Lyselle wanted to share a drink with Shall.

But Shall seemed unwilling to share a drink with Lyselle.

When the Champion heard her invitation, he merely glanced up before lowering his eyes again, resuming his task of roasting meat:

"I... don’t drink. You go ahead."

"?"

*He’s lying through his teeth,* Lyselle thought.

Back when she was still in the Brave Squad, her favorite pastime was drinking with Shall. He had a strong tolerance, and so did she. They’d bicker and brag over drinks until dawn’s first light.

At sunrise, they’d stumble back to camp, drunk and sleepy, collapsing into bed.

Of course, Lyselle had never truly gotten drunk. She wasn’t stupid—what if Shall took advantage while she was out? With her magic, she could easily neutralize alcohol’s effects.

Shall, though, *had* gotten drunk—

His mighty physique couldn’t withstand Lyselle’s relentless pouring. Enough drinks, and even a Champion couldn’t walk straight out of a tavern!

Alcohol was a wonderful thing—a perfect tool for bonding and deepening understanding. Strangers became friends over a few cups, slinging arms around shoulders, sharing secrets they’d normally keep hidden.

And when drunk, people might even dare to do things they’d never attempt sober.

Like that time after drinking heavily with her, Shall had passed out drunk back at camp. They ended up sharing a bed.

The next morning, Shall would wake up shocked to find her sleeping peacefully beside him, her face serene and lovely, murmuring "dream words" like:

"Shall... your hands are so big..."

"Shall... you’re so warm..."

"Shall... hold me again... it feels so good..."

Shall was an innocent virgin. How could he resist *that*?

So, under the crafty Sorceress’s schemes, he soon became a poor, pitiful Tom cat—toyed with by a wicked woman.

Except Lyselle wasn’t truly wicked. In fact, she wasn’t even a real woman.

Inside that Sorceress’s body lived a man’s soul.

But that was her advantage.

Only a man truly understood men. When you combined a beautiful girl’s appearance with the ability to drink, game, watch tokusatsu shows, and chat about wild dreams of saving the world—you became invincible.

That’s why Shall had become *this* after her "death."

Lyselle was satisfied with the current Shall—but not completely.

So, facing his refusal to drink with her, she invoked the Master-Servant Pact’s power and commanded:

"Drink with me—you will not refuse!"

Shall’s movements paused. He lifted his head.

Lyselle savored the shock on his face. Clearly, he couldn’t fathom why she insisted on his company.

Like the gorgeous, married elf-wife in a cuckold manga facing threats from a blond villain, Shall had no choice but to bite his lip and obey bitterly, despite his reluctance.

He took the cup Lyselle offered, his expression stiff.

Lyselle couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter.

Honestly, his face was *too* priceless—seeing it, she finally understood why cuckold stories never went out of style.

But she didn’t actually want to *be* the blond villain.

So she poured herself a drink, raised her cup to Shall, and said:

"Cheer up, don’t look so sour. I’m not plotting anything—I just can’t find anyone else to drink with..."

She wasn’t lying. Since reverting from Priestess to Sorceress, she truly had no drinking partner.

What began as calculated schemes had, through daily repetition, become habit. It’d been over three months since she last drank with Shall... though she’d never admit she *wanted* to drink with *him*. At most, she’d admit she wanted *someone* to drink with.

That someone could be the Old Sage, any member of the Brave Squad—even Shall.

So she added:

"Be a good boy, drink with me quietly, and I won’t do anything. But if you refuse..."

The Sorceress smirked coldly, then jerked her chin toward the coffin behind her.

She threatened that if Shall refused, she’d unleash her inner rogue—doing thoroughly unladylike things right before his dead wife’s coffin.

Thus—

"Dear Champion," the Sorceress swirled her wine, her smile bewitching, "surely you don’t want me doing... *certain things*... before your wife’s coffin, hmm?"

Lyselle left it unsaid. No matter—she trusted Shall would understand.

And he did. But strangely, he showed no sense of being coerced. No fear, no tension—only quiet resignation.

"Alright."

He raised his cup.

Lyselle clinked hers against his, then frowned.

"Why aren’t you scared? Don’t you believe I’d actually do it?"

Shall drained his cup in one gulp, set it down, and returned to roasting meat.

"Master... though you enjoy teasing others and have a mischievous nature... I’ve always felt..." He paused, voice softening, eyes downcast.

"...that you’re actually very gentle."

"—Just like her."

"!"

Alarms blared in Lyselle’s heart, though her face remained calm.

"*Her*?" the Sorceress asked. "You mean... the Priestess?"

At this, Shall stopped being a silent shell. Like tumbleweed finding fertile soil, he finally uncurled, rooted himself, and came alive again.

He lifted his head—not looking at Lyselle, but at the coffin behind her.

Nostalgia softened the Champion’s features as he whispered:

"Yes. In some ways... Lyselle was very much like you."

"She loved teasing people too. I was often her target. She seemed to delight in seeing others flustered or shocked by her antics. So when she died... I couldn’t believe it."

He gave a bitter chuckle, mocking his own naivety:

"I refused to accept her death. I even tried to fool myself—telling myself it was just another prank, like always. That soon she’d laugh, sit up in my arms, pull a silly face, and tease me for crying like a lost fool who fell for it..."

"But she never woke up. No matter how long I waited."

"Finally... I couldn’t lie to myself anymore."

Shall shook his head softly, offering Lyselle a clownish grin—exaggeratedly cheerful, yet with painted tears glistening at the corners of his eyes.

"She’s gone... I... lost her."

Lyselle froze, words failing her.

Guilt crashed over her. She regretted bringing this up.

Just moments ago, she’d been amused.

Now every bit of fun she’d gotten from Shall had turned into boomerangs, striking her hard.

She wished she hadn’t made those crude jokes. The dead deserved respect—even if *she* was the dead one, and didn’t mind. But Shall...

For a split second, she sensed a fierce self-destructive urge radiating from him. He sat there roasting meat and drinking, yet to her eyes, he burned bright yet so lonely—a firework ready to scatter after its final burst. After these words, he might down another drink, then choose a sunny day to walk willingly into death, reuniting with his love beyond the grave.

*Oh no.*

*Don’t you dare have some grand enlightenment now!*

If Shall killed himself, she’d be a murderer.

Panicked, Lyselle blurted:

"Stop! Just—stop! Why say such things *now*? I asked you to drink to celebrate our new cabin, not to make you sad!"

An idea struck her:

"And your wife isn’t gone forever! Trust me—I’ll bring her back."

But even this didn’t restore Shall’s earlier calm.

He merely gave a soft "Mm," then asked:

"Could you pass the wine?"

Lyselle dared not disobey.

She handed him the bottle. Shall refilled his cup, didn’t clink glasses, and drained it in one go.

Lyselle watched, heart pounding. "Easy now... take it slow. At least don’t gulp it like that."

Shall flashed her a fleeting smile.

"I’m fine."

He poured another cup. Drank it in a blink.

"..."

Lyselle knew arguing was useless now.

She could only watch as Shall downed cup after cup.

Soon, the meat was done—but both bottles of wine were already gone, emptied by Shall alone.

Lyselle was nearly trembling.

That wine was precious vintage, traded hard from the pointy-ears. Sweet and smooth, but with a fierce kick—even Shall shouldn’t handle more than a few cups.

She prayed his tolerance was better than she remembered. *Please don’t let him get violent when drunk.*

As if hearing her thoughts, Shall swayed to his feet.

He walked to her, crouched down.

"?"

Lyselle held her breath, tense.

*What on earth is he planning to do?*