Hilna was deeply displeased that Shel hadn’t returned all night.

“Teacher, where did you go last night? I waited for you the whole time—even made a midnight snack with the cook—but you never came back!”

“Guard duty at yesterday’s celebration wore me out. I dozed off in the church rest room. Sorry.” Shel brushed it off with a quick excuse, still yawning. “I’ll shower first, then catch up on sleep.”

“Well…” Hilna eyed Shel’s dark circles, sensing his exhaustion. A trace of concern softened her voice. “Teacher, why not decline that position Lord Monroe gave you? And if His Holiness summons you for those fairy-tale picture books later… just decline those too.”

“I’m already the academy’s top student. You don’t need to exhaust yourself currying favor. Mother Superior said once I graduate, I’ll become a Bishop directly. You can just relax with me.”

“Hilna, it’s fine. The role’s mostly quiet—only busy a few days a year, but the benefits are solid. Others fight tooth and nail for it. How can I quit? Keeping His Holiness’s goodwill isn’t bad. Oh—and Lord Monroe’s taking me on a trip tomorrow. Seems to be Lorentalan… just giving you a heads-up.”

“Lorentalan? Teacher, it’s New Year’s holiday! We finally have time off.” Hilna’s voice tightened. She’d planned to enjoy it with him. “Why another trip?”

“Nobles there are stirring rebellion. Lord Monroe’s mediating. As his attendant, I must go. Don’t worry—just over two weeks.”

“Two weeks? The new semester starts by then! Can’t you take leave?”

“Can’t. It’s duty. I’m just an average Mage with no status or wealth. To be Sword Saint’s attendant, live in a villa in City of Glory… asking for leave now would be too much.”

“Then take me! I’ll accompany you, help care for you—and broaden my horizons. Teacher, since leaving Ipoli, I haven’t stepped outside City of Glory in half a year. It’s… stifling. Let me go with you?”

…

Hilna wheedled relentlessly, insisting on joining.

Barely keeping his eyes open, Shel decided to pass the buck: “When Mr. Monroe arrives, ask him yourself. He’s your nominal mentor. If he agrees, fine.”

Shel assumed Monroe would refuse an ungraduated student. But when he woke, Monroe was already waiting in the courtyard—and had approved Hilna’s request.

“Hilna’s a capable Mage. Time she saw the world. Shel, you’ve traveled with her before—you know how to care for her. Lorentalan’s safe. No issue.”

With Monroe, her mentor, speaking thus, Shel had no choice but to agree.

At the time, Shel thought it a routine duty. Monroe seemed unbothered. Hilna saw it as a chance to travel with her teacher and deepen their bond.

And so, they departed.

----------- The Case of Viscount Pravatin’s Conspiracy with Heretics -----------

It began simply: building a road.

Lorentalan, a small duchy north of City of Glory, lay separated from HolySee territory by a modest mountain range.

Recently, its Duke enacted a law standardizing road regulations across the realm and mobilizing vassals to construct a central artery linking north and south.

HolySee strongly supported it—pilgrims from the north would reach southern shrines far more easily.

But the vassals whose lands were requisitioned refused.

After contributing labor and resources, they’d gain little: the Duke would appoint stewards to manage the route, leaving them only meager rewards.

The Duke insisted unified management was essential—letting vassals set up toll checkpoints would defeat the road’s purpose.

Vassals demanded direct shares of future revenue.

Plainly put: they couldn’t agree on the split.

Tensions flared. They petitioned HolySee to arbitrate.

Thus, the renowned Sword Saint Monroe was dispatched—a figure whose reputation alone commanded respect.

Only a dozen Holy Knights accompanied him; the rest were ordinary attendants.

Their modest caravan crossed HolySee’s plains, heading north.

Everyone knew the task was simple. Lorentalan was a loyal HolySee ally; its nobles annually paid homage to His Holiness the Pope. Peaceful resolution was certain.

Hilna and Shel wore monk’s robes, light swords at their hips, moving with the procession.

Shel rode a gray stallion beside the knights.

Other Holy Knights disliked him—rapid promotion with little seniority bred quiet resentment among veterans who’d served diligently for years.

Only Hilna peeked from the carriage window, chatting with Shel as he rode alongside.

Notably, Monroe himself rode a two-horse chariot. Too heavy in full armor for any single steed, his imposing presence turned heads.

The journey proceeded smoothly.

Pilgrims and faithful, recognizing HolySee insignia on robes and carriages, prostrated themselves in reverence.

They passed the mountain pass with ease. Roads beyond were flat, dotted with churches and monasteries offering ready supplies.

Traveling day and night, they reached Lorentalan’s capital in under four days.

A prosperous city of fifty to sixty thousand, it gleamed outwardly: the avenue to the Ducal Palace was straight and paved; the gates held grandeur.

Yet sprawling slums coiled within—makeshift shacks stacked like a child’s precarious block tower.

Streets were poorly planned: crooked cobblestones here, bare dirt there. Sewers clogged constantly; sewage seeped openly. Magi and laborers had tried unclogging them before, but soon gave up. The Duke abandoned further effort.

Outside the city gates, golden-haired Duke with a handlebar mustache awaited beneath ceremonial banners. To blaring fanfare, he personally greeted the arriving Aether Monroe.

Tears streaming, he lavished exaggerated praise: “Sword Saint gracing us in person moves me deeply! This road serves HolySee’s pilgrims—I enacted the law for their sake, yet those rebellious vassals doubt my intent! Please, take decisive action against them…”

Listening to the Duke’s rambling, even Monroe grew weary. The knights, road-worn, were visibly irritated.

After the ceremony, they entered the city amid cheering crowds and settled into the Ducal Palace.

The Duke hosted a lavish banquet. Since it wasn’t a fasting day, Holy Knights indulged freely.

His flattery toward Monroe grew increasingly excessive. Monroe maintained patience, but irritation flickered in his eyes.

Meanwhile, Hilna gathered a plate: pie, beet soup, pan-fried steak, and a chilled, fizzy honey beer. She carried it to Shel, standing guard by the stables outside.

“Teacher! The feast is incredible! So many delicacies!”

She eagerly described the dishes: “The chef said each beet was simmered in light cream and sweetened milk. This steak alone used dozens of spices… The variety here surpasses City of Glory!”

“Mm, delicious. Regions near HolySee are prosperous. Without fasting rules, cuisine naturally outshines Ipoli.”

“Won’t you join the banquet? Plenty remains.”

“No. Guard duty. You see how others treat me—a ‘connections case.’ Peace and quiet is better.”

“Oh…”

Hilna stood beside her teacher in light armor and white robes.

Through thick stone walls, muffled music and laughter drifted from the hall—distant, dreamlike.

No one else lingered; even the caravan servants had been ushered inside.

A rare private moment for two.

Heart fluttering, Hilna smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear. Night wind lifted her locks as she stepped closer behind Shel.

Just as she opened her mouth—

An old, weary voice spoke behind them.

“Shel, still on guard? Not resting inside?”

Monroe had left the hall and approached.

“Lord, weren’t you at the Duke’s banquet?” Shel turned, overlooking Hilna’s faint embarrassment.

“The Duke drank too much. His wife took him to sober up. I dismissed others to their rooms—the feast ended early.”

The stern knight raised his armored arm toward the street. “I felt stuffy too. Needed air.”

Hilna swallowed her disappointment. This was Monroe—her and Shel’s mentor. She held her tongue.

Monroe added casually, “Tomorrow, the rebellious nobles’ envoys arrive. Talks may last two or three days. Shel, you’ll serve as scribe—record discussions, draft the agreement if settled.”

“So… that’s all our duty?” Shel asked.

“Yes. Only that.”

“Lord Monroe,” Hilna pressed hopefully, “won’t you need to draw your Greatsword? Give them a show of force?”

She’d imagined Holy Knights single-handedly facing hundreds, or the peerless Sword Saint roaring justice until nobles trembled.

None of it happened.

Monroe’s double-edged Greatsword never left its sheath.

They’d merely crossed the duchy, entered the city, endured ceremonies, and waited.

Monroe reflected, “Official duties rarely require force. If HolySee resorts to arms, the situation has deteriorated badly—best avoided. Most tasks are like this: trivial matters. When you become a local Bishop, Hilna, you’ll handle these too.”

His words echoed Shel’s “muddling-through” philosophy.

Hilna recalled Ipoli days: Shel traveling with her, resolving village disputes over water rights and farmland, using magic to administer justice.

Now, under the peerless Sword Saint at HolySee’s heart—the work felt identical.

Only the scale changed: from petty land squabbles to toll-rights conflicts between Duke and vassals.

The essence remained unchanged.

If anything, it was duller.

In a daze, Hilna realized how alike Shel and Monroe truly were.

Not just mannerisms or temperament—but their entire approach to duty, in perfect agreement.

Especially now: two bored men leaning against the carriage, chatting idly.

Their demeanor was utterly identical.