With the Blessing of Purification against taint, it meant she would carry humanity’s weight forward; the room bowed into respect like wheat under a steady wind.

The banquet was simple: rich dishes lifted like jeweled trays, dancers rippling like flames, opera and concert weaving together, then conversations rising like lanterns in the night.

By the way, Alvis had the family cooks use food from the storeroom, like grain pulled from a quiet granary; Vittor’s gifts stayed aside, waiting like sealed jars in reserve.

Alvis and Bazeroth talked well, like two rivers meeting; Mother laughed with Regino’s parents, warm as hearthlight; Regino chased conversation with Lucimia, tossing topics like petals; Desty ate alone, heads-down and steady.

She looked like someone starved of joy, scooping every dish into her plate like a squirrel hoarding, chicken in her mouth as her fork speared beef, stuffing nonstop like a small storm.

So… does she have the foodie trait?

Catching Lucimia’s gaze, Desty finally reined it in like a horse tugged to a halt.

“What? We march and fight. If we don’t eat fast, we starve. I’m a Holy Knight—so my eating looks rough. I’m not a foodie.” She dabbed hands and lips, flustered, like a cat caught stealing fish.

…but I didn’t ask anything.

Lucimia glanced at Bazeroth and the other Holy Knights; their manners were polished like steel; she looked back at Desty and felt speechless, like a cloud that wouldn’t rain.

Speaking of good food—

She thought of Yuna, alone in her room. Worry rose first like smoke; she couldn’t leave, so she asked Father to invite her friend Yuna to taste these dishes.

Father told her not to rush Yuna over, like a door kept closed; he didn’t give a reason.

All right.

When guests arrived, Alvis had entered early with Bazeroth; maybe they spoke alone like two chess players. What was Father planning? How to deal with fake Kaeli and fake Vittor?

The feast ran bright, yet Lucimia drifted, her mind a boat in fog; jokes flowed like wine, and only she sat restless, like a bird trapped in a cage.

The banquet kept breathing; the performances finished; time still lay open like a sunlit courtyard.

Regino had truly talked himself hoarse; his throat felt dry, and he drank, mood heavy as wet cloth.

He felt he’d been speaking to wood. At first, Lucimia nodded or hummed politely like a gentle bell; then she ignored him, silence like a closed fan.

He thought it through: Lucimia was also from a Count house; his family traded with the Lancelot Family, so she must have heard such matters at home, knowledge like dust already settled.

That tracks. No wonder she wasn’t interested. At the Magus Academy in the Royal Capital, these topics worked on commoner girls like bright fishhooks.

So go for what she lacks—magic.

Lucimia had never gone to any academy; so in magic, he felt sure-footed, like a runner on a known road.

Regino found his father and proposed a magic exchange among the noble heirs, words loud as a drum in a quiet hall.

He spoke so loudly that many heard. Before his father replied, the viscounts and barons chimed in, voices popping like corks.

“Good—good.”

“Sounds fine. Let’s see how the kids have learned.”

“We’ve got time. Let them exchange spells. My kid’s studied.”

They knew they couldn’t match Regino of a Count house; they’d already assumed he was strongest, and they mainly wanted to weigh their heirs against other viscounts and barons, like scales settling.

Alvis and Bazeroth both agreed; Bazeroth even offered to judge and shield the hall, guarding people and place like a warded temple.

What, you think Lucimia would join and smack them down?

Too bad. She had no interest in playing with children; if she broke their confidence, that karma would be heavy as stone. She wouldn’t take it.

She sat obediently, sipping juice, calm as a lake.

Regino “led by example,” first to the stage, climbing the earlier platform like a hero stepping into light; before going up, he flashed Lucimia a confident smile, bright as a polished coin.

Lucimia said nothing, a quiet stone by a stream.

His opponent was a young boy, a 2nd-Order mage, top of the viscounts and barons like a sprig on the highest branch.

Bazeroth raised his right hand; his ring shone like a captured star; a barrier spread across the front like glass poured from air.

With Bazeroth’s announcement, both moved at once, nerves strung like bowstrings.

The 2nd-Order boy opened with a Fireball Spell, a blazing bead streaking like a comet; Regino stayed calm, flicked his hand, and hurled a gust, snuffing the fireball like a candle in wind.

The boy refused to yield; he cast his second spell.

Two fire arrows flared at his sides, bright as twin suns; he guided them with both hands and shot toward Regino, lines taut as spears.

Regino stayed calm; he shaped two wind orbs from his palms, meeting the arrows head-on like shields grown from storm.

Then the unexpected: the arrows curved inward before contact, crossing like scissoring swallows, slipping past the wind, and bending again toward the center—their crossing point was Regino.

No one spoke; eyes locked like iron, afraid to miss the next heartbeat.

The air tightened, tension like frost on glass. Would a 3rd-Order Regino lose?

The 2nd-Order boy’s father almost shouted; at this distance, Regino couldn’t dodge, fate close as a blade.

And then, the accident arrived.

The arrows struck true; smoke burst like a gray veil; when it thinned, Regino stood with both arms raised, untouched, solid as a statue.

Layered stone armor wrapped his forearms, plates interlocked like dragon scales; the arrows had done nothing.

“What?!” The boy gaped, eyes round as moons; his father mirrored him, stunned like a bell left silent.

While the boy dithered, Regino stepped in, long stride like a wolf’s lunge, and punched his shoulder; the boy fell, toppled like a cut reed.

Match decided.

Applause thundered from below like rain on a roof.

Regino basked, bowing to the crowd like a swan on water, then turning to Lucimia to catch the beauty’s reaction, hunger bright as a blade.

He was sure the smoke clearing off his stone armor had looked heroic, attack null, counter clean, a single strike ending it, flair like a sword flashed in sun.

Yet Lucimia’s face didn’t shift; no awe, no hostility, no scorn. Just calm, cool, a still mask like porcelain.

Regino saw it differently; he believed she was stunned by his power, dazed like a deer in light.

He flicked his bangs, playing cool, swagger like a cat walking a wall.

What was Lucimia truly thinking?

Where no one could see, the small hands on her thighs under the table had already curled into fists, tight as knotted silk.

—I want to hit him.