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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gave the impression that her brain might as well be stuffed with sawdust or garden eels, that cheeky little brat— had been replaced by this so-called adventurer.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.