Morris slowly stepped out of the wooden door, carrying a girl wrapped head to toe in a bath towel. His hands steadied her delicate, smooth thighs while a faint warmth pressed against his back. Though the young Pope had weathered many storms, the girl’s natural Arcanum scent made him swallow hard. Lenna followed behind. As she closed the door, the corridor lights dimmed one by one—like a vast sea of fire slowly doused by rain.

She turned and met Morris’s gaze. His expression screamed silent torment. After a pause, Lenna asked softly, “Shall I carry her?”

Morris glanced at her damp hair, thin clothes, and the folded garments in her arms. He shook his head helplessly. “Let’s go.”

Just then, the girl on his back stirred awake. Sif blinked sleepily, rubbed her eyes, and felt an unfamiliar lightness ripple through her body—a long-lost ease that made her instinctively hug whatever was beneath her and stretch her legs. Only then did something feel off. She wiggled her smooth little feet. Something pressed on her thighs. The world swayed. Her foggy mind blanked. *Earthquake?* She looked down. Her arms were locked around a boy’s neck. Her entire upper body pressed against his head.

“Loosen—loosen up!” Morris choked, dizzy. Even if the sensation behind his head was… tantalizing, he had zero bandwidth to enjoy it. *Why is Sif this strong?! She’s just the mercenary group’s mascot!*

“Eh?! E-E-Eh?!!!” Sif yanked her arms back. “Mr. Morris?! Why are you here?!”

Gasping, Morris nearly stumbled backward on the stairs—but Lenna’s hand shot out, steadying them both with a slight touch.

“Saved… saved,” Morris panted, sweat beading despite no exertion. He forced a smile to thank Lenna—then froze. During the scramble, Sif’s towel had slipped. She clutched one corner desperately over herself.

Her lips parted slightly. Tears welled—shame and hurt shimmering in her eyes. The young Pope jerked his gaze away, cold sweat trickling. Voice trembling: “I didn’t see anything.”

“You saw it…”

“I didn’t.”

“You *did* see it!!!”

“Even if I did, it’s not my fault.”

“You admitted it! You *saw*!”

“Yamete! I hate women the most!!!”

Lenna stood silently, glancing at the clothes in her hands. *Like a nanny babysitting two toddlers.*

Truly not easy.

Their bewildered uncle watched the two sit stiffly at opposite ends of the table, faces etched with reluctance. Wiping his brow with a handkerchief, he smiled weakly. “Eat up. It’ll get cold.”

Tears brimming, Sif gritted her teeth. *I’d rather starve here or jump out the window than eat from the guy who took advantage of me!*

But her stomach growled hollowly. Since dressing, dizziness washed over her—starvation-level hunger, though she’d eaten heavily at noon. How?

Before her, the lamb chop sizzled, rich gravy pooling. Aroma curled through the air. She swallowed. Lips twitched. A hint of doubt crept in.

Then she noticed Morris across the table—wolfing down butter-fried lamb, creamy soup, fresh bread. Magic faintly coated his silver knife as he cleanly stripped meat from bone. Bread dipped in gravy, swallowed with soup. Zero papal grace. Pure starving-child energy.

The uncle blinked. *Heavy labor…? Good grief—did my nephew really…?*

Morris knew none of this. He’d just painstakingly cleared every blocked Arcanum pathway in Sif. Cost him time. Cost him spirit. As expected: Thulaken, a magic-less heretic, could only silence her Arcanum without her knowing one way—sealing every meridian with silver needles.

A cruel, long-banned technique. Morris only knew it from texts. *Acupuncture… from my past life.*

No ordinary father would do this. Most would ache watching their daughter trip once.

Morris’s fingers tightened around his fork. Movements slowed. He surveyed the messy table, exhaled wearily. “Thank you for the meal. I’ll retire.”

He met Sif’s eyes—full of silent questions: *How eat so fast? Where’s the Pope’s dignity?* He neatly set his cutlery down, turned, and left. Lenna followed. Only then did uncle and Sif realize Morris had polished off half of Lenna’s portion too.

“What an attitude!” Sif thought, pouting. Stomach growling, she stood stiffly. “Thank you, Uncle. I’m dieting tonight—please do whatever you like with this.”

“Oh! Of course,” the uncle stammered. “Dieting’s fine… just don’t hurt yourself.”

Back in her room, Sif flopped onto the bed, hugging the blanket and rolling fiercely. *He took advantage while I was out! Why give me that “you’re unreasonable” look?!* She gripped the blanket tighter—until another loud *gurgle* made her curl up, still.

Finally, she hugged her pillow, letting out a soft, hurt whimper. Curtains drawn, she lay enduring the hollow ache, deciding to wait till morning.

Her body felt strangely light. Consciousness drifted. She sank into sleep.

In the dream, three matches rested in her palm. Huddled in a snow-blanketed alley, she struck the first. Flame flickered—revealing her, mother, father. Childhood. The memory she cherished most.

She reached out…

The match went out.