The next morning, Shall woke to find half his face swollen high for no reason.

It throbbed painfully, as if battered by something heavy. But as the current Champion, his tough physique had already healed much of the damage while he slept. Soon, even the swelling would fade fast.

But what had happened last night? Why... why was half his face puffed up like this?

Shall’s memory only went as far as drinking and telling stories to the Sorceress. He must have dozed off mid-tale.

He realized he’d woken up in the small wooden cabin’s bed.

The bed had no padding—just hard planks—but a thick blanket covered him.

Blue with white flowers, soft as clouds, it carried a faint golden rose scent.

After sniffing it, Shall felt awkward and instinctively let go of the blanket.

He realized this was likely borrowed from the Sorceress. Sniffing it like that... was hardly gentlemanly. Downright rude. Or just plain creepy.

Still...

If she’d covered him with the blanket, then... she must have carried him back to the cabin after he passed out on the lawn.

Shall felt a pang of shame.

As a Champion, acting so foolishly was...

He shook his head, climbed off the bed, and neatly folded the borrowed blanket.

Thanks to his strong body, the hangover barely slowed him. He moved briskly.

He picked up the blanket, planning to return it and ask what happened after he fell asleep.

But as soon as he stepped out of the cabin, before he could form the right words, he saw the Sorceress.

She was brushing her teeth.

She’d risen unusually early, just as dawn broke. Dressed in a loose nightgown, she washed up in the pale morning light.

Her towel and cup floated midair like living things. She looked half-asleep, drooping wearily, arms limp. Her mouth hung slightly open as the toothbrush scrubbed back and forth.

But sensing movement, she snapped awake. Her beautiful cerulean eyes turned to Shall, who stood holding the blanket.

Shall opened his mouth to greet her—but before he could speak, her face twisted in pure disgust and revulsion. Like spotting a giant piece of unburnable trash, she sharply turned away and kept brushing.

“...”

Shall’s greeting died in his throat.

He had no idea what happened, but a bad feeling crept in—had he done something awful to her while drunk?

At that thought, he didn’t know how to face her.

But he was already here, blanket in hand. He had to try.

Forcing calm, he said:

“Good morning, Master.”

No reply. She was pretending not to hear.

Shall grew more flustered. He walked over and stood before her.

“Thank you for carrying me back last night... and lending me this blanket.”

Now that he was right in front of Lyselle, she couldn’t ignore him—but she could play dumb. Without looking at him, she mumbled around her toothbrush, “Mmm-hmm.”

Shall couldn’t decipher her muffled sounds. He scratched his head and asked the question burning since he woke:

“And... do you know why half my face is swollen?”

The Sorceress stiffened slightly while brushing, then resumed as if nothing happened. She looked up, casual.

“Oh—you’re asking about your swollen face? Ask yourself that.”

Confused, Shall blurted, “Huh?”

Then, in a flat tone, she told him:

“Nothing much. You just got... emotional after drinking. Out of nowhere, I saw you start violently punching the ground with your face.”

“???”

Shall froze, dumbfounded.

But her expression was utterly serious. He saw no trace of a lie on her cute face.

In the same monotone, she added:

“I was terrified. I tried to stop you, but you were too strong. I could only watch as you kept slamming your face into the dirt until it swelled up like a pig’s head.”

“Only then did you seem satisfied and fall asleep.”

“Actually, you should thank me. I dragged your heavy body all the way back to the cabin after you passed out.”

She stared at him, expressionless, waiting.

—She was waiting for his thanks.

Shall didn’t believe her wild story about face-punching the ground. Yet, facing her now, he felt strangely guilty. He mumbled lowly:

“Th-thank you... Master.”

Only after his thanks did Lyselle snort coldly. She spat out the foam and turned to leave.

Her floating towel and cup followed like royal guards.

Shall, her true guard and self-proclaimed servant, stood awkwardly clutching the blanket.

Then Lyselle paused without turning. Her voice was icy:

“Keep the blanket. Since you’ve used it... it’s yours now.”

Shall could only mutter, “Yes.”

She added:

“Also, get ready. Today we leave the Forest Sea to gather materials. You...”

Her tone turned complicated, as if remembering something.

“...shouldn’t need reminding—you still have to say goodbye to your Priestess.”

Without waiting for his reaction, she strode back into her den.

...

Lyselle was furious with Shall.

Last night, he’d randomly hugged her, burying his face in her hair and sniffing deeply.

Thankfully, he hadn’t done anything worse. He’d just clung to her like a dead pig—silent but dead asleep.

She even felt he hadn’t slept so soundly in years.

But what was the cost of his peaceful sleep?

She’d paid it.

Annoyed, she’d beaten Shall while he slept deeply.

Slapping his face hard, left and right, until it swelled like a pig’s head.

He hadn’t even woken up. Proof of how secure he felt holding her.

Yet beating him didn’t ease her anger.

His physique was absurdly resilient. Already, his pig-like swelling had nearly vanished. Soon, his face would be perfect again.

But the feeling of his arms trapping her wouldn’t fade. Even after a thorough shower back in the cabin, she still felt his touch.

His strong arms pinning her, his hot, invasive male scent at her back, his face buried in her hair breathing deeply—he’d left his mark on her.

It was awful.

She’d held her breath, thinking she was doomed. But her body... it was strange. After three years of the Champion’s closeness, it had grown used to his affection. She’d even felt... a weird sense of safety in his forceful embrace.

This was all wrong!

No men, ever!

She absolutely refused to be tamed by a man. Though her body showed signs of betraying her soul from years of habit, it was just a sign—not irreversible.

Lyselle knew herself well.

She didn’t like Shall. She never would.

So she’d cut ties completely.

Since this twisted bond began with her and Shall, she’d end it.

—On this material-gathering trip.

Gather enough materials to “revive” the Priestess, claim her rightful compensation, and sever all ties with Shall.

She was here to end it all.

Let the Champion be the Champion. Let the Sorceress be the Sorceress.

This farce had lasted long enough.

Lyselle thought this as she shed her nightgown and changed into her usual attire.

Black dress, black tights, silver hair like crystal spilling freely. Sun and moon ornaments adorned her temples, symbolizing dawn and dusk. Her cerulean eyes were deep and pure, her doll-like features exuding elegance and mystery.

The Sorceress admired herself in the mirror, satisfied.

No one would ever guess she was connected to that golden-haired, green-eyed Priestess.

Shall had nearly sensed something odd a few times—but so what?

When it came to manipulating hearts, she was a professional!

[To be continued]