"…I don’t have the hobby of playing gas with soone who's unwell. Don’t provoke ."
"Hmm, is that so? Haah… Talking so much has made thirsty."
My sister poured herself a glass of water and took a sip before turning to Percival, who still hadn't fully regained his composure.
"I’ll think about your proposal. I hope Your Highness will do the sa."
"……."
"You must have thought you could manipulate with a little bit of scheming. But when it cos to controlling people, it’s not strategy that matters—it’s temperant."
"A truly wonderful piece of advice, Lady. But I won’t be taking back my proposal, so think carefully."
Percival growled, gripping the doorknob. My sister, intent on getting under his skin until the very end, swung her legs idly over the edge of the bed. Then, as soon as the door shut behind him, she flopped back down.
"Ha, damn it…."
Her breathing was rough. Unspoken emotions were swirling violently within her.
‘I want to comfort her…!’
But how could I do that without wounding her pride? Wouldn't it have been better if I had just burst in and smacked that bastard across the head?
As I was deep in thought, my sister let out a long, heavy sigh above , followed by a sharp clinking sound.
She had tapped the bed fra with a spoon.
Monts later, a maid ca running in.
"Lady Natalie! What’s wrong? Are you unwell?"
"Why are you so startled? You look like soone imagining the worst."
"N-No, my lady!"
"I need to use the restroom. Help up."
"Understood, my lady."
With the maid supporting her, my sister left the room. Seeing my chance, I wriggled out from under the bed.
But just before I fully erged from the shadows, sothing caught my eye—letters carved into the wooden fra beneath the bed.
It was too dark to read, so after crawling out completely, I used my sister’s hand mirror to reflect so light onto the words.
There were scribbles on the walls and furniture as well—petty complaints, mostly. Got scolded today. The bread tastes awful. My roommate is annoying.
But among them, the one ssage only visible from beneath the bed, carved deep with a blade, written in bright, jagged letters, stood out.
Ariel Rabbit was here. 976.11. / A curse upon P as well!
It reminded of The Shawshank Redemption, the way prisoners carved ssages into the wood.
Who had written this? How desperately had they done so?
Below 976.11, the numbers continued in sequence—976.12, 977.1… until stopping abruptly at 977.5.
If I were a detective in a mystery novel, I’d have morized those numbers at a glance.
But since I wasn’t that smart, I needed tools.
I grabbed the scraper the maid had given .
‘I’ll just record it this way.’
Using the scraper’s edge, I etched the letters and numbers onto the dirt wall, then drove the scraper into it, breaking off a chunk like stale bread.
‘Done!’
Just as I rushed out and took a few steps, I heard my sister’s voice behind , perfectly tid.
"Do they really believe keeping the bathroom in such a horrid state sohow aids spiritual growth?"
"Maybe they’re just short on money."
"And yet they take in so many donations! We should investigate whether the abbess has a private restroom of her own!"
Yeah, a terrible bathroom could make life miserable.
Still, hearing my sister grumble about it openly in the hallway made feel slightly relieved. She seed to be regaining her usual spirit.
‘I can’t just sit around doing nothing.’
Back in the maids’ quarters, I searched the room for more unusual scribbles.
The dirt wall beside the bed was the most densely covered in writings—desperate thoughts likely scratched in during sleepless, miserable nights.
Most of them were the usual complaints. I’m hungry. I miss my mother. I had a fight.
But the underside of this bed was clean.
‘Makes sense. To leave a ssage down there, you’d need serious determination.’
I stared at the piece of dirt I had collected, deep in thought.
The aning behind the numbers was simple: they represented a year and a month. 976.11 to 977.5. The record of a woman nad Ariel Rabbit.
‘This world’s current year is 978.’
Where did she go?
Do any of the other nuns rember her?
Of course, the more imdiate concern wasn’t so unknown woman—it was my sister’s safety.
But still.
‘This convent gave my sister a drug that worsened her hangover, all at Percival’s request.’
Calling it a hangover drug made it sound silly, but they could have easily given her sothing much worse.
‘And Percival was once indebted to this convent and still funds them. Was that really just a simple favor?’
There might be a weakness here, sothing that could be used against Percival.
And tonight was my only chance to uncover it.
***
Every ti a monster fell to the ground, the soldiers of Blue Atrium asked themselves in despair, Can we take down the next one?
Each beast was as large as a tunnel, devouring everything that ca within reach. The two commanders leading the charge were already panting, on the verge of collapse, yet they fought on.
Four had been slain.
As the fifth was being torn apart by their swords, in its final act of desperation, it lunged at Arthur.
The soldiers, belatedly realizing the crisis, reached for their bows—only to find their hands drenched in cold sweat.
They were too late.
No—!
Their cries were faster than their arrows.
But Tristan’s sword was faster still.
He plunged his blade into the monster’s back. It thrashed like an enraged bull, but Tristan held firm, enduring its death throes until its own struggles deepened its wounds.
At last, the blade was yanked free, slicing the wound open like a bolt of lightning. Tristan tumbled sideways but managed to get up, coughing harshly.
The fifth monster no longer moved.
As silence fell, Tristan slowly stepped forward—
And as the young duke staggered to his feet, leaning on Tristan for support—
The soldiers felt victory surge through their veins, a rush of triumph like no other.
That night, they delivered news of their victory to the lord of Blue Atrium.
A grand feast erupted in the encampnt.
The soldiers were granted permission to drink and eat as much as they pleased at the local tavern, with all expenses covered.
But no one left the camp.
The celebration here was too lively, filled with mountains of at and endless barrels of ale. Farrs from nearby villages had even brought snacks as thanks—delicacies the soldiers would never taste again.
And practically speaking—
"We’ll just drink here quietly. Pay us no mind."
If Tristan and Arthur were staying, who would dare leave?
Drinking with the two war heroes at the sa ti, in the sa space, was an experience no one wanted to miss.
Even if all they could do was sneak glances from afar.
The soldiers whispered among themselves.
"The young duke aside, I never expected the prince to be that strong."
"Right? He looks like a delicate unicorn, but when he charged like a raging bull, I nearly had a heart attack."
"Maybe we should go pay our respects later… when everyone’s drunk enough to loosen up."
"Not much chance of that. The atmosphere isn’t exactly lighthearted. What are they talking about?"
Unlike the rowdy soldiers, their commanders' drinking table was eerily quiet.
Only three people sat there—Tristan, Arthur, and the errand runner from the capital, Rick Ray.
"That commoner seems to know both of them…"
"Maybe it’s about the Blue Atrium succession…"
As the soldiers speculated, Rick Ray sat trapped in this unbearably awkward three-man drinking session.
Arthur, after a single pint of beer, had transford into an unstoppable fountain of Maria-related praise. A sack of flour with a hole in it would have been quieter.
And as if noticing Rick's darkening expression, Arthur made things even worse.
"So, Rick, I’ve been curious for a while. Do you have soone you like?"
"……."
"Or at least a preference in won? Since you’re a dear friend of my lady, I sincerely wish for your happiness."
For the first ti in his life, Rick felt pure rage toward an act of genuine kindness.
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