Oh crap!

Lyselle’s heart was pounding like a drum, but outwardly, she remained as composed as a statue.

She studied Shall’s expression, searching for any flicker of suspicion after her words.

At the same time, she prayed—prayed that the two bottles of Elven Brew he’d just downed would finally knock him into a deep, infant-like slumber.

*Work, alcohol, work!*

Yet the god of liquor seemed deaf to her plea. Shall’s gaze stayed sharp, utterly sober.

But a flicker of doubt had crept into his eyes—why would Lyselle say such things?

*Game over!*

If she didn’t want Shall uncovering the truth and then drowning her in liquor, she had to spin a lie. Fast.

Her brain kicked into overdrive.

Turns out, life-or-death crises could unlock terrifying potential.

Lyselle already had a plan.

Before Shall could even open his mouth, she added smoothly:

“—I read that in a book once. I thought it was wise, comforting… so I memorized it. Guess it came in handy.”

She deliberately puffed up, wearing a stupidly proud smirk.

“…”

The suspicion in Shall’s eyes dimmed slightly—but didn’t vanish. After a pause, he murmured,

“So it was from a book… No wonder it sounded familiar. Lyselle once said the same words to me.”

*Of course she did, you idiot!* Lyselle screamed inwardly. *Because that ‘Lyselle’ and this ‘Lyselle’ are the same damn person!*

But she kept her mouth shut.

Shall still wasn’t fully convinced. She needed damage control.

Cleverly, she avoided weak excuses like nervous laughter or “What a coincidence!” Instead, she feigned sudden realization and launched an attack on the Champion’s beloved Priestess:

“Oh? That’s odd. I found it in a book called *How to Manipulate Men*. Could Priestess Lyselle… have read the same book?”

*Diversion tactic: activated!*

With two sentences, she’d shifted the conflict from “Why did she echo the Priestess?” to “Is the Priestess a manipulator?”

To Shall, “Someone slandering Priestess Lyselle” mattered far more than “Someone quoting her.”

Lyselle watched with satisfaction as his expression darkened.

“I don’t know,” the Champion said sternly. “But I’m certain Lyselle never spoke those words to anyone but me.”

*Yes! Exactly! Good boy!* Lyselle cheered inwardly. Of course she hadn’t—only Shall deserved this elaborate revenge.

But the diversion wasn’t complete. If she stopped here, he might circle back to doubting her.

So she “hurriedly” put on an innocent act, shrugging:

“I was just speculating! Maybe Priestess Lyselle found it elsewhere? Besides, words themselves aren’t good or evil—it’s the person who uses them that matters…”

She sighed abruptly.

“But… I think I understand you now.”

“…?”

Shall frowned, confused.

Then he understood. Lyselle patted his shoulder, adopting the tone of a seasoned veteran:

“I get it. I *really* get it. If some beautiful girl whispered those words to me when I was down… who wouldn’t fall for her? Honestly, who could resist?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper:

“A girl who’d remember words like that—even if she borrowed them from a book—is enough to make anyone’s heart skip. No wonder you fell for her. Having someone like that… must be pure happiness, huh?”

She flashed a perfectly timed look of wistful envy.

*Diversion tactic: phase two.*

Now the conflict shifted from “Is the Priestess bad?” to “How incredibly good is the Priestess?”

Only one step remained—and Shall would finish it himself.

Just as she predicted.

The moment she praised the Priestess’s goodness and the happiness she brought, a rare, tender smile bloomed on Shall’s face.

“Yes,” the Champion murmured. His hand drifted to his chest, pressing gently over the handkerchief hidden beneath his shirt. “She was the gentlest soul I’ve ever known.”

Lyselle stayed silent, offering only a curious, encouraging look.

Humans always loved sharing—or boasting about—what others lacked. In her past life, they called it “humblebragging.”

Of course, Shall knew nothing of that. He simply began sharing his memories of the Priestess, plain and heartfelt.

“Lyselle was radiant,” he said. “Hair like spun gold, brighter than treasure. Eyes like the purest mountain lake.”

Lyselle nodded inwardly. *Pfft. That generic avatar I cooked up? My silver hair and blue eyes are way better.*

Unaware of her thoughts, Shall continued, voice thick with nostalgia:

“We met during a heretic purge. I was badly wounded… she saved me. But she’d lost everyone in the disaster. Nowhere to go. So I brought her into the Brave Squad.”

Lyselle gave a noncommittal “Hmm.” *Obviously. I spent weeks crafting that tragic, sympathetic backstory just to reel in you overly righteous dodo bird!*

Shall didn’t know. He kept talking—about their time together.

Moments of laughter.

Like a rom-com, their blunders had been endless.

Moments of grief.

Fighting chaos and evil demanded sacrifice. They’d mourned fallen comrades side by side.

Moments of regret.

He’d never confessed his feelings before the Priestess died. That silence haunted him—a wound that would never heal.

Three short years. A lifetime.

Shall’s voice grew softer, almost a whisper.

Memories surfaced like seashells in shallow water. He drowned in them, gathering each one close, tasting their undimmed bittersweetness.

Slowly, he stopped telling stories *to* Lyselle. He began murmuring to himself, like a cow chewing cud, lost in yesterday’s ghosts.

Beside him, Lyselle quietly refilled his cup.

Memories were the finest drinking companions.

Whatever she poured, he drank.

His eyes glazed over, movements stiff and dreamlike.

Two more bottles of Elven Brew vanished down his throat.

That much liquor could floor a dragon, let alone a Champion.

Finally, his murmurs ceased. He slumped to the ground, asleep—but a faint smile lingered on his lips.

*Thank god.* Lyselle exhaled sharply, shooting him a glare.

*Damn his alcohol tolerance!* Four bottles! She’d needed *four whole bottles* of precious Elven Brew to knock him out!

She’d only ever scammed eight bottles total from those stingy pointy-ears. Half her stash—gone. Wasted on *him*.

Her wallet ached.

Elven Brew was priceless. In human cities, a single bottle could fetch a fortune.

The more she thought about it, the hotter her anger burned. To avoid throttling him in his sleep, Lyselle forced herself to stop counting the loss.

She stretched lazily, rising to her feet.

The campfire had dwindled to embers. Late. Time for bed.

Her gaze flicked to Shall, sprawled on the grass.

He slept soundly. Probably dreaming of his precious Priestess—the faint smile on his lips had deepened into something warm.

The sight annoyed her. *Let him freeze out here tonight.*

But after a moment, she snorted softly. Turning away, she drew her Magic Wand, ready to levitate him back to the cabin.

He’d wasted two bottles of her finest brew. Nearly exposed her true identity.

*But…*

The way he’d spoken of her—the raw longing in his voice, the quiet reverence in his praise… it wasn’t half bad.

For such sincere devotion, she’d spare him a night in the cold.

A tiny smirk played on Lyselle’s lips as she raised her wand.

Then—a hand seized her wrist.

“Huh?!”

The Sorceress yelped, instinctively trying to wrench free. But a sudden pull yanked her off-balance. The world spun—

She didn’t hit the ground. She landed on something solid yet yielding.

Shall.

Before she could react, strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against him.

She felt herself pressed against something firm, warm… almost molten.

*His chest.*

Shock froze her. She was trapped in Shall’s embrace.

She tensed to struggle, to wake him—but then his chin rested lightly on her shoulder.

A low, whiskey-rough whisper, thick with dreams and longing, brushed her ear:

“…Is it you?”

“I’ve missed you so much… Lyselle.”