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The Adventurers’ Guild Headquarters had been given an elegant makeover with white decorative tiles, designed to blend harmoniously with its surroundings. However, no matter how much it dressed up, at its core, it remained the stronghold of an armed organization.

Beneath the pretty surface, the guild lived up to the saying, a Buddha’s face on the outside, a demon’s heart within. Its walls, reinforced with alchemically enhanced concrete, didn’t quite make it an impregnable fortress, but they could easily repel casual bombardments, magic attacks, or even hordes of B-rank monsters. Inside the walls, steel beams and iron plates further strengthened the structure, while dual-layered magical defense formations were inscribed on both the interior and exterior. Additionally, the red patterns adorning the decorative tiles—at first glance mere embellishments—were in fact a beast-repelling mixture infused with the blood of A-rank monsters.

Its construction was so sturdy that it resembled a frontline fortress or a tactical-grade bomb shelter—an excessive level of fortification for a nation’s capital. Officially, the guild was designed to act as a bulwark for Thera Maryth, a theocratic state whose central government possessed little more than token outer walls. In times of crisis, the guild was expected to serve as a defensive barrier—hence its location, deliberately distanced from the city center.

Of course, more practical reasons likely played a role as well: cheaper land prices and easier access for adventurers.

The VIP room on the third floor of this fortress-like building was secured with exceptional care. Shielded by thick walls, it lacked windows to prevent external surveillance, long-range attacks, or direct assaults.

That said, efforts had been made to keep its occupants from feeling too confined.

“♪～～♪～～♪♪”

Inside, a collection of vibrantly colored cages housed the exotic Organ Bird from the southern lands, their melodious songs filling the room. An ancient artifact, resembling a cluster of multifaceted crystals, emitted a soft rainbow-colored glow—both sights and sounds carefully arranged to soothe and entertain visitors.

Shifting one’s gaze upward, the high ceiling—designed to make one forget they were indoors—was illuminated by the brilliant glow of enchanted light fixtures. Thanks to the effects of some magical device, the air remained perpetually fresh and at a comfortable temperature, gently enveloping the body.

The spacious room was adorned with a green carpet, potted ornamental plants, and an array of ancient artworks and crafts befitting the Adventurers’ Guild. It was, in every sense, a place of utmost refinement and hospitality.

For the average person, such an elegant space might feel intimidating. However, for those of sufficient social standing to be admitted here, it should have been a comfortable and welcoming environment. Normally, that is.

At present, however, the atmosphere in the room was anything but. The air was thick with tension, sharp and oppressive—like the setting of one of those notorious high-pressure job interviews one heard rumors about.

The primary source of this stifling atmosphere, responsible for nearly ninety percent of it, was a girl in a dress who was currently seething with rage.

“If that chef is out of commission, then bring another one! Or come up with an alternative cooking method! Is this guild truly so inflexible that it cannot even manage that much?!”

“W-Well, you see, the only people capable of making that dish are the one who invented it—Saintess Snow—or Sage Holiday, the proprietor of The Dwarven Apple Pavilion…”

Opposite the fuming Lady Simonetta, the deputy guildmaster maintained a thoroughly deferential stance, doing his utmost to placate her.

From time to time, he cast glances around the room, asking for aid. Unless he was actually attempting to flirt—an act that, in this situation, would be so absurd it might warrant a twisted kind of admiration—he was likely sending out desperate SOS signals.

And yet, either oblivious or simply unwilling to mediate, Eliza remained entirely detached from the affair, serenely sipping her tea as if none of it concerned her.

“Um—”
“Stay out of this, outsider!”

The very moment I mustered the courage to speak up, I was met with a glare brimming with hostility—much like a cat about to be dragged into a bath. It was painfully obvious that any unnecessary interjection on my part would only add fuel to the fire.

With that in mind, all I could do was press my hands together in silent apology from across the table.

The deputy guildmaster, on the other hand, looked up toward the heavens with an expression less like a forlorn puppy and more like a wild boar moments before slaughter. But somehow, he managed to cling to reality and weakly attempted a rebuttal.

“W-Well, of course, we’ve already approached other chefs about this. However, it seems that the secret lies in how the meat is salted during the initial preparation stage. If you simply sprinkle salt on it, it just dissolves…”
“Salt doesn’t work? Then just use sugar instead.”

At once, Lady Simonetta fired back with an astonishingly… no, uniquely innovative rebuttal, as quick as lightning.

“ “ “No, no, no, no!” ” ”

As if in perfect harmony, the deputy guildmaster, Sir Simon, and I all simultaneously voiced our protests.

That’s basically the same saying as “If there is no bread, let them eat cake” in all the worst ways. If left unchecked, she might very well squander the people’s taxes like water and end up at the guillotine someday.

…Is the Aulanthia Frontier County truly going to be alright?

Actually… This is a wild thought, but could she have been the one who killed Syltianna (me)? If that’s the case, then wouldn’t this just be settling an old score in a distant land—wouldn’t it be perfectly reasonable to take her down right here and now? Maybe I could just say it’s an act of self-defense or even vengeance (for myself), surely that argument would hold up?

“It’s common knowledge at this point, but whether you sprinkle salt or sugar, slugs will dissolve all the same, so it’s meaningless.”

I added this little tidbit as a random fact. Well, I can’t say for sure whether the slugs in this world’s particular region behave the same way, but if they dissolve in salt, they’d likely dissolve in sugar too. (Technically, it just dehydrates them, but still.)

“Oh my, as expected of you, Clara. You certainly have a wealth of… earthly knowledge. Let me guess—when you were a child, you must have torn the legs off helpless insects, crushed pill bugs with stones, or maybe even stuck firecrackers up a frog’s—”

Before I could finish speaking, Eliza—who had been pretending not to care—suddenly cut in with an exaggerated shudder, painting a disturbingly vivid picture of the kind of cruel games mischievous boys might play.

Excuse me!? I would never do such things! My childhood was perfectly normal—I read picture books, played fruit basket, and—wait. Was that from my past life or this one? And why does Eliza sound so oddly familiar with these things? Could she be speaking from experience? Or is this just standard behavior for young girls in this world?

Either way, our little digression (if you could call it that) seemed to have irritated Lady Simonetta, who scowled in displeasure. But on the other hand, it bought the Deputy Guildmaster a brief reprieve, allowing him to regain at least a sliver of his composure.

“Even if we accept the request, and we will certainly do our best, I must ask for your understanding, Lady Simonetta—we cannot guarantee results that will meet your expectations.”
“Hmph. You can’t even secure a single competent chef? And this is supposed to be the Holy Capital? In contrast, our duchy boasts only the finest culinary masters, carrying the legacy of the thousand-year-old Graviol Empire. A challenge like this would be dealt with in an instant.”

Then why not just ask one of your top-class chefs to do it?

Everyone in the room thought it, but of course, Lady Simonetta remained completely oblivious to the unspoken retorts. Instead, as if struck by a brilliant idea, she clapped her hands together with a loud pop and piled on yet another absurd demand.

“Oh, I know! If that so-called Sage Holiday is useless, then why not summon the dish’s creator—this ‘Saintess Snow’ person—and have her provide guidance? The guild can issue a request, or even put an ad in the paper if necessary. Like I said before, I don’t care about the cost or conditions—just get it done.”
“ “You’re being completely unreasonable!!!” ”

Translator’s note:

The proverb author uses here is 江戸の敵を長崎で討つ which translates to “Taking Revenge for an Edo enemy in Nagasaki,” with the meaning of “settling a grudge on someone in a different contest.” An easy example:

Steve defeats Andy in baseball
Andy takes revenge by defeating him in soccer

Another meaning of the idiom is “to hit someone where they least expect it” and “to take revenge in an unlikely place.” An easy example:

Steve picks on Andy
Andy takes revenge by marrying Steve’s mother

There’s no clear origin for the phrase, but Umegaki Minoru (楳垣実) theorizes that it came from an incident during Bunsei Era (1818-1830) about craftsmen from Osaka showing off their basket weaving skills in Edo, belittling the local craftsmen. In response, craftsmen from Nagasaki avenged their Edo brethren by showing off their own basket weaving skills.

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“Surely not, but you haven’t already secured that particular cook to cater for Prince Corald, have you?”

If anyone could pull such a stunt, it would be this woman. Playing coy and wrapping men around her finger must be second nature to her.

The boy behind her exchanged a subtle glance with the young nobleman, their expressions somewhere between unease and curiosity.

“Th-that’s not true at all! I only learned today that Prince Corald even liked giant slugs!” Clara stammered, waving her hands in a frantic denial.

Eliza, however, continued to glare at her with half-lidded eyes of suspicion, while Simonetta, her face averted, sneered under her breath, “What an insufferable woman…”

Observing the girls’ exchange with a dimpled smirk was Sir Simon.

Caught under the room’s collective gaze—ranging from suspicion to hostility, pity, mockery, and curiosity—Clara pretended to whistle, though she couldn’t, and deliberately looked away, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. No matter how absurd her actions, her status as a peerless beauty seemed almost supernatural, shielding her from any real criticism.

Eliza’s gaze shifted from Clara’s profile to Simonetta, who exuded prickly animosity in every direction. Something about the sight brought back a memory of poor man’s gold.

When placed beside pure gold, the color difference was obvious—poor man’s gold had a stronger yellow tint, while real gold was more orange. But when it came to gold coins, the distinction wasn’t as clear at first glance. After all, only the Superempire minted coins with pure gold; most others used alloys as standard practice.

Now then, among the three girls of the same age in this room, is there anyone who could truly be called pure gold? Or are they merely an alloy, deluding themselves into believing they are genuine, or perhaps nothing more than poor man’s gold?

Uncharacteristically sentimental, such thoughts flitted through Eliza’s mind.

♦♢♦♢

Savoring the lingering taste of the fruit wine from dinner, the Frontier Count, Corrad Simon Aulanthia, seated at the host’s position across the table, watched Luke’s expression as he sipped from the same kind of glass with a noticeably better mood than before.

“How did you find it, Prince Lucas? The main dish earlier? I don’t usually have any particular preferences when it comes to food or drink, but that one is special to me. Let’s call it… a dish that brings back the memories of my youth.”
“It was marvelous. I’ve been in Cilento for over a year now, but this was my first time encountering such a rare and extraordinary dish.”

There’s nothing more annoying than an old man who, once tipsy, starts reminiscing about the past. However, the man across from him wasn’t just any old man—he was the former king and now a key figure in the Imperial Kingdom. For Luke, an imperial royal family member who had yet to acquire a title, maintaining a polite smile and responding diplomatically was his only choice.

That said, even Luke, accustomed to savoring gourmet delicacies daily at Letindüte, couldn’t deny that the dish had been remarkable. What on earth could it have been? It was certainly meat, but beyond that…?

“When I was younger, it was a hidden delicacy you could only find in the capital of the Holy Eunice Theocracy. To be honest, I’d sneak away incognito to a small eatery in the downtown area to have it. And now, to think you can taste it here in Cilento… Truly, we live in good times.”

The Count chuckled heartily at his own recollection.

Though not intoxicated, Luke found his mind wandering, absently noting, So the Count gets dimples when he laughs.

“Ah… I’m exhausted.”

Luke slouched in a shallow seat in one of the unoccupied guest rooms, leaning forward and letting his shoulders drop.

It wasn’t as though the conversation had been particularly difficult. Quite the opposite, in fact. Perhaps out of consideration, the Count had deliberately avoided topics like politics or Luke’s family—matters that were undoubtedly under the scrutiny of not just the Livitium Imperial Kingdom, but the entire continent. Instead, the discussion had been relaxed, filled with lighthearted anecdotes about his youth, amusing stories from Luke’s academy days, and casual banter.

And yet, something about those eyes… Being under that gaze made him feel strangely unsettled, as if his every intention were laid bare and he were being skillfully manipulated within the palm of someone’s hand.

“‘Once Syltianna is ready, why don’t we have some tea together? No need to be so formal—just think of it as your own home and relax,’ huh? That’s unreasonable… Wait, did he mean something by ‘home’?”
“Not at all. There’s no hidden meaning there.”

Without a sound, the door behind him opened, and someone entered the guest room, causing Luke’s complexion to change.

“M-, Mr. Emil!?”

It was the man who had first been introduced as the butler.

Having served the Count for over thirty years, he had to be well past forty. Yet with his smooth teal-blue hair and flawless, youthful skin, he appeared as though he were still in his twenties. His calm and composed demeanor, however, made him seem perfectly suited to his actual age—a peculiar figure indeed.

With fluid, practiced movements, Emil approached Luke and placed a glass cup on the table beside him, drawn from the silver tray he carried. He then poured cool water from a pure silver pitcher.

“Please, help yourself.”

Luke instinctively picked up the glass as Emil suggested, taking a sip.

Unbeknownst to him, his throat had dried out from tension. The cool water, with a faint hint of lemon, spread through his body, soothing him.

He downed two more glasses in quick succession before finally feeling at ease, a relieved sigh escaped his lips.

“Thank you. That was refreshing.”
“No need to thank me. This is merely my duty.”
“Right… so, um…”

Luke faltered, recalling his earlier slip of the tongue. As he hesitated to choose his words, Emil watched him with an almost approving gaze, briefly glancing at the doorway.

“I’ve arranged it so no one will disturb us for a while. Please consider what I’m about to say as the idle musings of an old man, and feel free to disregard them. …It’s best not to concern yourself with subtle manipulations when you’re young. Clever individuals may seem to gain the upper hand initially, but over time, they are often dismissed as shallow.”
“Do I seem like I’m trying too hard to you?”
“Let’s see… Today, it seems you’ve been in a bit of a hurry.”
“In a hurry… huh. I suppose it’s obvious to anyone perceptive enough.”

Ever since Jill’s departure, Luke had repeatedly defied calls from the Graviol Empire to return home, choosing instead to remain in the Livitium Imperial Kingdom. Even though he tried to maintain a composed demeanor, it was a thin facade that Emil had seen through with ease upon their first meeting.

Luke gave a wry smile, tinged with both self-awareness and self-reproach.

“When your heart feels restless, I highly recommend falling in love. Tell me, Master Lucas, do you not have a woman you fancy?”

—Pfft!!

Luke nearly spit out the lemon water he’d just taken to soothe himself.

Jill’s face flashed unbidden in his mind, but he quickly shook it away, trying to calm his racing heart. Slowly, he swallowed the water to regain composure.

“W-What!? Why would you even say something like that!?”

“Love is the panacea for any ailment of the heart.”

Perhaps this was what they meant by “age brings experience.” Emil dismissed Luke’s visible fluster with the grace of a willow swaying in the wind.

“Ah, love is truly a wondrous thing.”

Emil mused melodiously, placing the tray and water pitcher on the table. He then stepped in front of Luke, as if to emphasize his point.

“E-, Emil…?”
“A love that burns like fire, a passion overflowing with vigor—truly remarkable.”

As he spoke, Emil gazed down at Luke with misty eyes and began loosening his bow tie.

“Wait, huh? Um, what are you—?”

With an air of calm determination, Emil shed his tailcoat and reached for the buttons of his crisp white shirt.

“Rest assured. No one will interrupt us for a while.”
“Wait! Hold on! I-, I don’t swing that way!”

Luke’s panicked cries echoed through the soundproofed guest room of the Margrave’s estate.

“HELP MEEEE~~~ JIIILLLLLLLLL!!!”

“Hm?”
“What is it, Jill?”
“Just now, I thought I heard a boy screaming like silk being torn.”
“……… Probably your imagination.”
“Hmm… Was it, though?”

Note: There will be no BL tag added in the future, so please rest assured.

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There is something known as “The Poor Man’s Gold.” At first glance, it appears to be gold, but it is not a natural mineral. Rather, it is said to be a product of alchemy: an alloy of copper and zinc. Its golden sheen has earned it this name. Perhaps it would be more commonly recognized as brass.

While it is often used as a substitute for gold in decorative candlesticks or church ornaments, its most infamous—one might even say notorious—application is as a material for counterfeit coins.

Of course, anyone accustomed to handling real gold could spot the difference at a glance. However, the vast majority of people go their entire lives without ever seeing a gold coin. Even if they do, it is usually a tarnished, worn piece passed from hand to hand. Unless a freshly minted genuine coin and a counterfeit are placed side by side, it is almost impossible for most people to tell them apart. And so, many fall victim to these cunning deceptions, left with nothing but tears of regret.

While more nobles and major merchants have begun conducting credit transactions through banks rather than using cash, such practices remain the privilege of a select few. For the average person, tangible cash piled before their eyes is far more convincing and reassuring than invisible credit. This is human nature and the way of the world.

As she elegantly sipped her tea, Eliza watched the farcical scene before her with front-row seats, finding it nothing short of theatrical.

“Fetch me a chef capable of preparing Eunice Giant Slug cuisine immediately— urgently! Spare no expense. If necessary, I’ll even employ them in my household!”

Simultaneously, the butler standing behind Simonetta stepped forward, placing a leather pouch filled with gold coins on the table. With a graceful gesture, he untied the string binding the pouch.

The dazzling brilliance of the gold reflected the magical lamps illuminating the room, casting a glow that lit up the faces of everyone present from below.

The first to audibly gulp was the scruffy-looking boy who, after initially introducing himself as Clara’s bodyguard, had been stationed behind her with an air of extreme lethargy, as if silently questioning, “Why am I even here?”

For some reason, today of all days, Clara’s usual attendant —a maid with orange hair who gave the impression that her brain might as well be stuffed with sawdust or garden eels, that cheeky little brat— had been replaced by this so-called adventurer. What could be the reasoning behind this peculiar choice? As she sipped delicately from her white porcelain teacup filled with tea, Eliza cast a fleeting glance toward Clara, pondering the possibilities.

At that moment, Eliza noticed Clara’s soft pink lips moving subtly, obscured behind her teacup.

“…It’s not very admirable, is it? Throwing money in someone’s face like that.”

Somehow, Eliza instinctively understood the murmured words. Unsettled by the sentiment, she shifted slightly in her seat, adjusting her posture.

Not that Eliza was suddenly struck by a noble epiphany, “like one man’s fault is another man’s lesson.” No, far from it. What surprised her was that this woman, who usually played the part of an airy, soft-spoken creature (or so Eliza thought), had allowed a rare flicker of disgust to surface.

—It seems all three of us consider one another enemies.

Envisioning the triangular standoff forming among the parties, Eliza allowed a sly smile to curl her lips.

Oblivious to the reactions of those around her, Simonetta doubled down, adding two more piles of gold coins onto the table. “This isn’t all. My family does not hesitate to spare its wealth.”

With a dramatic flourish, she dumped a collection of gemstones onto the table, each one large enough to sit snugly on a fingertip, their dazzling array of colors catching the light.

Even in the face of treasures so vast that even a first-class citizen of this holy city could live a life of leisure for eternity, those who remained composed were the lady herself, Simonetta; the deputy guildmaster, who had built up a certain tolerance for such sights through his line of work; the nobleman-looking young observer; and Clara, who also seemed unperturbed.

—She’s not pretending. If this is an act, she’s a masterful schemer…

Clara, showing no interest in the pile of riches, instead appeared to be lost in thought, idly picking up a macaron from the tea tray.

“If only the dough were softer, with jam or cream sandwiched in the middle… What’s missing is probably a better meringue…”

Muttering nonsensical words to herself, Clara caused Eliza to tilt her head in puzzlement.

At the very least, though, it was clear that Clara showed no reaction to the gold coins and jewels, no matter how impressive they were.

Despite her obscure origins—rumors abounded, ranging from her being the illegitimate child of some noble, to the daughter of a renowned priestess born out of wedlock, to someone who one day quite literally “fell from the sky”—it was undeniable that Clara showed no interest in the wealth piled before her. This led Eliza to entertain the notion that Clara might, in fact, come from a certain degree of noble lineage after all.

The thought lodged itself firmly in Eliza’s mind as she continued to observe.

—Well, at the very least, it’s certain she’s either affiliated with the Church or of their bloodline.

Eliza, watching Clara’s long, flowing hair sway gently with her movements, also picked up a macaron and placed it in her mouth.

The unique, translucent quality of Clara’s blonde hair, faintly tinged with color, was a mark of distinction. Even within the Church, it was a rare trait seen only among a select lineage, let alone in foreign lands. Chewing on the macaron—richly flavored with sugar—Eliza let her gaze drift to her own violet-tinged blonde hair.

The Dolly Kadmon—a bloodline meticulously cultivated over centuries by the Church through breeding, spiritual rituals, and the pinnacle of alchemical techniques. These individuals, considered as the thoroughbred among thoroughbreds, possessed magical power and beauty far surpassing that of ordinary nobles or sorcerers.

For Clara, whose origins were unknown, to be acknowledged by the Church and embraced so wholeheartedly by the people was largely due to her hair, as much as her abilities. Surely, it couldn’t simply be her appearance or the fact that her… ample chest drew overwhelming support. Surely not.

—That’s exactly why the upper echelons of the Church are so intent on keeping her close and unraveling the mystery of her existence.

Eliza continued to turn these thoughts over in her mind.

—For her to be born out of natural mutation is out of the question. Could the bloodline and research have leaked from somewhere? Or perhaps… that alchemist who vanished into thin air fifty years ago, after establishing the foundational theories, might be involved.

According to the records left behind, that alchemist’s primary area of research was none other than immortality.

—If I could just locate their whereabouts, perhaps I might even achieve my ambition.

As she mentally calculated possibilities, Eliza signaled for another cup of tea.

Putting aside such outside speculations, Simonetta continued to berate the assistant guildmaster, using the mountain of reward money piled on the table as her leverage.

“What problem could you possibly have with this? This guild does everything for a price, doesn’t it? Then just do work that matches the payment offered!”
“Well, uh, that’s… You see… That particular dish was originally a type of emergency ration for dwarves. It was only after much trial and error by Sage Holiday and Saintess Snow that it became something fit to serve at a dining table. Aside from the Saintess herself, as far as we know, the only person who can recreate the dish is the proprietor of Dwarven Apple Pavilion… that is, Sage Holiday himself.”

“ “Wha—!? That old man is actually Sage Holiday!?” ”

Both Jill and Eliza raised their voices in unison, startled by the assistant guildmaster’s sweaty explanation as he tried to placate Simonetta’s impossible demands.

“…And how, pray tell, do you know the proprietor of the pavilion, Clara?”

Eliza’s voice sharpened as she directed her mistrustful gaze toward Clara, who had frozen with a guilty expression on her face.

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At some point, the topic of Barbara, like her carriage, had completely passed by, replaced by reverence and praise for Clara.

Finally able to enjoy his breakfast, Colin nodded to himself as he pulled a small notebook from his pocket with one hand and began jotting down notes.

“‘Shrine Maiden Barbara visits the slums during the morning mist—what could her true intentions be!? A covert maneuver tied to the selection of the next Shrine Maiden Princess? Or perhaps a connection to the infamous thief, the Red Ram, who stirs unrest in the Holy City?’… Oh, and fried chicken and coffee were Lady Clara’s ideas.”

“What’re you doing over there?“ The middle-aged man, munching on a simple sandwich stuffed with fried chicken, furrowed his brow as he addressed Colin, who had been ahead of him in line.

“I’m taking notes on the story I just heard. I’m a journalist, after all.”
“A journalist, you?”

The man gave Colin a skeptical once-over, his eyes lingering on the boy’s threadbare secondhand clothes. Colin looked no older than sixteen, with messy, dusty red hair, a thin, wiry frame, and a smattering of freckles around his nose. He looked like any other impoverished youth—a street orphan grown older, a pauper, or at best, a harmless jester.

“And what paper do you work for?”

Over the past two or three decades, newspapers had been springing up like mushrooms after the rain across the continent. While national papers were yet unheard of, local publications dominated the scene. The man had asked whilst thinking of a few names from among this growing number.

“Daily Septentrio!”

Colin answered proudly, his chest puffed out with confidence.

However, upon hearing his reply, not only the middle-aged man but everyone within earshot collectively pulled a face as if they had just downed a bitter cup of coffee.

Daily Septentrio was infamous as a gossip rag in the worst sense. Stories from its pages were notoriously twisted to absurd degrees: a report of the Pope patting a child on the head during a visit would somehow morph into a tale of him stringing up a mischievous child by their ankles and whipping them. The innocent news of a princess adopting a cat might transform into a wild accusation of her skinning the animal to craft a shamisen.

That the paper hadn’t yet been shut down despite its antics was a mystery. According to rumors, it owed its survival to a small but fervent group of eccentric enthusiasts. If Daily Septentrio itself were to be believed, these enthusiasts included figures like “His Imperial Majesty the God-Emperor!” and “Saintess Snow Herself!”—boasts so outrageous they were hardly worth taking seriously.

In any case, it was clear that by tomorrow morning, today’s commotion would grow not just fins and tails but wings and legs, likely splashed across a sensationalized article.

“…Don’t go turning this into something ridiculous.”

The middle-aged man couldn’t shake the feeling that his careless words might become the foundation of a fabricated story published as “reliable insider information.” With this in mind, he made sure to issue a firm warning.

Like any ordinary believer living in the Holy City, he had no desire to get entangled in any report that might mock or discredit the Church.

“Don’t worry. My journalist’s intuition is screaming at me—there’s an exclusive scoop here. I’ll conduct proper interviews and make sure it lands as a front-page headline!”

With fiery enthusiasm, Colin handed his empty cup back to the shopkeeper and tossed the paper wrapper from his finished fries onto the street without a second thought. Unlike reporters from prestigious newspapers, those working for niche publications like the Daily Septentrio were all hands on deck when a story broke. Even a rookie like Colin had a shot at writing a front-page article.

Incidentally, the discarded cone-shaped wrapper happened to be a sheet from none other than the Daily Septentrio, the topic of the current conversation.

“Phantom Thief ‘The Red Ram’ Roams the Holy City! Unveiling the Truth Behind the Mask!”
“Suspect: Male or Female, Aged Teens to Thirties, or Forties to Fifties, or Older”
“Shadow, Crime Kingpin, Declares: ‘I Raised Them Myself!!’”

The sensational headlines splashed across the page left everyone in the vicinity with an indescribable sense of helplessness.

“Now then, I’m off to chase down the Etoile! Sorry to trouble you, but could you let the editorial office on Fifth Street know that I’m late for work because I’m chasing a big scoop? All under the guidance of the Saintess, of course!”
“Wha—!?”

Before anyone could respond, Colin dashed off in pursuit of the carriage that had already disappeared down the street.

“Ugh, damn it… Who cares!”

The middle-aged man grumbled irritably, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. Yet, the last invocation of the Saintess’ guidance seemed to seal the deal. With a resigned sigh, he begrudgingly started toward Fifth Street.

“Why am I even doing this? And there’s no way he’s catching up to that carriage now. He’s probably just using this as an excuse for being late…”

His complaints were, in fact, spot on. But by some twist of fate, the Etoile, unfamiliar with the backstreets of the lower district, had lost its way. Spotting the carriage turned out to be surprisingly easy. As a result, Colin managed to leisurely tail it.

He witnessed Shrine Maiden Barbara entering the renowned Dwarven Apple Pavilion—only to be brusquely turned away shortly after. Adding to the drama, Shrine Maiden Clara was then seen leaving the establishment and heading toward the Adventurers’ Guild.

The next day, the Daily Septentrio featured sensational headlines across its front page:

“Do Shrine Maidens Love Giant Slugs!?”
“The Untold Tastes of Shrine Maiden Clara—Savoring the Secret Delicacy, Groß Nacktschnecke!”
“Shrine Maiden Barbara Scolded a Chef and Got the Boot!”

Needless to say, Jill and Eliza, upon reading the paper the following morning, were both absolutely livid.

Author’s Note:

As part of the backstory, the owner of this newspaper company is a mysterious black-haired merchant.

Running the media is merely a hobby for them.

They are also behind a mysterious project called “The Ultimate Menu,” where they declare, “This [dish] is a failure. There’s a far superior [dish],” and pursue such endeavors. However, that storyline is planned to be updated in a separate work.

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The holy city of Thera Maryth, encircled by rugged mountain ranges, is a place often blanketed by rain and mist.

During that in-between time when greetings like “Good morning” and “Good afternoon” overlap, the streets still bore traces of rain from the previous night and early morning. The gravel-paved roads were a muddy mess, hard to walk on, with endless brown puddles filling the ruts left by wheels.

As the sun climbed higher, the veil-like mist began to dissipate. Gradually, people started appearing on the streets. Vendors and beggars lined the roadsides, while wagons and stagecoaches (though they were all casually referred to as “carriages“)—many pulled by beasts other than horses—moved to and fro.

Colin Thomson, his breath visible in the chilly air, was jogging toward his workplace when a tantalizing aroma made him pause.

Looking around, he spotted a street stall that had just finished setting up. A line of five or six people was already forming, seeking breakfast.

For about three copper coins, he could get a steaming cup of fragrant tea or “coffee” (not the genuine southern import, but a brew made from roasted dandelion roots), and for additional three copper coins, he’d get either buttered bread or a piping-hot serving of fried “chicken” (which, in truth, was the meat of an old emu retired from service)

Swallowing involuntarily, Colin reached into the pocket of his well-worn jacket and checked the contents of his wallet. Drawn by the smell, he found himself joining the line.

At this point, he was certain to be late anyway. In that case, he figured it was better to fill his stomach first and deal with the editor’s scolding later.

Imagining the taste of piping-hot fried chicken, Colin resolved himself with a hint of defiance.

As he waited for his turn in line, feeling idle, he adjusted the position of his flat cap and absently watched the flow of people passing by.

This part of the city, where miners, rough-and-tumble lower-class adventurers, and immigrants from other nations gathered, was rife with poverty and lawlessness, even within the bounds of the holy city.

The backstreets near the lower reaches of the Eusus River, the sole water source of Thera Maryth, were overwhelmed with odors. These ranged from the market’s discarded garbage and the stench of rotting fish from the wharf, to untreated sewage and wastewater flowing downstream from the upper city—the cathedral and the noble district at its center. Added to this were the smells of horse dung, urine, and the contents of chamber pots hurled from household windows, mixed with the acrid aroma of cheap liquor. Any pilgrim or tourist who unwittingly ventured into this area would find their senses thoroughly assaulted.

At this early hour, right after the rain, the stench was still tolerable. But once the sun rose fully and the temperature climbed, the situation would become unbearable. The best course of action was to finish breakfast quickly and leave.

With that in mind, Colin anxiously awaited his turn, growing restless, when his ears caught faint sounds of commotion in the distance—an uneasy ripple in the air accompanied by the whinnying of horses.

“What’s happening?” he murmured.

As a journalist, Colin’s curiosity was piqued, and he fixed his gaze in the direction of the commotion.

The bustling street unfolded before him like an underwater tableau: two-wheeled cabs darted about like a school of lively fish, while slow-moving, beast-drawn wagons lingered along the sides, reminiscent of bottom-dwelling creatures. Among them, rare and striking carriages pulled by peculiar land dragons and wildashers moved with the stately grace of deep-sea marvels. —Cutting through this scene was a magnificent four-horse carriage, gliding down the center of the street with the leisurely dominance of a large migratory fish, its heavy wheels rumbling as if to claim the road as its own.

The carriage, clearly a luxury vehicle belonging to the upper class, sent nearby stagecoaches and carts scrambling. Drivers frantically steered toward the shoulders or ducked into side streets to make way, scattering in all directions like startled spiders.

This was clearly expected, as the grand carriage continued down the center of the street, exuding entitlement. Painted on its polished, gleaming white side was a crest that made the passenger’s identity clear. Many of the displaced drivers and pedestrians, upon recognizing it, furrowed their brows and clicked their tongues in irritation.

“That’s dangerous… wait, is that the Church’s emblem?” A muttered comment from a middle-aged man in a gray cloak behind him caught Colin’s attention.

The vehicle’s gleaming finish and elegant yet imposing design suggested it had been enhanced by some sort of Theocraft—what other countries might call Magic Art. The horses pulling it were far superior to the usual farm animals, with physiques and bloodlines that would rival even the finest warhorses.

Even to an untrained eye, the carriage’s opulence symbolized its owner’s immense wealth and power. But more striking than that was the emblem painted on its side. Anyone living in the Holy City would instantly recognize the sacred insignia of the Saintess’ Church, representing the role of the shrine maidens.

Colin prompted to echo his thoughts aloud: “That must be the Étoile. Lady Barbara’s personal carriage.”

“Ah, that Lady Barbara!” the man exclaimed, nodding vigorously as if the revelation had brought everything into focus.

“It’s rare to see her here. If it were Lady Clara, I’d understand, but what’s a high-ranking shrine maiden who usually lounges in the central district doing in this part of town?”
“Indeed. What whim brought her here, I wonder?”

The other patrons in line, along with the stall’s female owner, exchanged glances and began murmuring similar questions.

“Ha, she’s probably here to score some points by visiting one of the Church orphanages. Lady Barbara used to have such a high profile, but now… well, you know.”

The man’s cryptic remark drew a mix of wry and scornful smiles from the crowd. Though they refrained from voicing outright criticism—being general followers of the Saintess’ Church—their expressions and tones were biting.

“Well, it’s to be expected. These days, Lady Clara is the strongest candidate for the role of the Shrine Maiden Princess.”
“Obviously. She’s got the skill, the charisma, and—most of all—that breathtaking beauty that’ll stop your heart if you get too close. If she keeps racking up achievements and fame, she’s a shoo-in.”
“I heard Lady Clara came up with this fried chicken recipe too.”
“Yeah, and dandelion coffee as well. Truly, Lady Clara is amazing—talented, beautiful, and generous to boot.”

“Lady Barbara isn’t bad, but… well, you know?”
“Honestly, I feel for her. How can you compete when you’re constantly being compared to Lady Clara?”
“Lady Clara is on another level.”

Author’s Note:

Carriages are typically two-wheeled and drawn by a single horse. A well-known example is the iconic “Hansom Cab” favored by none other than Sherlock Holmes.

Hackney cabs generally follow this standard of being single-horse, two-wheeled carriages.

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Now then, while the barcode warrior persistently tried to persuade, only to be curtly rebuffed by Cestlavie, it seemed the matter wasn’t progressing. Seeing this, Marina gracefully stepped out from behind the counter and approached me.

“You must be the Shrine Maiden Clara, correct? My apologies for the sudden intrusion. I am Marina Starabuck, a staff member of the Thera Maryth Adventurers’ Guild Headquarters. I have an urgent matter I wish to discuss with you. Might I trouble you for a moment of your time?”

Her polite demeanor was evident, but there was a distinct undercurrent of urgency in her tone. Tilting my head slightly, I regarded her curiously.

“Is this about the report concerning the Sidonia Grand Labyrinth from yesterday?”

“—No, though we would certainly appreciate discussing that matter in the future. However, an unforeseen and higher-priority ‘walk-in case’ has arisen, and I must ask for your assistance in addressing it first.”

The mention of a “walk-in case” prompted me to instinctively glance back at the two luxurious carriages parked in front of the guild.

“Don’t tell me—?”
“…You guessed it.”

She must have discerned the meaning behind my question from the clear weariness already visible on my face. Marina lowered her head apologetically.

“Just ignore them, Jill. These guys are just trying to shirk responsibility since someone with higher authority comes around and they can do nothing about it,” Cestlavie spat, his irritation plainly evident as he waved off the male staff member attempting to intervene.

While Adventurer Guilds—and guilds in general—claim to stand as independent and impartial organizations, free from the influence of governmental authority, noble prestige, or religious doctrine, the reality is far less idealistic. They rely on subsidies from the state, endorsements from religious institutions, and generous donations from influential nobles or wealthy merchants. Consequently, when faced with unreasonable demands from such powerful entities, they often find themselves unable to resist. The ground-level staff, in particular, frequently crumble under the pressure, embodying a certain bureaucratic frailty.

It’s hard not to sympathize with the plight of middle management in such situations. Still, having this mess shoved onto my plate as a scapegoat was far from acceptable.

“If that’s the case, this matter exceeds my personal authority. You’ll need to take it up with the upper echelons of the Church—at the very least, you’ll have to go through Lady Teressa.”

With that noncommittal reply, I turned on my heel, fully intending to leave. But before I could, the barcode-haired staff member hurried after me and held my arm.

“P-please wait! Currently, Lady Simonetta and Shrine Maiden Barbara are in the third-floor VIP room regarding a request. The matter directly involves you, Lady Clara, and we humbly request your presence as well. Of course, you would be attending in an observer capacity. Under no circumstances would you be held responsible for any outcome!”

He pleaded desperately, but such verbal promises usually end up being conveniently ignored with an, “Oh, I don’t recall saying that,” when things go south.

“Please, I beg of you! I’ll make sure it’s documented, and we’ll grant Guild Points to you and everyone involved, as well as prioritize improvements to your treatment moving forward. I implore you, please!”
“The Deputy Guild Master…”

Sweat dripped from his forehead as he bowed fervently. His desperate plea began drawing sympathetic looks from other staff and adventurers waiting nearby, creating an unspoken pressure that subtly felt like they were blaming me. Wait—this man is the Deputy Guild Master?

Sensing my hesitation and discomfort, perhaps worried about my predicament:

“Hmm. How about this? I’ll attend with you, and if necessary, I’ll take responsibility. Why not at least hear them out?”

Sir Simon interjected with a calm proposal, then, noticing the puzzled expression on the Deputy Guild Master’s face, subtly displayed the ring bearing the house crest.

“—!! Y-Your Grace…!”

The Deputy Guild Master visibly paled at the sight of Sir Simon, who responded with a knowing wink.

“How about this? Does my assurance still leave you feeling uneasy?”
“N-Not at all! This is truly divine providence! But why would someone of your stature…?”
“Ah, let’s not delve into unnecessary questions. Also, do make sure that Clara and her companions face no disadvantages whatsoever.”

While the Deputy Guild Master stammered in confusion, Sir Simon maintained an air of absolute composure.

“—Could it be that I’ve unknowingly offended someone of high status?”

Feeling a sudden pang of worry, I hesitantly turned to ask Emil, who stood by my side.

“Not in the slightest, ma’am. If I may say so, I’ve served the young master for over a decade, and I’ve never seen him enjoy himself as much as he has lately. This is all thanks to you, Lady Clara.”

He bowed deeply, hand placed over his heart with utmost respect. To be honest, we’d only shared a meal, so his gratitude left me a bit baffled.

“—Now then, everyone, I’ll guide you to the third-floor VIP suite. Lady Clara, you’ll be attending strictly as an observer. Should you find it disagreeable, you’re welcome to leave at any time. We humbly ask for your cooperation.”

Being bowed to repeatedly by someone in a superior position started to make me feel rather guilty.

“…It can’t be helped. But let me make it clear—I’ll only participate as a neutral third party, nothing more.”

Reluctantly agreeing, I noticed the Deputy Guild Master visibly relax, bowing repeatedly in gratitude.

“Thank you very much. Additionally, while our esteemed guests are present, the third floor, where the VIP suite is located, has a strict no-weapons policy for security reasons. We will temporarily store any weapons here. Would that be acceptable?”

As he spoke, several uniformed guards, likely security personnel, lined up near us.

It was a perfectly reasonable request, so I willingly retrieved the magic staff, knife, and other weapons I had stored in my Close Magic Art, handing them over to the nearest guard.

Similarly, Cestlavie handed over his sword, though with a begrudging sigh. However, as he did so, the Deputy Guild Master, cross-referencing some sort of list handed to him by Marina, said, “I’m sorry, but I must also ask you to hand over the talismans hidden in your inner pocket.”

He spoke with a remarkably casual tone, his pinpoint accuracy causing Cestlavie to narrow his eyes suspiciously. Noticing this, the Deputy Guild Master explained in a low voice, audible enough for us to hear, while glancing around cautiously.

“Actually, for safety purposes, the entrance doors are equipped with advanced magical detection devices crafted by the Superempire’s Workshop. They are designed to identify any weaponry or items with significant destructive power on the spot.”
“Huh, so such technology exists…”

Simon looked back at the entrance with great interest.

I, too, felt an inexplicable curiosity tugging at me, thinking, If I get the chance, I’d love to take that thing apart and see how it works.

Meanwhile, Cestlavie reluctantly pulled a card from his inner pocket and handed it over to the guard.

“Honestly, stop being so stubborn. Did you really think you’d be allowed in while carrying such dangerous items?” Coppelia, shaking her head dramatically as if saying Good grief…, sighed heavily.

But as soon as the guards surrounded her, they unceremoniously lifted her off the ground without giving her a chance to protest.

“And with that, we’ll hold on to this particular dangerous weapon until after your meeting,” the Deputy Guild Master announced, checking the list as he spoke.

From behind him, Coppelia shouted, “What is this!? I am a perfectly harmless automaton! This is unfair treatment—!”

Despite her protests, the sturdy men quickly restrained her with wires and carried her off through a heavy door labeled Dangerous Item Storage.

“Without me, Lady Clara will be in big trouble! She has no idea what she’s doing half the time!”

Her indignant cries echoed just before the door slammed shut. Naturally, I ignored them.

“Right this way, please.”

With that prompting from the man leading the way, we—or rather, I—took my first step onto the staircase that led straight to hell.

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The rivalry between the first wife and the concubine.

This theme is a familiar one, appearing in courtly tales and theatrical dramas throughout history and across cultures. From fierce disputes among the women in an emperor’s harem to the petty squabbles of rural nobility barely deserving the title, such conflicts are seen wherever aristocratic society—or indeed, relationships between men and women—exist. They are often likened to a chronic, incurable disease for which no remedy exists.

Among these tales, the relentless—nay, obsessive—enmity displayed by Lady Simonetta, the first wife of Frontier Count Aulanthia and formerly the eldest daughter of the Duchy of Enyuria, toward Clara, the fourth wife and the Shrine Maiden Princess, remains infamous. Her unyielding animosity and deranged fixation were the subject of widespread gossip in the social circles of the Livitium Imperial Kingdom at the time. Indeed, the degree of sympathy elicited by Clara’s plight made it so that not a day went by without the tale being retold.

As such, when Clara’s untimely death came to pass, the official explanation given by the Count household—that she was frail by nature (meaning prone to illness and physical weakness) and succumbed to complications from a difficult childbirth—held less sway than the widespread speculation that Lady Simonetta had secretly orchestrated her murder. The latter theory, whispered with eerie conviction, was far more persuasive.

However, why did Simonetta harbor such strong hatred towards Clara?

Was it because they were rivals for the affection of the Count? That reason seems, at best, a surface-level explanation. If that were the true cause, then the stark contrast between her treatment of Clara and her relatively indifferent attitude toward the second and third wives—who had higher status and stronger backing—would be difficult to justify.

So why, then? To uncover the roots of her hatred, one must trace back to their very first encounter.

It was at that moment that Clara utterly shattered Simonetta’s pride as a princess and her confidence as a woman.

Until then, Simonetta, born as a princess of the Duchy of Enyuria, had never once thought herself inferior in appearance to anyone.

She had inherited striking features from her parents and was adorned with the finest garments, jewelry, and cosmetics that wealth could provide. Moreover, as the daughter of a sovereign state, her beauty and nobility had been cultivated and polished to perfection, a process that left her confident that she was among the most stunning women on the continent. And indeed, there was no one who dared to dispute her claim.

However, Clara’s overwhelming beauty rendered all of Simonetta’s pride meaningless in an instant. And to make matters worse, Clara herself was utterly indifferent to it.

Simonetta was left speechless, frozen like a mere ornament, forgetting even to breathe as she stared in stunned disbelief. Such beauty was not merely unparalleled—it was otherworldly.

At some point, Simonetta had leaned forward, nearly falling out of her chair before snapping back to reality. Shame coursed through her, followed swiftly by rage.

To Simonetta, Clara’s very existence felt like a mockery, as though this woman would steal everything that should have rightfully been hers.

Of course, Clara herself bore no fault in this. Simonetta’s reaction stemmed from an inferiority complex she had never before experienced—a feeling entirely foreign to her. Perhaps, on some unconscious level, she even harbored a kind of admiration or longing for Clara.

But Simonetta was too ignorant to recognize such feelings, and her inflated sense of self-worth would never allow her to admit them.

Thus, she came to despise Clara with a burning intensity—so much so that, in time, even Clara’s daughter became a target of her hatred.

♦♢♦♢

“…………”
“…………”

The overwhelming hostility—no, it was practically a murderous aura emanating from Lady Simonetta—pierced through me as I sat frozen in my chair. My only recourse was to look up at the ceiling in quiet despair.

Despite this being our first meeting, with no real conversation beyond a simple introduction, I found myself subjected to an unrelenting glare sharp enough to bore holes into me. The oppressive tension that followed was baffling.

—Now that I think about it, back when I was still Syltianna, there were times when I’d pass her in the corridors of the manor and catch her giving me a glare just like this…

This random recollection of long-forgotten trauma resurfaced, and my stomach began to ache in earnest.

While I silently wrestled with my growing distress, Eliza observed the situation with an expression of smug satisfaction, as if she found it amusing.

Her detached, almost careless attitude was almost infuriating. After all, the reason I had been dragged into this room in the first place was to mediate the conflict between the girl glaring daggers at me and Eliza herself. To sit there comfortably as though she were in a safe zone was aggravating, to say the least.

“…How did things even end up like this?”

I quietly muttered to myself, using the moment as a form of escapism while leisurely recalling the series of events that had led me here.

Yes, it was only about twenty minutes ago—

The door we opened to enter the Adventurers’ Guild headquarters was likely enchanted with some kind of defensive or security magic. Its frame, resembling polished black granite, exuded a faint magical energy as we stepped inside.

Our group entered in the following order: Cestlavie first, then me, followed by Coppelia, Sir Simon, and Emil. The rest of Sir Simon’s guards remained outside.

In stories, adventurers’ guilds are often depicted as rowdy taverns crowded with rough-and-tumble men or offices where muscle-bound tough guys lounge around, oozing intimidation. And while that image isn’t entirely wrong—smaller branches or regional offices sometimes double as taverns—it doesn’t quite apply here. This was, after all, primarily a job placement office.

The space was clean and slightly sterile, resembling a government office or a bank lobby. It featured reception counters, consultation desks, and seating areas for visitors, nothing more.

And, of course, one of the classic tropes: the reception desk staffed by a young, beautiful woman. Without hesitation, Cestlavie walked toward one of the counters, his steps purposeful.

Perhaps she was his type. I decided to watch him with a warm, knowing smile.

“—Do you have a moment, Marina?”

The receptionist whom Cestlavie addressed as Marina was a human in her late teens with bobbed brunette hair. Though her expression was somewhat lacking in warmth, she had the air of a capable career woman who knew her job well.

“Yes? What is it, Cestlavie?”

“Lady Clara, notice how they’re casually addressing each other by name, as if they’re equals. Such insolence for a commoner.” Coppelia furrowed her brows in mild annoyance.

“Isn’t she just Cestlavie’s liaison here? There’s no hint of romantic tension between them, so it’s probably just a professional relationship. You don’t need to be so touchy… Oh, wait. Could it be that you’re jealous?”

“Not in the slightest!” Coppelia immediately denied the accusation. “It’s just that, for some reason, when I see couples, there’s this inexplicable signal deep within my circuits—something like ‘Death to all couples’ or ‘Punish the popular ones.’ Could it be a bug?”
“M-Maybe it is…”

Professor Victor…

Suddenly, a loud, boisterous voice disrupted the guild’s tranquil atmosphere. Turning to the source of the commotion, I saw Cestlavie embroiled in some kind of dispute at the reception desk.

However, it wasn’t “Marina” causing the ruckus. Instead, the one yelling was a middle-aged staff member with a barcode-patterned balding head, someone who looked like the epitome of a middle manager.

“Look at them, Lady Clara. A commoner and some pencil-pushing bureaucrat making a scene. Really, just the worst… Trouble-making nuisances who can’t avoid causing pointless commotions are the absolute lowest, don’t you agree?”

“ “ “(THAT’S YOU! LOOK IN THE MIRROR—!!)” ” ” With synchronized precision, Sir Simon, Emil, and I all pointed straight at Coppelia, who was glaring indignantly with her eyes narrowed in frustration.

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“—Coppelia, it’s a bit late to bring this up, but could you refrain from being so rude?”

In this society built on hierarchy, speaking out of turn to someone of higher status is considered impolite.

While I, as a shrine maiden with a certain level of authority, could engage Sir Simon, supposedly a noble, on equal footing, Coppelia was my attendant. Normally, she would be expected to stay three steps behind me, careful not even to tread on my shadow. Her conduct just now was outrageously improper.

For now, Sir Simon’s magnanimity had kept the situation under control. But should his patience suddenly run thin—and considering we had only met him moments ago, I had no idea where his breaking point might be—I could vividly picture the scene: the moment he shouted, “How dare you!”, his well-trained guards would close in like a tidal wave, weapons at the ready.

“Don’t worry, Lady Clara. I am provoking him to lower his Affection Level, and then I will deal with him under the guise of an accident if he attacks—that’s a foolproof plan.” Coppelia said this with a dazzling smile. “Besides, let’s be real: even if all these pathetic weaklings came at me at once, there’s no way they’d stand a chance against someone as high-performance as me!”

Coppelia’s brazen proclamation echoed loud and clear, pushing the mounting tension around us to the verge of eruption.

“Thus, let those far away hear my voice and those near bear witness! Lo, I am none other than the automaton sent from the future to prevent Lady Clara’s black histo—nnggueh!?”

Just as she raised a morning star in one hand and a glaive in the other, both inexplicably pulled from the endless depths of her apron’s pocket, and prepared to ignite a full-blown battle, my palm and Cestlavie’s fist struck the back of her head in perfect synchrony.

“Oooh… ohhh-men! What are you doing, Lady Clara?! And you too, pleb!”

Coppelia twisted her head a full 360 degrees before using her hands to snap it back into place.

The onlookers collectively gasped and recoiled in horror.

“What are you doing? you ask?! If you start a commotion in the middle of town like this, you’ll cause trouble for Lady Teressa! Exercise some self-restraint, for goodness’ sake.” I then turned and bowed deeply to Sir Simon and his entourage. “My apologies. She’s not a bad girl by nature—oh, no, I mean, she simply has some… defects in her wiring. Occasionally, she says and does peculiar things, but I’ll do my best to keep her in check. I humbly ask for your forgiveness.”

“Ah, no, please don’t worry about it. You may raise your head. As for the rest of you, aiming your weapons at a woman is unbecoming. Return to your posts at once!”

At Sir Simon’s stern rebuke, the guards who had drawn their weapons and nearly rushed in came to their senses. Though, judging by their deflated expressions, it seemed the sight of Coppelia’s rotating neck had already sapped their fighting spirit. Reluctantly, and with lingering unease, they retreated to their original positions.

Even Emil appeared thoroughly bewildered, holding his temple as though he’d encountered something he was better off avoiding altogether.

“By the way, Lady Clara, forgive me if this question reveals my ignorance, but I understand we’re heading to the Adventurer’s Guild. Is it even possible for a formal shrine maiden to also serve as an adventurer?”

Sir Simon, showing a surprising level of composure despite the earlier commotion, naturally fell into step beside me and shifted the topic with practiced ease.

“Yes, it’s not uncommon at all. Adventurers frequently face dangerous situations, so having someone on-site who can perform healing magic is highly beneficial. Because of this, the Church and the various guilds maintain a cooperative relationship. Moreover, as part of our service and training, we clergy members are encouraged to take on fieldwork assignments.”

Sir Simon nodded thoughtfully at my explanation but still seemed unconvinced.

“Even so, for a rare healer to venture into such dangerous places… And for someone as graceful and elegant as you to associate with adventurers, the likes of whom are often little better than rogues—doesn’t that pose certain inconveniences?”

He tilted his head slightly, clearly struggling to reconcile the idea.

“Hmph,” Cestlavie let out a quiet snort.

I could appreciate his genuine concern for my well-being, but I am no delicate flower to be kept in a greenhouse, so his worry felt a touch excessive. Not to mention, the faint disdain for adventurers that laced his words was hard to miss—a somewhat typical attitude, all things considered.

After all, the general perception of adventurers isn’t exactly glowing. To most, they are little more than vagabonds and drifters, people unable to secure stable employment who scrape by doing dangerous work for meager pay. They’re often regarded as society’s lowest rung—a precarious step away from becoming criminals or exiles. This, of course, is an exaggerated view, but there’s no denying the underlying stigma.

Alternatively, adventurers are seen as treasure hunters, diving into labyrinths in pursuit of riches or rare artifacts, chasing dreams of striking it rich. Or worse, they are considered swindlers, preying on victims of monster attacks or bandit raids with their silver tongues and dubious schemes. In either case, they’re generally regarded as shady characters at best.

In reality, the number of unscrupulous adventurers is only a small fraction. The majority are properly registered contractors under the Adventurers’ Guild, employed for fair compensation to perform tasks such as odd jobs, gathering, escorting, extermination, or excavation. They are essentially diligent workers fulfilling contractual obligations.

“Although society views them with suspicion and regards the profession as dubious, I believe there is no inherent nobility or baseness in any line of work. For instance, consider a case where goblin attacks occur within a domain. Wouldn’t there be a significant difference in approach between hiring adventurers and dispatching knights, even if the results might be the same?”
“How so?”

Sir Simon’s expression seemed to suggest he found knights to be far more reliable and efficient, but I briefly glanced at Emil, who struck me as a pragmatic man, to gauge his reaction.

“Of course, there is a clear difference in skill between adventurers and knights, but for something like goblins—depending on the scale—a standard group of adventurers should suffice to exterminate them. The real issue lies in whether the results justify the cost.”

“Ah,” Emil exclaimed, slapping his knee as realization dawned on him. Sir Simon, too, appeared to grasp the point.

“Precisely. While deploying and maintaining knights or soldiers involves enormous expenses, adventurers can handle such tasks for a mere pittance in comparison. This isn’t about which is superior; rather, it’s about assigning the right resources to the right tasks, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Indeed, you are absolutely correct. My apologies, I feel as though my ignorance has been enlightened,” Sir Simon said sincerely, bowing his head slightly toward me and Cestlavie.

Cestlavie gave a small shrug in response, while Coppelia, ever the tactless one, puffed out her chest and proclaimed: “Well, setting aside adventurers as a whole, it’s self-evident that the common rabble consists of riffraff.”

“Even so, the adventurers of this town are truly fortunate. To think they can receive healing from someone as radiant and refined as Lady Clara—it’s nothing short of a blessing.”

Sir Simon’s words, overflowing with noble extravagance, made me feel a little self-conscious. I lightly scratched my cheek, trying to brush it off with a polite response, but the truth is, I used to be the so-called Ragweed Princess.

Having little experience with direct compliments about my appearance, I could only stammer out an awkward, “Oh no, I’m not worthy of such praise,” unable to come up with anything more clever on the spot.

“Exactly!” Coppelia chimed in with excessive enthusiasm. “In fact, most adventurers in this town charge into peril saying, ‘Once this battle’s over, I’m going to have Lady Clara heal me!’ It’s become quite the trend!”

At times like this, it’s always Coppelia who chimes in with unnecessary interjections—but this time, I found her input surprisingly welcome.

Still, if what she said were true, then the adventurers in this town must be…

Engaged in such idle chatter, we walked for over thirty minutes.

Soon, a sturdy brick building came into view. Though its whitewashed walls, in line with the Holy City’s aesthetic sensibilities, lent it a touch of refinement, there was an unmistakable ruggedness to its design.

This was the Adventurers’ Guild Headquarters in the Holy City of Thera Maryth.

Parked in front of its main entrance, however, were two large carriages. Their sheer size and the way they were carelessly double-parked in a “gang leader’s stop” style made it clear they were causing a nuisance to the surrounding area.

Emil narrowed his eyes at the crest emblazoned on the black carriage. “Well, now, that’s the crest of the Duchy of Enyuria… and the personal emblem of Princess Simonetta.”

I sighed as my gaze fell upon the other familiar white carriage. “And that one belongs to Lady Eliza.”

The fact that both were here could only mean that their respective owners had business at the Guild Headquarters. Which, in turn, implied an awkward clash of appointments right at the entrance.

“This has the makings of something rather volatile,” Sir Simon remarked with an almost amused murmur.

As for me, I was utterly tempted to turn on my heel and walk away from the scene altogether.

Author’s Note:

The reason riding in a cart is considered a taboo comes from the Arthurian Legends.

If I recall correctly, one of the Knights of the Round Table—was it Lancelot?—disguised himself and rode on a cart to infiltrate a castle. However, this act was noticed, and he was denied entry into the castle. After some persuasion from his comrades, he was eventually allowed in, but the residents refused to dine with him. Instead, he was left to eat cold food alone in a corner of the kitchen.