"Ho ho, after all, the good stuff really is all in the city..." She'd never entered a town alone before. Every visit had been with her father to buy necessities, never just to wander...

Lilithia's eyes locked onto a street vendor's stall selling something like grilled skewers.

Fiore strode ahead and returned with two sticks. "Here!" He handed one to Lilithia. "You looked like you really wanted one."

Lilithia held the skewer, conflicted. *So this is the protagonist's passive skill? Oblivious to romance, yet unexpectedly tender in small things.*

She took a bite. The chewy, squid-like meat—would any world grill such pitiful creatures?

"Why do you look annoyed?"

"...!"

Lilithia absolutely refused to admit she felt a flicker of jealousy. If she looked back at her own seventeen-year-old self, she’d never have noticed a girl’s mood—not even a nine-year-old’s—unless it was glaringly obvious.

*Damn it—this frustration again.*

Being around this man always did this to her. That’s why she hated "real-life winners." *Damn gentle protagonists. Just wait until I grow up. My cheat as a transmigrator is my greatest weapon. By eighteen, I’ll surpass this man...*

Why did it feel so distant? She didn’t know his strength, but his calm expression made anyone relax.

*Lilithia, stop thinking about him.* She regretted her actions. She seriously suspected some cosmic will was trying to make her throw her life away.

But she wouldn’t yield. She was a transmigrator. If protagonists had tiers, transmigrators were the undisputed kings.

Sure, some stories before her transmigration maligned transmigrators—but weren’t there far more where they starred?

*Local-born heroes like him? I’ll surpass him in minutes.*

She devoured the squid-like skewer in two bites and stared at Fiore. He blinked, puzzled. "What’s wrong?"

"I remember you."

Fiore laughed. This girl fascinated him—unlike any he’d met. She felt less like a child and more like a peer. Talking to her was effortless, no need to feign interest.

"Idiot! What are you laughing at?!" Lilithia seethed, yet she knew deep down: this man, grinning so openly, was genuinely kind.

*No villain could laugh like that.*

"By the way, Lily—shouldn’t you find your father?"

"!"

Lilithia recoiled three steps, striking an exaggerated defensive pose. "Wh-what?! We’ve known each other barely a day! Who calls someone by their nickname so casually? Do you have no sense of boundaries?!"

"Nah. It just suits you better."

The girl’s crimson eyes widened like glittering gemstones. She said nothing, accepting the name. She had no choice—she still needed his help. She’d quietly finish his "quest," craft him a reward, and hope it mattered later.

Then she recalled her father. "First—my father’s a simple man. He wouldn’t be... carousing around."

*...Who describes their own dad like that?*

Lilithia reasoned aloud: "To find him, we check the ore suppliers first. If he didn’t restock, we search the roads. If he did..." She trailed off. Simple logic—but remarkable for a nine-year-old. Yet from Lilithia, it felt natural. Fiore had never expected such depth from a child.

She led him toward the ore district. "This way..." They turned into a quiet alley.

Fiore suddenly blocked her path.

"?"

She stayed silent, watching him calmly. He sighed, stepping in front of her.

"Chasing me here? I didn’t expect that, Mephas."

Lilithia squinted. From the alley’s shadows emerged a woman—golden hair, a gem-encrusted staff floating beside her, clad in ornate leather armor that hugged her voluptuous figure.

The staff drifted before her, aimed at Fiore. "Fiore. Any last words?"

"You really don’t give up." He scratched his head, then turned to Lilithia. "And you—are you...?"

*Damn. Trouble.*

Lilithia inhaled sharply, forcing her trembling legs still. An ordinary person before transmigration, this reality—though anticipated—still overwhelmed her.

"If I said I knew nothing... would you believe me?"

Clearly, Fiore suspected she was Mephas’s spy. *My fault... acting nothing like a child. Does he think I’m a spy magically disguised as a kid?*

"Really?" Mephas’s voice dripped with mockery. "Fiore—believe her, and if she *is* my spy? You’d die with your back exposed. Even you." Her beauty felt twisted to Lilithia. "But kill her now, and she might just be an innocent girl caught in my scheme. What then? Your precious justice? Your dream of becoming Sword Saint? Reduced to nothing. What will you choose?"

*Damn it! The worst kind of woman—playing with hearts for fun.*

"Fiore," Mephas pressed, "swear loyalty. With my resources, your talent will make you Sword Saint."

Fiore faced her. "And if I become Sword Saint... then discard you? You have no leash for a Sword Saint, do you?"

"Because you’re *Fiore*," she declared, unflinching, admiration raw in her voice. "Once you give your word, you never break it. *That’s* why I pursue you." She extended a hand. "Choose."

Armored knights emerged from the shadows.

Lilithia’s heart hammered. She stared at Fiore’s back. *A protagonist would trust me. He’d carry me through this storm.*

But what if he wasn’t?

What if he surrendered? Would she survive? Or if he deemed her a threat—would his sword end her?

Her life wasn’t hers to control. She’d always known that.

But facing bloody reality, despair choked her. Her fate rested on Fiore’s choice.

And the outcome she craved—the hardest choice of all—felt impossible.

*What do I do? Stand here? Wait for fate? Or...*

Logically, she should grab his sword arm, press the blade to her throat. That might save her.

But she couldn’t move.

Blood roared in her ears. Sweat soaked her clothes like a forge’s heat. Her body froze.

Her voice trapped.

*So weak.*

Three years as a transmigrator—suddenly, they felt like hollow dreams. Reality’s weight crushed her.

Her mind sank, drowning in dark water, pressure mounting, breath fading—

—until a hand seized hers.

Warm. Steady. Yanking her back to the surface. Fiore pulled her against his chest, one arm shielding her, the other drawing his sword.

"Hold tight. Don’t let go."

Lilithia stared up. His face was calm as ever—a faint smile playing on his lips.

"...So you really are... the protagonist?" Her crimson eyes reflected his silhouette. She clung tightly.