once every few years. And even then, only after preparing with a few villagers for a small expedition, or tagging along with a traveling merchant headed that way.

As for Eren herself, she had only been to church once, when she was very young. The only other contact was when an itinerant preacher would occasionally extend their circuit to the village. Her strongest memories were of the sweet treats they handed out, the sound of the hand-played accordion, and the stories from the Deva Kureha scriptures—full of heroic battles and tales of romance that appealed to both children and adults alike.

That was the extent of her exposure. In reality, the villagers’ lives were more deeply rooted in a simple form of animism and local guardian deity worship—namely, the awe and reverence for the Golden Dragon King, Nāga Rāja of the Tenebrae Nemus.

So naturally, even the form of Eren’s prayer and the way she clasped her hands were local, regional customs.

Eren’s anguished feelings were spun out into the sky full of twinkling stars.

“I really think Sir Lucas was doing his best. It’s been nearly a year since you disappeared Jill, and he’s been so consumed with worry, desperately chasing leads, even sacrificing sleep. Honestly… I even started thinking that maybe, just maybe, if it were him, I could accept you and him being in a ‘princess × prince’ kind of relationship… but—”

Eren cut herself off there, lowered her head, bit down on her lip, then suddenly raised her face with renewed determination and screamed into the night sky:

“—but I never imagined he’d break under the pressure and loneliness and switch to men!!”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhh?!?!?!”

In an instant, cries of shock echoed from both the annex and the main building of Letindüte, facing the open window Eren had shouted from.

Most of the shocked voices belonged to people in their prime years (with a ratio of about 3 men to 7 women), though among the women, the cries leaned more toward sorrow than surprise. Oddly, there were also a few women who seemed happy about it, and even some men squealing with excitement (disturbingly enough). Altogether, the mix of reactions caused the entire Letindüte structure to tremble—as if a bunch of little waves had come together to form a giant one.

And maybe it was just her imagination, but amidst the chaos, Eren thought she heard Lucas’s anguished scream—“That’s a total baseless lieeeee!!”—along with the sound of chairs toppling, dishes breaking, dogs barking, doors being violently flung open, a flurry of footsteps going in and out, desperate voices like “Is it true, my lord?!” followed by a frantic “It’s not!!” from the accused, and a heated exchange with his attendants rushing him at mach speed…

But Eren, too fed up and emotionally wound to care, pretended not to hear any of it and continued speaking to the stars.

“Indeed… today, Sir Lucas went to visit the Count’s estate, and he—he climbed the stairs to adulthood… in the most wildly unexpected direction!!”

Lucas had seemed distant in the carriage ride back, like his mind was elsewhere no matter how much she talked to him—and on top of that, he now carried a scent of musk that definitely hadn’t been there before he left.

That’s when it clicked.

It was the same fragrance worn by that agelessly handsome steward of the Count’s household.

In other words, there had been a moment—close enough for the scent to cling to him—where something had happened between them while Eren’s attention had been diverted. She hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, but from what she’d heard from the worldly-wise Emilia or gleaned from those thin books she’d borrowed… She had a pretty good idea.

Eren, caught between mistrust and the unwillingness to believe Lucas, of all people, could ever do such a thing. She had been watching him in the carriage, sitting across from her.

Luke was in a daze—yes, that was what they called “the Sage’s Time,” wasn’t it? She understood—and Eren, caught in a swirl of suspicion, made for a very tense atmosphere inside the carriage.

Even as her mind swayed between belief and doubt, Eren reminded herself that they were both in love with the same princess (Jill). Rivals, in a way. Could she really believe that this person—her rival—had just fallen, no, been taken, just like that?

But still… could someone so earnestly devoted to Jill really have switched to men, of all things?

No… but then again, people do say that the more serious someone is, the harder they fall once their restraints break. And besides… what if he was told…

‘Fufufufu, my lord, it’s infidelity if it’s with a woman, but if it’s with the same sex, it’s merely the extension of friendship,’

And then, our clueless—no, naïve—Sir Lucas, convinced with a line like that, might have just gone, ‘I-, is that how it is?’ and accepted it wholesale, surrendered to pleasure, and totally lost sight of Jill, ending up lost in some decadent love affair—!?

“—Is that what happened to you, Sir Lucas!?!”
“Whoa! You startled me! Wh-what’s the matter, Eren? Why the sudden yelling!?”

Startled by her outburst, Luke practically jumped off his seat in the carriage.

“…Forgive me. I must be a little tired. But Sir Lucas, you’ve also been awfully quiet for a while now—are you feeling unwell?”
“………”

At once, Luke averted his gaze in flustered panic. The way he did it practically screamed I’m hiding something incriminating, and Eren’s suspicion deepened even further.

“N-no, it’s… it’s nothing. I’m sorry.”

He wanted to talk but couldn’t. His demeanor practically broadcast I’ve been told to keep my mouth shut, and though Eren felt an itch of unbearable frustration at not being able to press him further, her position kept her from prying. Still, she stared at Luke, studying him as though weighing his worth.

Uncomfortable under her gaze, Luke turned his eyes away again and murmured under his breath:

“…I never imagined the butler would have a body like that… dark and hard… and then told me to keep it a secret…”

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That’s when—

“Ahem. I know it may be presumptuous of me to say, but wouldn’t it be rude to keep carrying on this comedy routine?”

Among our group who had been silently observing the situation, the only man (well, aside from Sechs, who is male too) Emil, originally the attendant of Sir Simon, gently whispered a word of caution.

I hurriedly straightened my posture.

“It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Clara, the appointed Shrine Maiden, visiting on behalf of the St. Ravier Church. Thank you for taking the time to receive us on such short notice today.”

“No, no, if possible, I would’ve preferred to welcome you not in such a crude place, but rather in my modest main residence within the inner walls, the central district. However, you see, we have an auction for ‘goods’ scheduled here in just a few days, and given my position, I cannot afford to be away from this location.”

Mr. Cervantes hunched his shoulders apologetically—his triple chin becoming a quadruple one—and narrowed his already small eyes further beneath the layers of flesh. With such a genuinely regretful demeanor, he could have passed for a harmless and even likable man, if only one didn’t know he was a slave trader.

At that moment, the young man Dan, who had guided us this far, stepped behind Mr. Cervantes, keeping a respectful distance, and assumed a posture of attention behind his back with practiced ease.

It seems he also serves as a bodyguard.

“Not at all. We are the ones imposing upon your busy schedule with such a sudden request, so it’s only natural that we come to you. Please don’t trouble yourself over it.”

“I’m very grateful to hear that. As a devout believer living in the Holy Capital myself, I’ve made a modest offering each year, no less than fifty thousand gold coins, if I may add.”

When Mr. Cervantes proudly puffed out his chest and spoke of “fifty thousand gold coins,” the members of Twinfang of the Snowy Peaks standing behind me all simultaneously gasped, widened their eyes, and let out low whistles of astonishment.

Fifty thousand gold coins in this country is equivalent to around 1.2 to 1.3 billion yen. In this city, where there’s a toxic belief that the more you donate, the more virtuous and noble you are, it made sense—though certainly not justifiable—that someone like him, a blatant slave trader, could openly run a storefront even in the lower city and receive full approval from the church.

“Rather than such superficial merits, being of service to the Shrine Maiden like this is a joy beyond measure for any faithful follower of the Saintess Church. …Of course, in gratitude for this splendid encounter, I do intend to make future donations, however modest, to the St. Ravier Church as well.”

He called it “modest,” but this was a man who casually donates fifty thousand gold coins a year. If we received just a thousand of those, I might finally be freed from my daily fare of salty vegetable soup and rye bread… No! I mustn’t! That money comes from a man who buys and sells human lives!

Even if the money itself bears no sin, my conscience and sense of ethics simply won’t allow me to accept such funds. I must absolutely refuse!

…Still, for someone like me who’s supposed to be used to frugal meals, what does it say about the food situation at the St. Ravier Church that I’m already starting to crack? The High Priestess, Lady Teressa, practices strict vegetarianism and holds to austere living, and because I technically rank just beneath her, I’ve been following suit, but surely there must be some room for compromise?

Thinking such thoughts, I put on my most polished professional smile and immediately declined Mr. Cervantes’ offer.

“I appreciate the kind gesture, but we follow a doctrine of sacred poverty. We believe that material indulgence is a shackle that binds the freedom of the soul. So truly, your sentiment alone is more than enough.”

“Hmm… I see. Indeed, an overt exchange of money might stir envy from other churches and lead to unwanted scrutiny over nothing.”

Mr. Cervantes responded with an air of understanding, while completely misunderstanding the point.

“In that case, it simply needs to not be in the form of money. —Dan!”
“Sir!”

The moment Mr. Cervantes called out to him, the young man Dan responded immediately, spinning on his heel.

“Ah yes, I hadn’t introduced him yet. This fellow is my right-hand man, Dan. He’s got strength to match his brains; cool-headed and highly competent. Among our circle, he’s affectionately known as Steel Ba… ahem, Steel Guts.”

((((Steel… balls.))))

Reacting to the crude joke, all six of us—myself and the five members of Twinfang of the Snowy Peaks—involuntarily cast lukewarm glances at the man in question, the young Dan. Our attention was, rather pointedly, drawn to his lower half…

“……”

And yet, true to his nickname of Steel Something, he showed not even the slightest twitch of embarrassment, despite being under the curious scrutiny of six young women. It seems his title of “Steel Ball” was no empty boast.

“Bring out the star item. And don’t forget the special Stigma collar.”

With a bow, Dan acknowledged the command and passed by us, leaving the room once more.

“Now then, no need for us to keep standing around. Please, this way.”

Urged on, we took our seats on the sofas arranged in the center of the room.

That seemed to be the cue for the line of slave boys to begin moving, each carrying trays of tea, sweets, and fruit to place before us.

For the moment, it was probably up to me as the representative to taste something first—otherwise, the others wouldn’t feel comfortable eating or drinking.

Just as I reached toward a cup, Dan returned surprisingly quickly.

Following behind him was a boy, about half a head shorter than Dan. He looked to be around fourteen or fifteen, with deep violet hair so dark it could be mistaken for black, and amber-colored eyes. His delicate features stood out, even among the other slave boys in the room, he was remarkably beautiful.

He was clearly a slave as well. Though the design was different and more ornate, the collar around his neck marked him as such. Other than that, he wore nothing but a simple waist cloth…barely clothed, just like the others.

—No, there was one more thing that stood out: embedded right in the center of his chest was a jet-black gemstone, about the size of an adult’s thumb. It glinted with a dark sheen, and I felt like I’d seen it somewhere before…

Before I could quite place where, Kaisa frowned and muttered in a growling tone, her voice heavy with surprise.

“A magic stone embedded since birth… so he’s a demonkin?!”

“Well spotted. You’re quite knowledgeable. —Indeed, this is the real thing: a legendary demonkin said to live on the far opposite side of the continent. Even I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen one alive. He’ll be the highlight of the upcoming auction, starting at a thousand gold coins.”

Cervantes, now seated on the opposite sofa across the table, wore the smug expression of a merchant proudly showing off his prized goods, his jowls quivering with satisfaction.

“What do you think, Shrine Maiden Princess? If you’d like, I’ll present him to you. Come now, a token of goodwill between us—cheap at the price, and since it’s not money, there’s no problem, yes?”

Too many problems!! I can’t even keep up with how many things I need to object to!!

Despite being the center of conversation, the demonkin boy simply stood there, motionless like a doll.

And standing beside him, the young Dan once again fixed his eyes on me with that same dark, unreadable gaze—something shadowed, something held back—but in that moment, I was far too overwhelmed to notice.