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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.