Inside a carriage rattling across the wilderness sat three people. A young couple clung inseparably together—the girl wrapped her arms around the boy’s neck, lying across his lap and forcing his gaze downward solely onto her. Opposite them, another girl blushed deeply, knees pressed tight, fists clenched on her thighs. She pretended to admire the passing scenery, but every flicker of her attention remained locked on the pair.

“Um… my dear Lenna…”

“Yes, darling?”

“Could you… maybe… loosen your grip…?” The young Pope’s face twisted in pain. “My neck… it’s so tired…”

“If it’s for you,” the white-clad Holy Maiden murmured, releasing him. Just as Morris lifted his head—like a dragon stirring from slumber, believing freedom was near—her arms looped back around his neck. She straddled his lap, knees and calves braced against the cushion, leaned close to his ear, and whispered, “Then like this.”

“No—wait, this isn’t—”

“I need to replenish your energy,” Lenna said, lowering her lashes and closing her eyes. “Your room now carries only my scent. I don’t like it there.”

Sif’s face paled in shock. Morris looked ten times more horrified.

“Don’t take advantage while someone’s away! Please tell me no one from the Church saw?! Right?!” Morris wailed. “And never say things that sound like that again! Especially when we reach my family—if you say that in front of my uncle and aunt, I’ll… just… you get it, right?”

“I never imagined Mr. Morris and Miss Lenna were so close they’d… share each other’s rooms…” Sif murmured, lips trembling. “Is this… the world of adults?”

“It’s a misunderstanding! She acted on her own!” Morris rushed to explain. “And stop calling it ‘the world of adults’! I’m only seventeen—”

“Mind the bump ahead, honored guests,” the coachman called calmly from outside. “Small pothole.”

“Huh?” Before Morris finished speaking, the carriage jolted violently. Lenna’s chest brushed rhythmically against his; their bodies collided with every sway. Even she let out a soft, involuntary whimper.

Sif covered her face and shrieked, “So this *is* the filthy world of adults!!!”

“I’m not even of age for another week!!”

Amid the chaos, Lenna whispered into Morris’s ear, “I know.”

——————

Morris never saw birthdays as worth celebrating. Each year, mountains of gifts poured in from loyal believers using the address Alex had published—but the young Pope simply stored them all in the reserve warehouse. Simple reason: far too much to ever use.

Food was manageable: Woods County’s hard yogurt cheese; Bork Province’s smoked dried meat that stung the nostrils with one bite; Bolo Coast’s soft-bone pickled fish, famed for its melt-in-your-mouth seasoning; Aolu County’s sweet berry wine; the Bellmos turkey symbolizing “Celebrating the Lord’s Birth,” meant only for Christmas Eve beside the hearth’s glow; Bademai whiskey, golden and rich enough to intoxicate with a sip… Honestly, tolerable. But sending alcohol to a minor? Morris thought this world sorely lacked common sense—or basic caution.

Worse were the utility items: the Tigulas bone-chopping sword sharp enough to slice iron; the Jingshou hunting knife from Dunkirk Forest, triple-star quenched and factory-fresh. Tracing its razor engravings, Morris almost saw a burly, bearded hunter flashing a proud thumbs-up. Silverware, ornaments, robes, firearms, bullets—this mobile armory screamed, *What do you think the Pope is?! A hired assassin?! But I’m not even bald!!!*

Tucked in a corner of the gift pile, Morris once found a fluffy teddy bear. A tag dangled from its neck, scribbled in childish script: *Happy Birthday to Pope Morris!*

Amid lethally sharp blades, it was the gentlest comfort.

Would’ve been better if the back didn’t read: *Please work hard and eliminate every heretic.*

Morris disliked birthdays—past life, current life. Fragmented memories haunted him: that night, shattered headlights flickering under stormy skies, wind howling across the overpass, the cracked car stereo blaring a static-choked “Happy Birthday to You” through pouring rain. The coppery-chocolate taste of blood at his lip. Curling alone in a corner. Even now, the distorted melody echoed faintly in his ears, sending chills down his spine… despite its warm lyrics.

His parents vanished long ago—declared “missing.” Forced to live alone young, Morris didn’t mind; he’d never wanted to call strangers “Mom” or “Dad.” His only warm family memory? His uncle’s creamy sturgeon. But cousins always devoured it. Only after they scattered would Morris approach, dip bread into the orange-red broth, and quietly scrape a sliver of flesh from the bones. That was his “family banquet.”

He *could* have joined the scramble. But his aunt’s eyes always glared at him like he was a beggar—each bite of meat felt like stealing her gold. Eventually, he grew used to scavenging leftovers after everyone left.

The clan’s attitude never shifted. Grandparents gone early; his uncle became head of a modest border-family in Hammer County. His lifelong dream? Become county lord via election, or earn royal favor through great deeds to bring glory to the name. But Luna Duchy was neutral, faith-centered, war-averse. Uncle, no Arcane Source Wizard, couldn’t join crusades. So he sighed daily in the main parlor, cradling hot tea.

Uncle regarded Morris with neutral indifference. Aunt saw him as pure burden—contempt in every glance. She’d been baffled when Alex found Morris wandering dazed in the snow and brought him to the Church: *How could someone we scorn be someone else’s treasure?*

When Morris became Pope, no family came. A few cousins sent letters claiming “Uncle and Aunt are overjoyed.” Morris wasn’t a fool. If truly happy, would his uncle—who’d boast for weeks about a single trip to the capital—skip witnessing a Pope’s coronation in Macedon?

The whole clan likely disliked him.

He didn’t hate them either. After joining the Church, he never returned to Hammer County—partly because it was remote, partly because letters held little beyond marriage pressure:

*“Which lord’s daughter is of age?” “Which county lord admires you?” “The family raised you—return for a match, secure resources for us.”*

Same script, new phrasing. Morris never grasped their “hardship.” Unless it meant Aunt restraining herself from strangling him… which, admittedly, took effort.

Yet even this family guarded one secret:

The Corridor Healing Spring—so precious even his uncle never whispered its name beyond clan walls.

Many remedies mended bloodlines, but reviving a dried Arcanum riverbed? Few methods existed, all troublesome. Seeking another Saint who held the apocalypse’s catalyst? Travel alone would take ages—and they dwelled in the Demon Realm. After weighing options, the “simplest” path was bringing Sif home: soak in the Spring, then slowly restore her with Arcanum.

Simple on paper. Messy in reality.

How would Uncle, Aunt, cousins react to his sudden return after years—*just* to grant a stranger access to their most sacred secret? He’d always declined matchmaking with “no interest.” Now he returned… with *two* stunning girls. How would years of sincere, warmly worded letters hold up? Morris swore every reply carried genuine care. Whether Uncle would believe it now? Another matter entirely.

Two days had passed. Pope and Holy Maiden alone could’ve arrived in half a day. But with Lenna—the one who’d already sparked the “White Comet” legend racing toward the wilderness—Morris chose humble carriage travel. The Pope lacked freedom, not coin.

What he *did* lack was a Holy Maiden who wouldn’t hide naked in his bedroom on his seventeenth birthday claiming to be a “gift,” nor one growing restless for her eighteenth.

Lenna once asked why Morris, who hated birthdays, remembered everyone’s—hers included.

After a long pause, he murmured, “Boring.”

Unclear if the question was boring… or the answer itself.