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Luke had just finished changing into his formal attire for an outing, but as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, he unconsciously furrowed his brows.

“…What an unpleasant face I’m making,” he muttered bitterly.

His facial features themselves hadn’t changed much over the past year—or so he thought. His family and close friends had remarked that he looked more mature now, but he didn’t particularly feel that way.

Sure, he’d grown about ten centimertes taller, but what bothered him more was the exhaustion and weariness etched onto his features, like a thin film covering his natural looks. It made his face seem perpetually dull, and he couldn’t help but be conscious of it.

“I look like I’m screaming, ‘I’m tired’ and ‘I’m troubled,’ don’t I? If Jill saw me like this, she’d probably laugh at me… Or maybe she’d just be worried?”

Luke tugged at his bangs, which he felt had lost some of their vibrancy. Normally, blonde hair would darken toward brown with age, but his hair seemed to be growing closer to white, likely from the stress he was under.

“Pathetic… That’s what I am,” he murmured.

In front of the mirror, he made a series of exaggerated faces, ending with a self-mocking smile. Behind him, Eren, the maid, watched him with a pained expression.

Over the past year, Luke had tirelessly searched for any news about Jill’s safety and whereabouts. Yet, even now, he had not found a single clue leading to her.

As time went on, his initial hopes and determination gradually faded. In their place, creeping fears and despair began to fester. No matter how much he tried to brush them aside, they clung to him like sediment, slowly accumulating and weighing heavier on his heart.

Noticing Eren’s pained gaze reflected in the mirror, Luke momentarily showed a faintly guilty expression. He shook his head slightly and forced a faint smile as he turned to face her.

“I’m fine. I haven’t given up hope yet. Jill is alive… The letter from great-grand—I mean, Her Majesty Grand Founder—affirmed the oracle of her survival. I wholly believe in her.”

Right after Jill disappeared, Luke desperately sent a letter detailing the events to his father in the Graviol Empire, his home country, his great-grandmother and Jill’s teacher, Grand Founder, and Ms. Christy, his former tutor and Jill’s senior disciple.

“—Jill is alive, but she’s in a place where she can’t easily come back from. If you want to do something on your end, then do everything you can, come hell or high water.”

That was the content of the letter sent by his great-grandmother more than half a year later.

The document was sealed with powerful Arts, and instead of any sympathy or pity whatsoever, it was written succinctly with only the information he most wanted to know. It does sound like great-grandmother alright… And that’s why Luke was able to believe—That Jill was still alive.

“Then I’ll do what I can. Even if I’m mocked as a fool or ridiculed for futile efforts, I will absolutely bring back the one I hold dear.”

With renewed determination, Luke turned back to the mirror. Gone was the worn-out, desperate youth from moments ago. In his place stood someone with resolute eyes, radiating unwavering resolve.

“Let’s go. Today’s meeting is with Count Aulanthia. If anyone might have a lead connecting to Jill, it’s him.”

Recalling the kindly, grandfatherly face of the Frontier Count—one of the most prominent nobles of the Livitium Imperial Kingdom, yet utterly devoid of any air of authority or intimidation—Luke began walking toward the front entrance, where the carriage awaited him.

Following behind, Eren murmured softly under her breath. “Count Aulanthia… is it?”

“Yes, it seems that Princess Syltianna has finally recovered and will be transferring to the academy next month. I was invited under the pretext of celebrating the occasion and reconnecting after a long time.”

While the true intent behind the invitation remained unclear, it was likely an attempt to use this opportunity to rebuild ties with him and, through him, the Imperial family he represented.

“You’re meeting that Princess Syltianna?”
“Yes, that Princess Syltianna,” Luke replied with a wry smile.

Though not as notorious as before, the unflattering nickname “The Ragweed Princess of the Livitium Imperial Kingdom” still lingered in people’s minds.

Eren regarded Luke with a mixture of pity and sympathy.

To think that he, with his heart set on the most beloved and ideal princess, now had to play the courtesy game with the most dreadful and infamous “Ragweed Princess”—it was, in a way, a testament to his remarkable devotion.

As Eren searched for the right words to offer comfort, a memory suddenly came to mind.

“…Now that I think about it, whenever Lady Jill heard mention of the Ragweed Princess, she would always make a strange expression.”
“True. I suspect there’s something behind it… a secret Jill was keeping. That’s why I’ll have to tread carefully when dealing with them, fumbling my way through. It won’t be easy.”

If he said too much, he might step not on the tail of a tiger, but a dragon. Yet, Luke also believed there could be a critical clue that might lead him to Jill.

“Please be careful, Master Lucas.”
“…I will. Rushing things and losing everything in the process would defeat the purpose. I’ll proceed with caution.”

As if to reaffirm his resolve, Luke nodded firmly. This time, he straightened his back and walked forward with purpose.

♢♦♢♦♢

Now, after finishing our meal and leaving the restaurant, we found ourselves heading toward the guild headquarters.

Following the earlier commotion, everyone had chosen to gloss over the incident, chatting idly over tea as if nothing had happened. However, it was during this relaxed atmosphere that Cestlavie offhandedly remarked, “…Come to think of it,” and steered the conversation in a new direction.

Apparently, when he submitted a report on yesterday’s events at the “Sidonia Grand Labyrinth,” some of the male guild staff members became oddly intense, practically clinging to his every word. They earnestly requested, “If possible, we would love to hear the details directly from Lady Clara herself. Please, we insist.” It made me wonder—was there some kind of issue with my treatment?

“They claimed it was all ‘purely personal curiosity,’ but even the deputy guildmaster showed up, and they started questioning yesterday’s adventurers as witnesses. I have no idea what’s driving them, but honestly, it’s not mandatory, and they’re not offering any compensation. I really just wanted to refuse.”

“Of course you should refuse! Dragging Lady Clara into this? What do they think your purpose as a meat shield is, you foolish plebeian!”

Coppelia’s biting criticism prompted Cestlavie to begin his retort, but he uncharacteristically slumped his shoulders in apparent exhaustion.

“Ugh, I just couldn’t handle the sheer intensity of those old men… Damn that bald guy.”

And so, while Cestlavie was even less enthusiastic than usual, it wasn’t as though we could simply ignore an unpleasant situation. Fortunately, the guild headquarters was within walking distance, so we decided to briskly attend to the matter while also working off our meal.

“Lady Clara, if you’d like, I can have my family’s carriage brought around to take us to our destination.”

Sir Simon, who was attempting to keep up with us on the uneven cobblestone road in his impeccably polished leather shoes, made the suggestion as he turned to me.

I had assumed we would part ways in front of the restaurant, but for some reason, he had taken a peculiar interest in tagging along. Given his choice of footwear and the rough terrain, walking must have been quite the ordeal for him.

Sensing the situation, his attentive valet, Emil, gestured to a nearby man who appeared to be one of his guards.

“No, thank you, your offer alone is more than enough. The distance is not far, and above all, for a clergyperson who values modesty above all else, riding in an ostentatious carriage meant for nobility would invite undue scrutiny, even if it were not a town coach.”

When I gently declined the offer, Emil, who had started to signal the guards to leave, quickly gestured for them to hold their position.

“What shall we do?”

With a questioning look, Emil sought Sir Simon’s direction. The young lord silently shook his head in response.

“My apologies. It seems my offer was overly presumptuous. But indeed, strolling leisurely through the streets has its own charm, doesn’t it?”

Since I had effectively rejected his goodwill, I should have been the one apologizing. However, his quick and polished response displayed either the poise of a true gentleman or the composure of a seasoned adult. I found myself impressed.

“Well now, if Sir Simon truly needs a carriage, this humble Coppelia can arrange one for you. Of course, taking Lady Clara’s wishes into account, I’d probably borrow one of those carts lying around. I could act as the driver, with Lady Clara seated beside me while the rest of you ride in the back. How does that sound?”

And so, the ever-provocative Coppelia made her play.

Incidentally, riding on the back of a cart is, in some circles, considered the ultimate humiliation. Should anyone be seen in such a state, they might as well surrender all claims to dignity. Naturally, Coppelia was fully aware of this when she made her suggestion.

Sir Simon, unfazed by her rudeness, simply shrugged it off. However, Emil, his loyal valet, clearly couldn’t let it slide. His expression darkened noticeably, and the guards around them began exuding a tense, foreboding air.

Their hands drifted toward their swords and hidden weapons, tightening the encirclement around us inch by inch.

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“—Cough, cough! Enough. You’re jumping to conclusions. The only reason I came to this establishment is to try the rumored delicacy. My encounter with her was purely coincidental!”

Simon coughed lightly, seemingly having choked on his food midway through his defense.

“Quite the exotic delicacy, indeed. I do understand that you’ve been mindful of both, my lord, but don’t you think this was a tad bit imprudent?”

Emil cast a faintly disdainful glance at his master.

“…I mean, it is delectable. In more ways than one,” Cestlavie muttered to no one in particular as he picked at the side dish of potatoes.

“…They’re talking about the Groß Nacktschnecke, right?”
“If Lady Clara believes so, then it must be. Burp.”

Feeling as though the conversation’s focus had inexplicably shifted in my direction, I cautiously whispered a confirmation. In response, Coppelia downed a glass of cooking oil in one go, burped audibly, and dismissed the matter with a careless remark.

“You sound like you’re implying something—”

Just as I was about to press her further, the noisy clatter of wheels echoed outside. A white carriage I recognized all too well pulled up directly in front of the tavern.

“What the heck is that?”
“It’s blocking the door.”
“What an idiot.”
“Tsk, annoying.”

Murmurs of irritation rippled through the room as the regulars glanced toward the window.

“…Goodness, what a dreadful location.”

As the coachman politely opened the door, a strikingly beautiful young woman in a shrine maiden’s ceremonial attire descended from the carriage, accompanied by several shrine maiden apprentices.

“Oh? Miss Eliza.”

Even from a distance, her presence was impossible to miss. Adorned head to toe with flashy accessories of gold, silver, and jewels, the confident and assertive Shrine Maiden strode into the tavern with an air of entitlement. She ignored the curious onlookers—both the nosy neighbors who had gathered outside and the patrons inside, who instinctively stood to take notice.

“An acquaintance of yours?”
“Yes, well… something like a colleague at work.”

I gave Simon a vague answer in response to his inquiry.

Perhaps I should count myself fortunate. Thanks to the other patrons creating a sort of wall, it seemed Miss Eliza hadn’t noticed me seated at the back of the establishment.

Without a glance in my direction, she marched haughtily up to the counter and called for the tavern’s owner, who had been working in the kitchen.

“Listen to me and listen to me good. I must host an important guest next week. This individual has expressed an exceptional interest in this establishment’s signature dish. It would have been inconceivable for a mere backstreet cook to step into the sacred kitchen of the cathedral in any normal circumstances, but I am willing to grant you a special exception. Come and prepare that dish of yours for my guest.”

Her condescending demand, delivered with impeccable arrogance, caused an immediate and palpable shift in the room’s atmosphere.

Unlike the earlier tension with Emil, however, no one seemed willing to pick a fight with a Shrine Maiden, not in the heart of the Holy City. Even so, there was a visible unease in the air.

“As if there isn’t already enough friction brewing under the surface between the Church and the beastfolk and demi-humans. Is she really going to stoke the fire in their territory?”

While I quietly muttered my grievances, Eliza continued her string of demands without the slightest regard for her audience.

“Three days should suffice for preparation and cleanup. Of course, I will ensure compensation for the work and any losses incurred during the closure.”
“I refuse.”

A deep voice cut through Eliza’s monologue without hesitation.

“—What?”
“I said no. I don’t care who you or your guest might be. If you want my cooking, then come and eat here. I’ll treat you as a customer.”
“Wh-what!?”

Eliza stood speechless, her lips trembling as if she had been struck, while the owner waved her off like one might shoo away a stray dog.

“If you’re not a customer, then kindly get out. And don’t leave your carriage parked out front—it’s in the way.”
“…”

Her lips pressed tightly together, Eliza began to quiver with barely restrained fury.

“—D-do you even realize who I am?! And let me remind you, the person you’d be cooking for is none other than Prince Corrad of the mighty Aulanthia Kingdom, one of the greatest nations in the northern territories! On the day in question, you’ll have access to the finest kitchen, the finest ingredients, the finest tools, and an unlimited supply of seasonings! Do you not see this as the highest honor for a chef?!”
“For me, the greatest honor is cooking here, in my own kitchen, the way I like, and hearing my customers say my food is delicious.”

His casual yet unshakable declaration was met with a round of cheers from the surrounding patrons.

“Stubborn, huh? But I like it.” Cestlavie reached for another slice of the Groß Nacktschnecke, stuffing his mouth with a grin. “Yeah. It’s good.”

“Indeed.” I found myself agreeing with him.

Though undeniably stubborn, the chef’s unwavering stance—refusing to let status or rank influence his principles as a cook—was admirable. More than anything, as much as I felt sorry for Eliza, I found it thoroughly satisfying.

“I see. It was worth coming all the way here,” Simon remarked, nodding thoughtfully as he reached for more food.

Meanwhile, Eliza, her face flushed red and trembling like a rigid pole, was finally coaxed and ushered out of the store by her apprentice priestesses.

Soon, the neighing of horses and the forceful sound of a carriage door slamming echoed throughout the street. The heavy clatter of hooves grew fainter as the carriage departed, and with it, the tension inside the shop dissolved, leaving behind a palpable sense of relief.

“…Well, that was an unexpected visitor.”
“She mentioned escorting Prince Corrad. So, does that mean she’s the renowned prodigy of the Saintess’ Church, Lady Barbara Eliza?”

Feeling their questioning gazes, Simon and Emil included, subtly directed toward me, I nodded honestly in response.

“Indeed. As expected of Eliza, her name is renowned even in distant countries,” I commented.

“Well… yes, I suppose. While not widely known among general believers, she’s something of a niche celebrity in high society,” Simon replied, his tone somewhat vague.

Cestlavie and Coppelia, however, had no qualms about making their opinions heard, chiming in with scathing remarks.

“Well, she’s just a flash-in-the-pan celebrity who’ll be forgotten in thirty years,” Cestlavie quipped.

“A big fish in a small pond, really,” Coppelia added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Interesting, interesting. This is most enlightening,” Emil remarked, nodding repeatedly with a knowing expression. “Still, it’s impressive how well they seem to understand Prince Corrad’s tastes. It’s as if they planned to win him over through food. Makes one wonder about the source of their information leaks,” he mused, seemingly more concerned about the aristocratic gossip network than the incident itself.

Perhaps this level of perceptiveness is just par for the course in noble society, always keen-eyed and sharp. As I mulled over this thought, recalling Simon’s family crest I’d glimpsed earlier—

Suddenly, the rhythmic clatter of heavy hooves echoed once more. Another large carriage pulled up in front of the shop, and a middle-aged man in an official-looking uniform descended with a haughty demeanor.

The entire room collectively winced, their faces darkening in unison at the unpleasant sense of déjà vu. Unperturbed by the stifling atmosphere, the man loudly announced:

“I am a secretary of the Duchy of Enyuria! Consider yourself honored! By the request of Princess Simonetta, one of this establishment’s signature dishes is to be prepared for—”

“GET OUT――!!!”

A deafening roar erupted from the kitchen, followed immediately by a torrent of boiling water hurled toward the unwelcome guest.

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After the toast, Simon, unable to wait any longer, reached eagerly toward the large plate dominating the table. The Groß Nacktschnecke (also known as the Eunice Great Slug) sat there, steaming hot and golden brown in color.

“—Oh? Pardon me. How exactly is this meant to be eaten, Miss Clara?” he asked, holding a small plate with a perplexed expression.

If this were a noble’s party or a high-end restaurant, the dish would likely be cut and served by an attendant, but there was no way such thoughtful service would be available in a run-down diner like this.

In fact, most of the patrons here didn’t even use metallic utensils like knives or forks. Introducing them would only invite the risk of theft. As a result, meals were consumed in a survival-of-the-fittest manner—grabbed, torn apart with bare hands, and devoured by the quickest. Given Simon’s unmistakable upper-class upbringing, it was no wonder he was at a loss.

Still, why is he asking me specifically? I wondered internally, tilting my head slightly in confusion. Setting down my ceramic cup of vegetable juice, I glanced toward him.

Coppelia leaned over and whispered, “It’s flirting. Flirting. Leave it unchecked, and one day he’ll have you pregnant.” Naturally, I pretended not to hear her usual nonsense.

“I’ll cut it for you. Coppelia, please take out a knife and fork,” I said, gesturing toward Coppelia, who was holding the bag containing our utensils.

I used to put all my belongings in a subspace using the Close Magic Art, but everything vanished without a trace when we were transported to this era. Now, as a precaution, I split up small items and money between myself and Coppelia.

“Yes. The tools for cutting and stabbing flesh, is it. Please wait a moment… Ah, I will handle the process, so please remain seated, Sir Simon.”

With a tactful look on her face, Coppelia stood up, brandishing a butcher’s knife large enough to sever a human head and a gleaming, polished trident.

Reflexively, I grabbed her wrist firmly to stop her.

“—What’s the matter, Lady Clara?”
“Are you planning to march off to war? And while we’re at it, what’s that peeking out from your wrist there?”

From the cuff of her maid uniform, a small bottle filled with a green, viscous liquid was poking out conspicuously.

“…It’s a special seasoning. A secret ingredient.”
“Ohhh, how fascinating. Might I have a taste?”
“…you could neutralize neurotoxins, Lady Clara?”

I knew it—it was poison.

“You’re making too much fuss. Just cut it up and eat it with your hands.”

While Coppelia and I were busy trying to restrain each other’s wrists—what might appear to be playful scuffling between two girls, but in reality, a life-or-death struggle—Cestlavie pulled out the hefty knife he kept at his waist (primarily for butchering prey) and crudely sliced the meat into chunks.

“Well, that’s…bold,” Simon remarked. He widened his eyes slightly at the sight of a slab of meat about ten centimertes thick on a wooden plate. It looked like an oversized steak. “So, you just tear it apart with your hands to eat it? Wow. I bet the castle chef and my fussy valet would faint if they heard about this. Let’s see—hot, hot…oh, delicious!”

Simon —no, I probably should call him Sir Simon like Coppelia does, judging from the word “castle” that slipped out of his mouth. He must be the son of an aristocrat, a naughty one at that— narrowed his eyes in joy as he savored the rustic dish.

As I watched his somewhat careless attempts to handle the food, my attention was inexplicably drawn to the ring on the middle finger of his right hand.

It was a simple design, suited for a man, but its shape and engraved family crest looked familiar. It resembled the one belonging to my family —the Aulanthia Frontier Count— though it seemed to be a simpler, cheaper version.

Maybe there’s a connection? And just as I was wondering at Sir Simon, who, displaying an unexpected appetite, finished off the whole piece of meat in one go and then reached for a second serving, I suddenly heard the sound of the restaurant door opening and a loud voice rang out.

“So this is where you were, Your High… young master.”
“Oh, Emil. You’ve sniffed me out already?”

As he continued eating, Simon glanced at the exasperated young man. Then, with a knowing glance in my direction, he added, “This is the fussy valet I was just talking about.”

The valet—Emil—seemed to have overheard that comment. He furrowed his brows slightly and began to speak. “…Honestly. Leaving the coachman and guards behind only to wander off to such a lowly—”

The moment the word ‘lowly’ left his mouth, the air in the tavern grew heavy with murderous intent.

The lizardmen mercenaries dining nearby and the beastfolk adventurers seated around the room subtly reached for their weapons. Even from the kitchen, the gleaming tip of a hefty cleaver peeked out ominously.

It was an imprudent remark, especially from someone so out of place here. If Emil dared to continue with another misstep, the tension would almost certainly erupt into violence.

I found myself silently offering a prayer to the somewhat unreliable saintess.

“—No, I mean, venturing out alone in an unfamiliar area is far too careless,” Emil corrected himself instantly, his expression unchanging, likely realizing the peril of the situation.

It seemed his sense of self-preservation had kicked in just in time. As expected of a noble’s valet. He deserved an award with how fast and brazen he changed gears.

“Even so, I couldn’t exactly pull up in front of this place with that ostentatious carriage for all to see—wait, you didn’t seriously bring the carriage all the way here, did you!?”

Simon stretched forward in a panic, peering through the saloon-style swing doors that hung at the tavern’s entrance, trying to glimpse outside.

“Of course not. That overly pristine thing is practically an open invitation for thieves. It’s not even military-grade. I left it at a designated lot one block over, with half the guards stationed there for security. The rest accompanied me on foot.”
“I see… Still, how did you even find me?”
“I simply described a ‘country bumpkin that’s dressed like an aristocrat’ and handed out a few copper coins to locals along the way, and they directed me right to you. It seems you made quite an impression. Lucky you weren’t targeted as an easy mark, my lord. But still, what in the world brought you to a place like this—?”

Emil’s gaze wandered unabashedly around the tavern. He scrutinized the chaotic decor, the rustic dishes, and the clientele—mostly demi-humans and dubious regulars who looked like they had more than a few skeletons in their closets.

Eventually, his eyes settled on us—specifically, on me—sitting at the same table as Sir Simon. The moment his gaze landed, Emil froze, stiff as a board.

This was a reaction I’d encountered many times from strangers meeting me for the first time. Deciding to pay it no mind, I calmly sipped from my cup of vegetable juice.

After a span of time long enough for the second hand of a clock to make a full revolution, Emil finally broke the silence.

“…I see. So that’s what this is all about,” he muttered, nodding repeatedly, his expression suddenly brimming with understanding.

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Whether he’s exceptionally a high-standing figure, naturally curious, or simply exhibiting the peculiar obliviousness typical of the upper class, I couldn’t say. Regardless, even after the commotion earlier, Sir Simon wore a sunny smile and joined our table without a care in the world.

Turning to the boy who remained nearby, seemingly swept up by the situation, he said, “Excuse me, could you order some Groß Nacktschnecke for us? Enough for everyone, please. As for drinks, I’ll have tea, and—”

He paused and glanced at us as if prompting for our preferences.

It seemed he intended to treat us.

The three of us exchanged glances for a brief moment, and seeing no reason to refuse, we decided to accept his generosity.

“Ale for me,” said Cestlavie.
“I’ll have vegetable juice,” I added.
“Give me curry, fried chicken, and natural oil,” demanded Coppelia, in a request wildly inappropriate for a beverage order.

“Uh… Sorry, but other than the oil, I’ve never heard of those on our menu…” The boy’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“Oil alone will suffice. If it’s easier, machine oil or industrial-grade alcohol will do just fine.”

Relieved, the boy let out an audible sigh before hurrying off to the kitchen.

“You’re very kind,” remarked Sir Simon, watching the entire exchange unfold with an amused smile.

“Am I? That seemed like a fairly normal response to me.” I replied, taking a moment to study his face across the table.

His features were neither remarkable nor unattractive—handsome, perhaps, if viewed from the right angle. Still, his refined attire and polished demeanor lent him a certain charm, elevating his impression by several points. It’s the so-called “ski-slope effect,” I suppose.¹

“Still, you’re quite the distinctive group. How are you all acquainted?”

For strangers meeting by chance and merely sharing a table, such a question might normally be difficult to ask. Yet Sir Simon posed it with ease. Was it the confidence of someone raised in privilege, or was there a calculated edge to his approach? It was hard to discern his true intentions.

“We’re just casual friends,” I said, deciding to deflect with something vague.

“Well, maybe you could call it a rotten bond,” Cestlavie added with self-deprecating humor.

“The only thing rotten here is you, peasant. My bond with Lady Clara is one of trust and mutual respect, tied firmly and unbreakably,” Coppelia interjected, looking genuinely offended.

“If it’s unbreakable, perhaps scissors might work?” I mused aloud, quite sincerely.

“Ah, I see. Friendships free of pretense are a wonderful thing,” Simon remarked. His tone carried a genuine wistfulness, not just hollow flattery. “For me, it’s difficult to find someone with whom I can exchange words freely, without the shadow of mutual interests or a hierarchy looming overhead. I truly envy your camaraderie.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ve heard nobles and the like talk about that kind of thing a lot, but trust and friendship aren’t determined by status or position—they’re personal matters.” Cestlavie replied, his tone tinged with irritation. “If you’re constantly guarded, the other person’s going to be wary too. You’ve got to make the effort to meet them halfway first.”

Simon chuckled, a tinge of embarrassment creeping into his smile. “You’re not wrong. It stings a little to hear that.”

“By the way, he sure speaks big, but does he even have any friends besides us?” Coppelia asked, her head tilting with faux innocence.

“Shhh! He’s actually saying something worthwhile for once. Don’t ruin it with unnecessary jabs.” I hissed.

Whether or not he heard our exchange, Cestlavie’s cheek twitched slightly, betraying a moment of discomfort.

“S-, sorry to keep you waiting. Here’s the grilled Groß Nacktschnecke with yogurt sauce and your drinks,” the boy said, setting a large plate and four wooden cups on the table.

Coppelia and I divided the task of placing the food on the table and handing out the cups.

While I could excuse Cestlavie for being as inconsiderate as ever, Sir Simon’s complete nonchalance as he sat there waiting to be served, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, made me want to ask, “And what kingdom do you think you rule over, exactly?” If it had been Luke, he would’ve been the first to help out—but alas, this must be what society considers ‘gentlemanly.’

As the enticing aroma of the grilled Groß Nacktschnecke (giant slug) wafted through the air, Sir Simon’s eyes lit up with excitement, and he audibly swallowed.

“This is the famous Groß Nacktschnecke! Coming all this way was worth it. Half of my purpose for visiting this country is now fulfilled.”
“And the other half is work, I presume?”

I asked casually, but Sir Simon’s expression shifted subtly, growing slightly awkward. As he gave me a meaningful look, I tilted my head in curiosity, prompting him to answer.

“Well, to be honest, the other half is… to meet a certain woman.” His response was half-spoken like a secret.

“Oh, is she your lover?”
“No, actually… you see, recently, through a certain connection, I came into possession of a portrait of this woman. I fell in love with her at first sight. And, well… after throwing quite the tantrum, I was allowed to come here to meet her.”

His bashful demeanor as he glanced downward reminded me of a boy confessing his crush on an idol. It was unexpectedly endearing.

“A portrait, huh? Aren’t those usually touched up by artists to add embellishments or exaggerate features? What if the real thing ends up being a disappointment?” Cestlavie asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

“—? Well, meeting in person might change your impression, but regardless, traveling all the way to a distant country simply because you want to meet someone. That shows a remarkable level of dedication. I can’t help but admire it. I’m the opposite, actually. I’m preoccupied with figuring out how to avoid a certain person who came from afar to meet me,” I lamented, almost involuntarily.

Sir Simon nodded knowingly, saying, “Everyone has their own priorities, I suppose.”

Meanwhile, Coppelia leaned in close and whispered something nonsensical again: “Let’s take care of him now. It’s already too late.” Naturally, I ignored her completely.

At that moment, Simon raised his cup, his face bright with cheer, and began to make a toast.

“Well then, let us celebrate this fateful encounter—”
“ “ “Cheers!” ” ” “I’ll absolutely kill you.”

We clinked our cups together in a toast (though Coppelia’s contribution was more of a death threat).

Author’s Note:

Corrad didn’t fake his name. He simply mispronounced his own name.

Translator’s Note:

The difference is
コルラード (his real name)
コッラード (the name he gives Clara (Adelheid(Jill(Syltianna))))

Can you tell? Yup. It’s Between Korraado and Koruraado. Ru before R practically has the same effect as ッ (which indicates a lengthening of the previous vowel sound). Basically, there’s no difference.

Imma kill this author one of these days.

Editor’s Note:

And hence, the translator’s contribution was more of a death threat.

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In one corner of a grand hall, illuminated by the brilliant light of a magic device disguised as an opulent Bohemian crystal chandelier—far brighter than any candle—a boy and a portly gentleman, nearly twice his age, stood chatting. Both were dressed in the finest evening attire, each holding a glass of white wine.

“Live dolphin on my tongue, Oozy Cheese that leaps at you upon touch, the taste of Moet pig brains—oh, I’ve sampled quite a variety of exotic foods in my time. But when it comes to delicacies, the crown jewel has to be the Eunice Groß Nacktschnecke, or the Great Slug of Eunice.”

Earl Bartolucci, a central noble of the Graviol Empire renowned both for his voracious appetite and love of fine dining, laughed heartily, his jowls and paunch quivering with amusement.

“A delicacy… You mean to say people actually eat slugs?”

Luke, startled and uneasy, managed to respond half out of politeness, and half out of genuine curiosity, though his hesitance was plain to see. Bartolucci, however, grinned with the satisfaction of a seasoned prankster whose trick had landed perfectly.

“Indeed! Even the smaller ones measure at least a merte, and the larger specimens exceed three mertes. They are practically monsters. Believe it or not, the mountainous regions of Eunice are positively teeming with them—squirming about everywhere.”

As he spoke, Bartolucci deftly moved his hand to pluck cheese and ham from a plate offered by a servant, popping the morsels into his mouth without disrupting the conversation. His ability to eat without being unsightly and maintain a steady rhythm in his speech was, in a way, a remarkable skill.

“Ordinary slugs might nibble on vegetables, but these are ferocious omnivores. There’s an old saying about the hierarchy of fear: ‘a frog frozen by a snake, a slug staring down a frog, and a snake caught by a slug.’ It’s no joke—these beasts are known to devour frogs, snakes, and even humans or large magical creatures, depending on the situation. Honestly, it’s a blessing that these monsters are exclusive to Eunice. If they roamed freely across the continent, it would be a nightmare.”

Count Bartolucci let out a hearty laugh, and Luke managed a dry chuckle to go along with it.

Meanwhile, a group of young noblewomen, who had been hovering nearby, hoping for an opportunity to approach Luke, overheard snippets of the conversation. The grotesque subject matter visibly soured their mood, and they quietly retreated, leaving a small bubble of space around the two men.

Well, that’s only natural, thought Eren, who was currently playing the role of Luke’s temporary maid.

After talk of bat eyeballs, crab meat with the crunch of human bones, and now a slug larger than a person being hailed as the ultimate delicacy, it was hardly surprising that the sheltered noble ladies found the conversation unbearable.

With a mix of relief and sympathy, Eren let out a quiet sigh.

It had been over ten months since the disastrous field trip to the town of Arlea. Despite their relentless efforts, Luke and his companions had yet to locate Jill or Cestlavie (and their accidental “tagalong”). To make matters worse, the upper echelons of the Eunice Theocracy had politely but firmly requested their departure, leaving them at a dead end as they desperately searched for clues.

Even back home, Lieselotte, Viola, and others had been leveraging their networks to gather information. However, between the politically precarious status of the princess and the rigid secrecy of the Eunice Theocracy, progress was painstakingly slow.

Luke’s attendance at events like this party was a desperate measure to forge connections and glean even the smallest scraps of information about Eunice.

Though the results thus far were unimpressive, no one had lost hope for Jill’s survival. They were certain she would return, wearing her usual unbothered expression. That unwavering belief kept them going.

“Why, even the esteemed Shrine Maiden Princess Clara herself is said to have enjoyed them—she polished off an entire slug in one sitting! Ha ha ha!”

Count Bartolucci swirled his glass, brimming with good cheer. Luke, however, forced a polite smile, hiding his growing discomfort.

(So Lady Clara had a taste for something as bizarre as giant slugs? I guess she had an adventurous palate after all…)

Eren, thinking such thoughts, cast her gaze upward toward the ceiling.

♢♦♢♦♢

“Heaven’s Punishment—!!”

Coppelia suddenly kicked her chair over and stood up.

Locking onto the bewildered young gentleman beyond the head of the boy who had just arrived, she prepared to launch a rocket punch amid a puff of white smoke. Before she could, I swiftly delivered a spinning kick to her solar plexus, while Cestlavie kicked up her arm along with the table.

The misfired rocket punch blasted a hole in the ceiling, scattering white dust. The force knocked my hood loose, causing my previously braided hair to unravel and fall into slightly wavy strands.

“Cough—What are you doing, Lady Clara?”
“That’s my line! What were you trying to do just now?!”
“—? Of course, I was about to execute that thing since he’s trying to hinder you, Lady Clara!”

As she reattached the arm that had returned from the ceiling, Coppelia pointed at her target. Other customers in the direction of her line of sight yelped and leaned back in alarm. Standing at the end of her pointing finger was the young gentleman, still frozen in shock and unable to comprehend the situation.

“You’ve just met him! How can you decide to kill someone in less than a second?!”
“To eliminate any potential future grudges for you, of course!”
“Who said anything about inciting murder?! Explain the circumstances that led you to this decision!”
“It’s an urgent situation, and explaining it would take too long, so I’ll skip it. Besides, wasn’t it Lady Clara who once said, ‘Words are unnecessary. If you’re a woman, settle it with your fists’?”
“I never said that! Also, I feel like your pronunciation of ‘settle’ is slightly off!”

While Coppelia and I were caught up in this ridiculous exchange, Cestlavie silently restored the table amid the murmuring crowd and cleaned up the fallen dishes and wooden plates. Taking a few coins from his pocket, he handed them to the boy.

“Sorry about that. Here’s some compensation and a little extra for the ceiling repairs.”
“Ah… y-yes.”

The boy, looking entirely at a loss, accepted the money and nodded mechanically.

“That’s Lady Clara, right?”
“Why did the maid’s arm just fly off?”
“…Could it be some sort of performance?”
“Oh, that makes sense. I heard that her church has been struggling with finances lately.”
“Ah, so it’s a skit.”
“Impressive as expected of Lady Clara!”
“That kick was spectacular!”

Amidst the cheers and applause, small donations were thrown our way, accompanied by lukewarm, pitying gazes. “…Ahem.” I cleared my throat and straightened my posture.

As the boy bent down to collect the donations, the young gentleman—the apparent cause of Coppelia’s sudden outburst—stepped forward.

“So, may I take it that I am permitted to share this table after all?”

His daring attitude made even Cestlavie blink in mild surprise as he gave the gentleman a closer look.

“—Even after all this, you still want to sit with two eccentrics?”
“Who are you calling eccentric?!”
“Hey, peasant. While I appreciate your attempt at accurate self-assessment, do refrain from lumping Lady Clara into the same category as you.”

This useless maid seems to think she is safe from the insult.

“Pleasure to meet you. My name is Corald Simon, a humble countryman.”

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Cestlavie sighed, carving into the food before him as he replied, “Calling that hairstyle and a hooded cloak a disguise is a bit of a stretch, you know.”

“Is it?”

I’d gone to considerable effort this morning to style my hair into a Gibson roll—a look that even gathered my knee-length hair into three braids on each side. Considering that shorter, more practical haircuts were the standard for most women unless they were nobles, priestesses, or troubadours, I thought it’d be enough to avoid suspicion.

“…Well, never mind. So, about the political climate of this era. According to historical anecdotes, during this secret meeting, Cilento attempted to seize control, which provoked fierce opposition from the Eunice Theocracy and the Kingdom of Aulanthia. This almost escalated into a full-blown, drawn-out war—”

Cestlavie continued explaining the political dynamics of the northern countries of this era, occasionally furrowing his brows as he silently worked through a dish with the unwieldy name Groß Nacktschneck, a supposedly famous meat pie filled with some mysterious type of meat.

“Munch munch… Lady Clara, what do you think this meat is? Even my sensory modules can’t identify it.”
“It’s not beef, pork, lamb, or chicken. Honestly, I’m not even sure if it’s meat at all. It doesn’t smell, but the texture’s like firm gelatin. Are we even supposed to be eating this? And, Coppelia, do you even need to eat?”
“I don’t, but I can eat if it serves the purpose of poison testing or fostering smoother interpersonal relationships through shared meals. But seriously, this is a mystery. You know what? Let’s call the innkeeper!”

“…Are you two even listening?” Sharing the same dish and exchanging thoughts with cheerful enthusiasm, we were clearly having a good time, much to Cestlavie’s irritation as he glared at us while trying to lecture about history.

Hmm. Both Coppelia and I may only be pseudo girls, but it’s only natural to get animated when discussing food. Apparently, though, Cestlavie didn’t share that sentiment.

“So impatient. Hasty men are disliked by women, you know. Right, Lady Clara?”
“…Well, I do think patient men are more attractive.”

Suddenly, I thought of Luke’s face.

Though he wouldn’t even exist in this era, his easygoing demeanor stood in stark contrast to Cestlavie’s. He might seem unreliable at times, but in a positive light, his relaxed attitude showed he was always at ease and natural. …Or perhaps that’s just my bias speaking?

Cestlavie looked into my eyes, seemingly realizing something, and let out a small, irritated click of his tongue.

“At any rate, it’s clear that this isn’t just some ceremonial meeting. It’s bound to become a pivotal event shaping the future of the northern nations. And the key figures here are Prince Corrad of Aulanthia, Princess Simonetta of the Duchy of Enyuria, who would later become his queen, and the Shrine Maiden Princess, Clara.”

At the mention of “Shrine Princess Clara,” Cestlavie pointed his fork in my direction.

*It’s easy to get swept up in the conversation, but let me just remind everyone—I’m not the same person as that Clara… *

“While the details are unclear, what we do know is that Prince Corrad later took the initiative to avoid direct confrontation with Cilento and decided to pledge submission. This decision ultimately prevented intervention from other nations and played a significant role in the birth of the Livitium Imperial Kingdom.

“Wow.”

Not bad, Father.

“Though, the prevailing theory is that it was mostly thanks to the capable people around him or some advice from Clara…”

Never mind, Father.

“So, although the history books hardly mention it, the role of the guide in this situation seems to have been quite an important and potentially groundbreaking one.”

With a subtle gleam in his eyes, Cestlavie looked up at me as he munched on his meat pie.

“Prince Corrad and Lady Simonetta, huh? Honestly, I’d prefer to avoid meeting them altogether if possible.”

I’d really like to stay as far away as possible from anything involving my family.

“If I claim I’m feeling unwell, I doubt it’ll be a convincing excuse, so maybe I should just vanish for a while… Hey, Cestlavie, would you take me and run away together?”

“Gah!”

At my sudden request, Cestlavie choked on the pie he was eating and started coughing violently.

I hurriedly grabbed the cup at hand and brought it to Cestlavie’s lips. The water inside—precious due to its rarity as directly drinkable water—was boiled well water cooled and infused with citrus fruits for better taste and aroma, making it relatively expensive. As he drank, I gently patted his back.

“Are you alright? You need to chew properly before swallowing, or it’s dangerous.”
“Commoners just gobble up food, don’t they? Are you even listening to Lady Clara’s words properly?”
“I was listening. That’s why this happened.”

Cestlavie grumbled bitterly as he downed the rest of the water in one gulp.

“But why not? I don’t know my way around this country, so if I’m going to run away, you’re the one I’d have to rely on, Cestlavie.”
“…That’s what you meant. Well, I kinda expected as much.”

After a brief moment of self-reflection, Cestlavie seemed to resolve something internally and let out a deep sigh. He then waved down the boy from earlier, who happened to be passing by, and ordered a refill of the water.

“Seriously though, if we run and get caught, wouldn’t I end up branded as the heinous criminal who kidnapped the Shrine Maiden Princess?”
“It’ll be fine. If we explain things sincerely, they’ll understand.”
“It’s fine. You’ll just have to sacrifice yourself in her place.”

Faced with the heartwarming trust that Coppelia and I expressed, Cestlavie shot us a deadpan glare.

“In any case, there’s absolutely no way I’m meeting Prince Corrad. Even if it means altering history!”

At that very moment, the boy returned with a tray, followed by a young man walking a few steps behind him. The young man, who appeared to be just past his twenties, wore immaculate white attire—a spotless shirt paired with trousers and a frock coat, clearly marking him as someone of higher status, perhaps an upper citizen or nobility. He approached our table with deliberate steps.

“Um, excuse me. The shop is getting quite crowded, so would it be possible to share your table?”

The boy, looking troubled and hesitant, bowed his head slightly. Behind him, the young man, who exuded the air of a wealthy heir, flashed me a playful wink.

“Apologies for interrupting your conversation. This is my first time in this town, and I couldn’t resist trying the renowned specialty, the great slug—Groß Nacktschneck. I hope you wouldn’t mind if I joined you for a bit?”
“ “G-Great slug…?!” ”

At the young man’s offhand comment, Cestlavie and I instinctively glanced down at the half-eaten meat pie on our plates, our expressions shifting to something indescribable.

Because of this distraction, neither of us noticed the sharp change in Coppelia’s demeanor as she locked her gaze on the young man, her eyes appraising his seemingly good-natured face.

Nor did we catch her muttered words:

“—Sir Simon.”

Author’s note

There were many comments pointing out that it was too simplistic, so I changed the name of the slug to the German Groß Nacktschneck (Groß = large, Nacktschneck= slug) instead of the English “slug.”

Regarding the Gibson roll, I received feedback asking for more detail, so I provided a more detailed description.

It’s styled as a braided arrangement starting from the sides and then gathered together.

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Roughly 400 years ago (though legend claims a history of 700 to 800 years, the clearly recorded timeline only dates back to this period), the city-state of Thera Maryth, then a remote outpost, had a city wall like any other, constructed to fend off threats like monsters and bandits.

However, Thera Maryth’s walls were somewhat unconventional. Beyond their practical purpose as stone or earthen barriers, they were built with a ritualistic intent—to isolate the sacred site, where a certain local deity was worshipped, from the secular world.

Centered around a temple dedicated to this deity, the city was encircled by whitewashed walls three mertes tall, forming a near-perfect 300-merte radius. Within the enclosure were inns, schools, a slaughterhouse, a weekly market for livestock and other goods, as well as orchards, vegetable gardens, and pastures suitable for self-sufficiency. Despite its distinct appearance and religious significance, the city itself was fairly ordinary in its layout and function.

As an aside, the worship of this local deity has been completely abolished in the present day.

About a century ago, Saintess Snow and the hero Arland, guided by her, uncovered that this local deity was, in fact, a demon god. They defeated it, breaking the unconscious mental enslavement of shrine maidens and priests (or so they claimed). The region subsequently shifted its faith to the saintly savior and established the current Saintess Church, a transformation that has since become a near-mythical narrative.

Following these events, the city walls underwent several rounds of renovation. These renovations focused on defense against monsters and common bandits, rather than preparing for war (since the city would already be doomed if the enemy reached this point).

As a religious city surrounded by natural fortifications such as numerous dungeons, its defenses were primarily designed against monsters rather than human invaders. The walls also served as barriers imbued with wards and as a dramatic backdrop to enhance the majesty of the grand cathedral towering above the city. Over time, the walls were modified more for ornamentation than practical use.

As the years passed, the once-minor local order evolved into a major religious organization with influence over neighboring northern countries. To accommodate its growing population of adherents and the city’s expanding scale, the city’s population began to spill beyond the original city walls.

The influx of people was also fueled by Thera Maryth’s relatively stable political system amidst the rising instability of surrounding nations. Houses sprouted outside the city gates, followed by shops catering to the new residents. Churches were built, guild trading posts established, and markets opened.

Over time, the outer city became the hub of commerce and exchange in Thera Maryth. Carriage stations, meeting halls, open-air stalls, and inns sprang up, transforming the area into a bustling new district. The inner city—the walled area—came to be known as the “Central Holy City,” designated as a special zone where members of the clergy and nobility resided. Meanwhile, the outer city, referred to as the “New City,” became home to common believers and middle- to lower-class residents, marking a clear divide in residential zones.

Notably, the New City was constructed without any walls, allowing free passage from all directions.

In the New City, near the lower district, there was a fairly well-known establishment called The Dwarven Apple Pavilion. It functioned as a combination of a restaurant, an inn, a modest blacksmith workshop, and a general goods store.

Shrouded in a mix of truth and rumor, it was said to have been founded by Holiday, the Dwarven Sage and one of the seven heroes from the widely known fairy tale The Crimson Snow White and the Seven Heroes, after his retirement from adventuring.

Given its background, the inn was a rare sight in the northern regions, where prejudice against non-human races still ran deep. Dwarves, hobbits, beastfolk, and other demi-human races frequented the establishment openly. As a result, the inn bore a resemblance to an adventurer’s guild, unbound by the origins, lineage, or race of its patrons.

While the inn was typically packed to the point of spilling outside during dinner hours, it was now just shy of lunchtime, so there were still some empty seats despite the steady crowd.

At one of the inn’s more secluded tables, a trio of individuals—clearly making an effort to avoid drawing attention but instead radiating an unmistakable air of uniqueness—sat eating and engaged in a hushed discussion.

♦♢♦♢

“Enjoyed yourself last night, did you?”

After recounting the origins of this country, Coppelia flashed an insinuating smirk at Cestlavie, who was fishing a pill out of his medicine pouch with a weary expression.

“…You all left in such a hurry, I ended up stuck with a bunch of drunk old men pestering me all night,” Cestlavie grumbled, swallowing his hangover medicine whole with a sour expression. He added, “It was a nightmare—being harassed with baseless suspicions and then getting pressured to spill my guts while plastered.”

“Oh, you must mean those adventurers from yesterday. I actually prepared, thinking some of them might drop by the church for healing after hearing word of mouth, but as of this morning, there haven’t been any visitors. Bit of a letdown, really.”

I said, giving a small shrug. Perhaps this city simply doesn’t have that many people worried about thinning hair.

“Nobody believes drunken ramblings about curing baldness,” Coppelia remarked coldly.

“…”

Whether because of the bitterness of the medicine or because her words hit too close to home, Cestlavie scowled and turned away.

Incidentally, Cestlavie was dressed in his usual practical black attire, while Coppelia, in her ever-present maid outfit, sat on her chair. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I felt the surrounding patrons shooting us odd looks, as if wondering, Why is a maid just lounging about, not working?

Just then, a boy of about seven or eight—perhaps a kitchen helper or maybe the innkeeper’s child—came over from the kitchen carrying a large platter of food.

“Uh, u-um… Here’s your order of Groß Nacktschnecke Pie with herb salad and water,” the boy stammered nervously, stealing glances in my direction as he set the food on the table.

“Thank you. You’re such a good boy, working so responsibly,” I said, reaching out instinctively to pat his head.

The boy’s face flushed bright red, and he stammered, “Y-y-yes, ma’am, Lady Clara!” before scurrying back to the kitchen with a spring in his step.

“…I have the feeling my identity’s been discovered somehow,” I mused, tilting my head. “But how? I’m in disguise…”

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Originally, I had come to the Sidonia Grand Labyrinth to prepare for my upcoming meeting with the Aulanthia Frontier Count—or rather, Prince Corrad, the first in line to the throne of the Kingdom of Aulanthia. (I don’t recall his face at all, but he’s supposed to be my future father, isn’t he? Probably.) Anyway, Cestlavie and I had sought out a secluded place to strategize for this event two weeks from now, but instead, we’ve encountered one unexpected twist after another.

As I spoke, everyone turned to stare at Cestlavie in unison. For some reason, their gazes carried a sharp intensity, as if they were ready to shoot daggers at him.

“I see… Well then, Cestlavie. I’d like to hear all about your connection to Lady Clara in detail. Let’s head over to that tavern we visited the other day. Of course, I’ll treat you as a token of gratitude. Sounds good?”

The speaker was Shimlar, the black-bearded leader of the party. Despite the cheerful tone and smile on his face, his eyes were dead serious. He placed a firm hand on Cestlavie’s shoulder and declared this with a hearty laugh. The final “Sound good?” was directed at the party members behind him.

“ “ “ “ “Yeah!!” ” ” ” ”

The others responded with wide, toothy grins that were oddly unnerving. Their expressions felt more menacing than cheerful, but maybe that’s just the nature of adventurers.

“……”

Faced with this display of camaraderie, Cestlavie glanced at me with an expression, not unlike a calf being led to the slaughterhouse, then let out a deep sigh.

At that moment, it seemed an idea struck Shimlar.

“Also, if I may ask, Lady Clara, it doesn’t sit right with me that we’re the only ones fortunate enough to receive your aid. Could you provide the same healing to the other victims as well? Of course, we’d compensate you appropriately for the treatment.”

He turned to me and bowed his head apologetically.

“If I can be of help, please don’t hesitate to visit St. Ravier Church… Also, I cannot accept compensation in the form of treatment fees, but if you would kindly make a donation to the church as alms, it would be greatly appreciated.”

I’d like to think of this as an act of pure goodwill, but the truth is that our budget has been tight lately, and I’ve been living without enough protein in my diet. If possible, donations in the form of goods—specifically, meat—would be most welcome.

That’s the sort of lighthearted response I gave as I casually signed my name on whatever they handed me. Little did I know, this incident would become a topic of widespread discussion, eventually reaching not only the common people but even the upper echelons of the church. It would ultimately lead to cementing the name of “Clara” in a peculiar way. (After all, no history book ever said, “Clara rose to fame by curing baldness!”)

♦♢♦♢

Eliza “Barbara” Farias was in a foul mood.

Just moments ago, she had been summoned by the chief lady-in-waiting and informed that she had been assigned to serve as a guide for Prince Corrad, the first in line to the throne of the powerful Aulanthia Kingdom—a nation that would likely play a pivotal role in the upcoming Northern Unified States Conference in two weeks.

This was fine. Given her age, pedigree, abilities, and beauty, it was only natural for her to be chosen for such a prestigious role.

But when she heard that the same responsibility had been assigned to that upstart shrine maiden—Clara, whose origins were as obscure as they come—it was more than she could tolerate.

“To think that I, of all people, would be treated as an equal to some mere pretty-faced upstart—it’s humiliating!”

Eliza paced back and forth in a room so lavish that it seemed almost inappropriate for a church. Her frustration filled the space as her entourage—young shrine maiden candidates who also served as her maids—nodded along with her words and eagerly joined in mocking Clara in an attempt to soothe her.

“It’s surely the Third District Head interfering again, Sister.”
“That impoverished church must be desperately pushing her forward. How pathetic.”
“She’s just a passing fad, hyped up for her novelty. A one-hit wonder at best.”

“Well, fine.” After venting her frustrations, Eliza finally seemed to calm down, seating herself gracefully in a chair. One of her attendants promptly pulled the chair out for her, while another began preparing a cup of expensive tea.

“I’ll just have to expose her fraud when it matters most… No, wait. That won’t do. If I handle it poorly, it could reflect badly on the church itself. I’ll need to act before that. As much as it pains me to admit, her looks are undeniable. If she were to somehow catch Prince Corrad’s eye…”

Eliza bit her lip in frustration.

Her murmured monologue caused the young shrine maiden candidates to exchange puzzled glances.

Finally, the eldest among them—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say the one who looked the eldest, at around seventeen or eighteen—hesitantly spoke up on behalf of the group.

“Um, Lady Eliza, I was thinking… If the prince or someone influential were to take an interest in her and grant her their favor, wouldn’t she be forced to secularize? In that case, wouldn’t it be a convenient way to rid ourselves of her?”

As she sipped the freshly brewed tea, Eliza narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Hmph. That would be tantamount to letting her get away with a victory. I need to crush that pretentious little shrine maiden outright and show everyone who’s superior.”

“How admirable, Sister! Truly inspiring!” A younger priestess candidate’s eyes sparkled as she showered Eliza with praise. Meanwhile, the slightly older candidates exchanged uneasy glances.

(Isn’t that essentially a declaration that she sees Clara as a rival…?)

However, none of them were foolish enough to voice such thoughts aloud.

“So, does that mean you’re not particularly aiming to secure a favorable position with Prince Corrad?”
“Not really. While I see value in maintaining connections with the Aulanthia Kingdom, we still don’t know how the unified states will take shape. I have no intention of cozying up unnecessarily.”

At Eliza’s matter-of-fact words, the shrine maiden candidates breathed a collective sigh of relief, exchanging subtle looks of reassurance.

“Perhaps it would be wiser to prepare for the possibility of him getting carried away on his own? From what I’ve heard, while his looks might be commendable, his character seems to be neither exceptional nor lacking.”

Eliza, brimming with confidence in her own allure, spoke decisively. The eldest of the priestess candidates nodded knowingly in agreement.

“Indeed. Furthermore, it seems young ladies from various nations will be attending in an effort to forge connections with the prince. That alone is likely to stir up trouble. Rumor has it the Duchy of Enyuria is making a serious push, sending none other than the renowned First Princess, Lady Simonetta, celebrated as a great beauty.”

The Duchy of Enyuria, historically a strategic maritime hub in the northern region, had once developed as an enclave of the Graviol Empire. Though it gained independence roughly a century ago, its strong historical ties to the empire had left it with considerable influence in the northern territories despite its modest size.

“Ah, Lady Simonetta,” Eliza murmured.

As a favored daughter of the Church and someone with a lineage that afforded her familiarity with the northern nations’ leadership, Eliza recalled the face of the princess, a peer of her own age. She let out a slight scoff through her nose.

“Calling her a great beauty just proves how little sense the world has. She’s nothing but makeup and fancy dresses. Someone like that is what you’d call a situational beauty.”

♦♢♦♢

“Hmph. As expected, they assigned Eliza to handle Prince Corrad’s reception. How transparent their motives are. Still, does a mere church shrine maiden think she can stand as my rival?”

Hearing the steward’s report, Simonetta spat her words with evident displeasure.

At fourteen years old, Simonetta was undeniably beautiful, though her features carried an air of arrogance and severity. Any hint of the youthful charm typical of her age was entirely absent.

“But Lady Eliza is renowned as a prospective candidate for the next Holy Maiden and celebrated for her beauty, is she not?”

The steward, feeling compelled to caution her excessive disdain, offered this observation.

“Hah. What beauty? People only think so because they view her through the rose-colored lens of her shrine maiden title. At best, she’s mediocre, nothing more than a bland flatterer who tries to please everyone.”

Simonetta dismissed the notion with a scornful laugh.

“I see. Additionally, the Church is said to have appointed another priestess as an escort. This one—”

“Oh, that’s irrelevant. Surely, she’s just a token inclusion to make up the numbers. Just keep an eye on Eliza. Ideally, find some weakness to exploit and push her out of the role before the reception even begins.”

As the steward continued his report, Simonetta impatiently cut him off. Momentarily hesitant, he chose silence, gave a respectful bow, and adjusted his posture, careful not to provoke his young mistress further.

Author’s Note:

It’s been a year since I’ve last written Simonetta, so I kinda forgot her speech mannerism and such (sweat)

Simonetta is 14 years old
Corrad is 22 years old
IIRC, they married when Simonetta was 16