Lilithia had no intention of digging into past entanglements. Her focus should be solely on cultivation, forging, and perhaps alchemy—not meddling in Fiore’s history. It wasn’t her place anyway.

But…

"Fiore, stop bothering me unless it’s urgent!" she grumbled, yet dutifully started cooking for him. "It’s not that I mind feeding you, but you clearly have ulterior motives. Is the Sword Saint really this idle?"

Fiore sprawled on Lilithia’s bed like a shameless freeloader. "Don’t say that. Aren’t we the closest of friends?"

"…" Hard to argue with that.

The girl tied an apron around herself. "Stop staring. It’s just a stool. Have some sympathy for the vertically challenged. I’m still growing."

She stood on the stool. *Why don’t these indoor magic stoves auto-adjust for height?* She’d gotten used to it—she could manage without the stool, but comfort trumped pride.

"So," she cut him off as he opened his mouth, "you suspect your childhood friend changed because of me?"

"Exactly! It was me!" She didn’t hide it. "I know it’s gossiping behind her back, but I’ll say it plainly: I don’t like her."

Fiore chuckled wryly. "You’re as brutally honest as ever, Lilithia."

She blinked, her expression screaming *I’ve told you a hundred times I won’t lie to you*.

*When did I start reading her so easily?*

"Lisanna isn’t a bad person."

"Hmm. True. She’s got… *impressive peaks*."

"?"

"I meant her heart."

"Fiore, ever heard this saying?"

"What?"

"*Hollow valleys seem deep. Broad chests hide viciousness.*"

Fiore stared, utterly lost. "What are you talking about?"

Lilithia turned, thumped her barely-there chest on the stool, and pointed. "*This* is a flat-chested fiend." She then cupped her hands into an exaggerated circle. "Lisanna? That’s a *broad-hearted* blossom. Get it?"

"Is that even a thing?"

Her blunt self-deprecation was oddly endearing. She hopped down, jabbing a finger at him. "Do you even *understand*, Fiore? That’s a *dream*!" Her hands clawed the air. "Haven’t you fantasized about grabbing those things? Squeezing that soft, springy flesh—sinking into warmth like quicksand, breathing in her scent? *Haven’t you?*"

The vivid description flushed Fiore’s cheeks. "I… I’ve never had such thoughts."

"Are you even a man?" Lilithia demanded.

"Of course I am!"

"Then you *get it*! Damn it! When she visited last time, I *ached* to do that! Only her one-hit KO stopped me. You feel me, right?"

Fiore shook his head violently.

Lilithia groaned in exasperation. "How don’t you *get it*, Fiore? It’s a *dream*! A *dream*! Do you know how absurdly huge Lisanna’s are? Most women that endowed suffer sagging—but hers? Huge *and* perky. A rare sight! How can you not be moved?"

"…I’ve seen plenty."

"*Damn it!*" Lilithia collapsed to her knees, momentarily forgetting he was the protagonist—the guy cursed with daily accidental pervert moments. She pounced, pinning him to the bed, fists clutching his shirt. "You harem bastard! Reflect on your sins!"

Fiore fumbled, hands hovering awkwardly. *Her waist would be the natural place…* But he was too flustered.

More urgently—

Lilithia froze. Something was pressing against her.

Her smile stiffened. "Ahem. Fiore."

Fiore covered his face. "Don’t say it! I know what you’re thinking! Just… don’t!"

"You’re a boy. I get it," Lilithia said plainly.

"*Then stop saying it like that!*" Fiore’s shame surged. "This is… sword… never mind. Just get off me."

He’d almost invoked his "sword heart," but recalled its unreliability from past embarrassments.

"Honestly, I thought you were a herbivore. Who knew…" Lilithia climbed off, smirking. "I’m only eleven, you know~ If I were fourteen, maybe I’d help you out? Wouldn’t want you becoming a creep who preys on kids."

"Fourteen’s still too young!"

"Then why’s it standing at attention?"

"…Sorry."

Back on the stool, Lilithia checked the simmering meat. Cooking oil was scarce here; olive-like substitutes tasted bland. Animal fat it was—tedious to render, but Fiore deserved effort. She usually cooked carelessly, but for him? She wanted it perfect.

"What technique is that? I’ve never seen it."

"My hometown’s style."

"! Why didn’t you cook it when I visited your place last time?"

"I was nine."

Fiore almost asked about her mother but bit his tongue.

When Lilithia finally placed the steaming dishes before him and untied her apron, one thought struck Fiore: *I need to marry this girl someday.* Shameful, yet undeniable. Her effortless grace stirred him. Among all the beauties he knew, only Lilithia made his heart race like this.

She almost handed him chopsticks but switched to knife and fork. "What do you *really* think of Lisanna?" she asked abruptly. "You shared a past. I want to know your thoughts then… no." She shook her head. "What matters is how you feel *now*."

Fiore hesitated. Lying to Lilithia felt impossible. "She’s the perfect noble."

"Upholding every etiquette. A blossom on a lofty peak—radiant, yet untouchable."

Lilithia speared a piece of meat. "Hmm. She does give that vibe. But does it matter?"

"…"

"You don’t care about that stuff. Does it matter how she blooms? To the Sword Saint, even a flower in the stars could be plucked, right?"

"Not *that* exaggerated."

Fiore’s modesty drew a smile. Lilithia stood, leaning forward with another bite. "Open up. Try this."

"Ahh—" His eyes widened. "This is amazing! How’d you make it? Teach me."

"I will. But first—what’ll you do about her?"

"Do about…"

"I lectured her a bit," Lilithia said between bites.

Fiore blinked. "Lisanna?"

"Yeah. She’s got a dark streak, but I’m darker. That’s why she listened." Lilithia shrugged. "Her sudden obedience weirded you out. That’s why you came here, right?"

Spot on.

Fiore sighed. "Honestly, Fiore. She’s not evil, but she’s the type who courts disaster. Thinks respect and affection are owed to her. Believes effort guarantees reward. Kids with twisted fantasies like hers? Can’t be gentle."

"But she’s…"

"A girl? Your childhood friend?" Lilithia waved a hand. "She’s scolded you endlessly about noble decorum, gentlemanly conduct. Who even made those rules? Why must *you* follow them? Shouldn’t it be your choice? Does she *own* your obedience? If she hates it, she can leave. She can’t beat you, so she traps you with etiquette. Do you *truly* love those noble rules?"

"…No."

"So, Fiore," Lilithia beamed, "be freer. You’re the Sword Saint. You choose your own path. Rules? Etiquette? Duty? Follow them only if *you* want to. If you don’t, what does it matter to you if the world ends? You could flee. Nothing strange about that. Be kinder to yourself."

Words Fiore had never heard—not from birth, not as the Sword Saint.

Blunt. Selfish.

And utterly, heart-stoppingly captivating.