"Um, Miss Sherlock?" Morris shifted slightly, unbuttoning the top collar button as a wave of heat washed over him.

"What is it?" The golden-haired girl asked earnestly, her warm breath brushing Morris’s cheek. "If you have concerns, please state them quickly—I’m quite busy."

"Too close, way too close," Morris murmured, turning his face aside. He saw Sherlock—still veiled in black gauze—tilt her head. "Could you… sit back properly?"

"Oh! I see," Sherlock realized, pulling herself back from nearly leaning against him. "My apologies. My vision gets blurry sometimes."

"Nearsighted, huh… Anyway," Morris let out a quiet sigh of relief and forced a smile. "Miss Sherlock, are you especially familiar with Helsing City?"

"I simply grew up here," Sherlock said, lightly stroking the book resting on her lap, gaze distant. "Though my memories of this place have grown hazy lately… I suppose I still know it."

"I see," Morris pondered. "Has anything unusual happened recently? Gang riots, frequent violent incidents…?"

"You’re barely older than me, yet you ask about such dull things," Sherlock mused, tracing her lower lip with a finger. "No. My family holds high status—we’d hear of such matters. If even I know nothing, nothing happened."

"Guess it was just my imagination," Morris chuckled, giving a slight nod. "I’m Morris. Just call me Morris."

"Mr. Morris…" Sherlock nodded. "A fine name. Same as the Pope’s."

"Really, no need to mention that every time," Morris sighed deeply, shoulders relaxing. *Why do I always unwind in churches?* "Why are you here, Miss Sherlock?"

"Passing through to rest and pray," Sherlock said, lifting the book from her lap and placing it in the gap between them on the pew. "Leaving soon."

"For a high-status family… to let the princess and two guards travel on foot?" Morris leaned his head against the pew backrest, glancing sideways.

"My insistence," Sherlock closed her eyes dismissively, sinking into the wood. "I’ve grown to hate my family. Everything—the clingy childhood friend, the arranged marriage… even my parents."

"Quite a dangerous prayer," Morris remarked. "What did you ask of Lunhai?"

"I prayed for those who bully me to explode on the spot," Sherlock stated flatly. "That was my prayer."

"…That’s not exactly deity-appropriate wording," Morris muttered, wiping his brow.

"I don’t want to burden the gods either," Sherlock’s voice softened with dejection. "But to change my future… it seems I must wish for their demise."

*Poof.* His first impression of her—graceful, serene, elegant—shattered completely. *Where’s that refined young lady? Give her back! Give her back!*

"And you, Mr. Morris?" Sherlock, realizing she’d overshared, hastily changed the subject. "Where are you from?"

"Me?" Morris tilted his head toward the ceiling. "From… Macedon City."

"Macedon?" Sherlock’s eyes lit with curiosity. "The Holy City?"

"Yes. The Holy City teeming with wizards and diverse churches," Morris smiled. "Surprised?"

"So you’re a wizard too?"

"Technically yes—but remember: being born in the Holy City doesn’t make you one. 'One wizard in every four hundred' applies everywhere."

"Hmm. I’m starting to dislike you, Mr. Morris," Sherlock sighed. "You sound like my family’s tutor—so old-fashioned, full of tedious lectures. That’s when my fond memories of Helsing City began to fade."

"I assumed you’d enjoy lectures, Miss Sherlock," Morris chuckled, reaching toward the thick book between their laps. "After all, carrying such a heavy tome…"

"Stop!" Sherlock’s expression snapped to panic.

"Eh?" Morris froze, book already in hand. Sherlock lunged to snatch it back—but as she stood, her new leather shoes slipped. A blush flushed her cheeks; even the hem of her white silk stockings seemed to blush with her fluster. Her expression crumpled as she tumbled squarely onto Morris!

Chaos. Sharp pain as he hit the floor. A heavy weight slammed his chest—nearly choking him. Darkness swam before his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he shoved the book off his face—and froze at the inked words:

[ Morris lay in bed, directing a half-hearted plea to his teacher, Alex—

"*Please… spare me, Teacher…*"

"*Ah, no can do, my dear, mischievous child,*" Alex cooed, slick liquid trickling between his fingers as he caressed his student’s cheek. This was the Lunhai Pope—the sovereign before whom all knelt—now a trembling plaything in his arms, whimpering sweetly. "*I saw you glance twice at the Holy Maiden today. Punishment is due.*"

*He then produced his banana…* ]

Morris silently closed the book.

He stared at the stained-glass ceiling—bright, pristine, filled with the scent of in—

Banana, my *ass*?!

His grip crushed the cover.

*Slick liquid?! Affectionate cooing?! "Punish you for glancing at the Holy Maiden"?!* Alex would *cheer* if he married Lenna! Whether *he* married *her* or *she* married *him*!

Lips trembling, he flipped the book. Three gleaming golden characters: *The Capital*. *Ah.* With practiced ease, he peeled back the false cover. The true title gleamed:

***The Overbearing Teacher Craves a Confession from His Younger Student—A Love War Without Hesitation, Even If the Student Is the Pope He Personally Trained~***

Morris panicked.

More than when Alex warned him Demon Realm monsters would bite his… *you-know-what*.

Then—a murderous glare from below. He swallowed hard.

There she was: Miss Sherlock sprawled across his chest, clutching his shirt, teeth gritted, tears welling. The black veil lay discarded. Beneath it—breathtaking beauty. Time seemed to freeze. Cherry-pink lips, tousled golden hair, flawless grace wrapped in fragile vulnerability.

"You…!" Yet she seemed utterly unaware of her own radiance, voice trembling with hurt. "I… *specifically* told you to stop…"

*Wait—since when does she say "I" like that?! Where’s the composed, slightly capricious Miss Sherlock?! Who’s this soft, tearful girl in my arms?!*

She finally broke into sobs. The gathering crowd saw only a girl weeping into Morris’s chest while he lay mute on the floor, mechanically patting her back: "There, there… good girl. Don’t cry…"

The priest gazed down, silent a moment. "Young Morris… I see. You truly are—"

"I’VE SAID IT—I’M *NOT*!!!"