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Here in Thera Maryth, the capital of the Eunice Theocracy, the population is just over 250,000. This is a rough figure obtained by adding the number of members of each guild and the number of taxpayers as known by the government, in addition to the number of believers registered with the Church.

In addition, as the home of the Saintess’ Church and an ancient city with a history and tradition of over 600 years, pilgrims, theologians, tourists, lowly laborers, illegal residents, peddlers, and adventurers who take advantage of this situation come and go in turn, not only from within but also from neighboring countries, The actual population is said to be about 1.5 times as large. In any case, it is undoubtedly one of the largest cities in the northern part of the continent in this era.

However, as the country itself is located inland with limited open plains, the townscape is quite messy. Old two-story houses stand shoulder to shoulder on narrow plots of land, and the streets are not paved stone but bare earth… It is a bit unglamorous for the home of the Saintess Church, but it does have its charm once you learn how to love it.

That said, living here comes with considerable inconveniences.

For instance, there’s no clear distinction between sidewalks and roads. Instead, people have loosely sorted themselves out. The edges of the path, compacted by foot traffic, function as sidewalks, while the wheel ruts left by carts and wagons mark the roads. Even though the main streets in town are somewhat leveled, when it rains, they quickly turn into a sea of mud—an absolute disaster.

The city’s fragile infrastructure can be attributed to poor soil drainage, compounded by a lack of proper water and sewage systems—a critical flaw. In short, it’s a relic of an older era, a historic city preserved in name but, in reality, a remnant abandoned by time. That, in essence, is the true face of this town, Thera Maryth.

“…It’s been sunny lately, so I suppose it’s not too bad.”

As I navigated around piles of animal dung and discarded heaps of garbage littering the streets, I couldn’t help but mutter complaints under my breath.

Thinking back, the capital of the Graviol Empire, Conwallis, was situated along a great river. Its water and sewage systems were well-maintained, with even ordinary households having access to plumbing and flushing toilets.

The Livitium Imperial Kingdom’s—or rather, Cilento Central Kingdom’s capital, Cilento—where I spent most of my time at the academy and Letindüte III, handled water purification and waste through magical tools. From what I heard, regular households collected waste in portable tanks that were periodically emptied, so unpleasant odors weren’t particularly noticeable when walking through the streets.

However, as mentioned earlier, this town is surrounded by fiery sacred volcanic peaks, perpetually snow-capped mountain ranges, deep gorges that seem bottomless, and the impassable Unicorn Forest. Its geographical isolation, combined with the abundance of historic buildings that restrict urban development, means its urban functionality remains underdeveloped. To put it bluntly… the place is filthy and reeks.

Oh, and this might be irrelevant, but I was once sent to the Unicorn Forest for something called the Maiden’s Trial. The experience left me with quite a trauma. A massive herd of, well, let’s call them nags—no, unicorns—gathered and, all at once in their spirit-tongue, began bombarding me with crude comments like:

“Kyah! A super cute girl is here!”
“Lickety-lick… No doubt about it, she’s a virgin!”
“Kyah! Hug me!”
“Kiss me!”
“Step on me! Kick me!”
“Ah, ah, young lady, what color are your panties?”
“H-how about one night with me? Among unicorns, I’m quite the skilled lover.”
“No way! I’m the most virile of them all!”
“Nay, ’tis I!”
“Verily, I am!”
“I am!”
“Me, myself!”
“Truly, it is I!”

The lot of them sounded like celibate perverts spewing harassment. Needless to say, I unleashed an offensive spell on the entire group and vowed never to return. If you ask me, those nags could go extinct, and we’d be better off developing the forest for something useful.

“Really, the behind-the-scenes of fantasy settings are surprisingly devoid of dreams and hope.”

Unicorns are lolicons. The ancient city is caked in filth. Behind every facade lies the unvarnished truth.

Though, well… No matter if it’s humans or animals, living beings must eat from above and expel from below—it’s the law of nature. That much is unavoidable. Still, I wish the authorities would pay a bit more attention to hygiene.

I’ve even filed complaints through the church’s regional administrator and, as part of my service activities, participate in biweekly street cleaning. Of course, people like Eliza look down on me for this, saying things like, “A shrine maiden dealing with filth? How unbecoming!”

Lately, though, I’ve gained more support from local communities. When we do soup kitchens for orphanages and slums, I also emphasize the importance of handwashing, gargling, and keeping the surroundings clean to prevent contagious diseases. However, I don’t know how effective these efforts are since we don’t have the statistics to measure the results.

The bigger problem is that many seem to think, “If we get sick or injured, Lady Clara will just heal us.” It feels like trying to scratch an itch through a shoe. I really wish people would show a bit more initiative…

As I walked along, shopkeepers from nearby stores and stalls, the landlady of an inn-slash-tavern, pilgrims to the holy land, and patrolling soldiers all greeted me warmly with smiles.

“Oh, it’s Lady Clara!”
“You look beautiful as always…”
“Stunning… truly a feast for the eyes.”
“Kyaaah, so charming!”
“Lady Clara, please marry me—ugh!”
“Alright, punishment time! The nerve to pull a stunt like that in front of us, Lady Clara’s personal guard. Take him away!”
“““““OOOORAAAH!!”””””

“So that’s the famous Lady Clara… Such grace, such beauty. Truly the Queen of Orchids, Cattleya!”
“She’s so gorgeous… I bet she doesn’t even go to the bathroom.”
“Of course not. Lady Clara would never do something as mundane as going to the bathroom!”
“Exactly! That’s right!”

………

The weight of public perception is starting to feel a bit suffocating, but for now, I return their enthusiasm with a smile.

Truthfully, the presence of a young shrine maiden like me serves as a symbol—or rather, an idol—of the Saintess’ Church. There’s even a directive to maintain a cheerful demeanor toward the common folk whenever possible. Not that I need to be told; returning a smile with a smile is second nature. Still, I can’t help but think this might be the seed of excessive commercialization down the line.

Even now, I’ve heard rumors that my portraits and handshake tickets—no, I mean invitations to Church-hosted parties—are being sold at exorbitant prices. Not that I see a single coin of it, so I don’t know the exact details, but still…

And then—

“Waaaahhh!!”

A sudden scream and the loud sound of a crash made me whip around in alarm. I saw a cart, drawn by an emu, had veered off course and slammed head-on into a street tree.

“Are you alright?!”

Dodging the scattered corn spilling from the cart’s bed—by the way, most vegetables here haven’t undergone much selective breeding, so this was likely animal feed-grade dent corn with almost no flavor. I tried cultivating some with fertilizer last year as an experiment, but it didn’t improve the taste at all—I hurried over to assist the driver, who had been thrown onto the street. Kneeling beside him, I conducted a quick examination.

Thankfully, he hadn’t suffered any serious injuries, just some bruises and scrapes, which I promptly healed on the spot.

“Ohhh… thank you so much, Lady Clara!”

The middle-aged man, who seemed to be a farmer from the nearby countryside, clasped my hands in an exaggerated show of gratitude.

“Yes, yes, but handshakes are limited to fifteen seconds per person.”

Coppelia stepped in and pried the man’s hands off mine. Although he cast a resentful glance her way, she deflected it with her characteristically unyielding expression, which was as steely as ever.

“Per the Church’s regulations, handshakes with Lady Clara must not exceed fifteen seconds. Any longer, and it will be considered harassment, subject to disciplinary action. Though it’s likely you’d face vigilante justice before that happens.”

Following her meaningful gaze, I turned to see what she was hinting at. Before I knew it, a group of fully armed adventurers, along with an enigmatic crowd sporting matching bandanas, festival coats, and megaphones¹ slung over their shoulders, had surrounded the man. They held weapons at the ready, their predatory smiles like those of carnivorous beasts eyeing their prey.

“OH… I’m so sorry, I mean, really sorry about everything…”

For some reason, the man—who should have been the victim of the accident—was obsequiously kneeling at me, his head touching the ground.

Meanwhile, the townsfolk, moving with practiced efficiency, went about righting the overturned cart, calming the agitated emu, and collecting the scattered corn.

Normally, you’d expect a bit more of a commotion—onlookers gathering around, gawkers crowding the scene, and maybe even someone trying to make off with the spilled goods. But here, there wasn’t a trace of that. It was as if a backstage crew was expertly dismantling the props and set pieces of a stage production.

Then again… it’s not surprising. From what I’ve seen, incidents like this happen almost daily on this street. Collisions between carts, accidents caused by drivers mishandling reins, and self-inflicted mishaps are practically routine.

On top of that, there’s no shortage of bizarre occurrences. A chimney sweep suddenly losing their footing and plummeting from a roof, the blacksmith out front of his shop absentmindedly smashing his own foot with a hammer, or a young barber slipping and leaving someone with a reverse mohawk. In the worst cases, an entire crowd of pedestrians has toppled over like dominoes, turning the street into a scene of chaotic wailing.

With events like these happening so frequently, it’s no wonder the townspeople are so accustomed to handling them.