“Are you planning to leave tonight, Your Highness?” Morris asked Sherlock, who lay on his lap, lost in thought.

“Just call me Sherlock,” she said, slowly sitting up and yawning. “And no—we can’t leave tonight. Let’s go tomorrow morning.”

Outside the window, the sky glowed with dusk’s crimson haze. Evening had crept in unnoticed. Morris nodded silently, then added, “So tonight… please let me sleep in the same—”

“No!” Sherlock cut him off, pinching his cheek. “Don’t you dare take advantage! We just met today—sharing a bed? And don’t forget—I’m a princess with an engagement!”

She hated that engagement, yet now wielded it like a shield. Morris let her shake his cheeks helplessly, mumbling through pinched lips, “Y-you’re misunderstanding…”

“Eh?” Sherlock released him.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Morris rubbed the spot—she hadn’t used much force, but it still stung. “No hidden meaning. It’s the Blood Pact. Think: our distance must stay under ten meters.”

Ten meters.

A vague, tricky measurement.

Triple jump: three meters. Fifty-meter dash. Hundred-meter sprint—those felt clear. But ten meters? *Seemingly within reach, yet just enough to strain.*

Half a meter per step. Twenty steps. A hotel room: door to window, about five meters. A forty-seat bus barely hits ten. One sleepy midnight trip to the restroom, stepping into the hallway toward the second door down—and boom, limit exceeded.

Sherlock’s expression went blank, dazed.

“If you wander off to the bathroom at night,” Morris said helplessly, “you might breach ten meters. For both our sakes… let me sleep on the floor. Call me if anything happens.”

A faint blush tinged Sherlock’s cheeks. “No… Why must I share a… a room with you?”

“Blame Uncle Usak!” Morris nearly wailed. “How was I to know a model youth like me, out doing good deeds, gets betrayed—by my own side!”

“S-sorry,” Sherlock murmured, gently biting her lip. “For Uncle Usak… I agree.”

“What?”

“I SAID I AGREE!” Sherlock squeezed her eyes shut, rolled into the blanket, and buried herself against him, voice thick with resignation. “Do whatever! Floor, bed, sofa, windowsill, table—even the kitchen! I don’t care!”

Morris froze. That phrasing felt… off.

*Creak!* The door swung open. The priest stood frozen in the frame. After locking eyes with Morris, his gaze dropped to the blanket shifting over Morris’s lap. Wordlessly, he turned away. “My apologies. I’ll… return later—”

“COME BACK! IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK!!!” Morris wailed, tears streaming.

Moments later, the two sat heads bowed in the Silent Chamber across from the priest—innocent yet acting guilty.

The priest studied them, sighed. “It’s not even evening yet?”

“That’s what we’re saying!” they slammed the table in unison.

“Alright, alright…” He rubbed his temples, glancing between Morris and Sherlock’s flushed face. “Honestly… you two seem rather well-matched?”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Another table slam—but Sherlock’s protest sounded half-hearted.

“Ah…” The priest felt his soul drain away. Shaking his head: “Never mind you young folks. I called you here for a reason.”

“Hm?” Morris scratched his head. “I thought you dragged us here to confess…”

“So you admit my first guess was right?” the priest said dryly.

Morris sat straight, staring hard at Alex’s smiling portrait on the wall—ignoring Sherlock’s murderous glare beside him.

“Enough joking,” the priest tapped the table, tone turning serious. “I truly have something to entrust to you.”

He lifted an ancient wooden box from beneath the Silent Table. A faint glow pulsed across its surface—flickering like a fading heartbeat, then flaring back to life.

“What is this?” Morris blinked. A resonance stirred within him, like long-parted twins reuniting.

“This is what Kaundos seeks—the Lunhai Treasure even His Majesty desires,” the priest murmured. “I entrust it to you now.”

“You guarded this for years…” Sherlock’s voice grew distant, unreal. “You know this is like handing it straight to my father.”

“The future is yours to decide. I am no longer its guardian.” He exhaled deeply. “Consider it my liberation.”

Morris opened the box gently. No blinding light. No scent. Just a silver-plated ring—ordinary at first glance. He lifted it, channeled a thread of Arcanum—and instantly, primordial memories surged like a tidal wave forged in ancient chaos. He sat steadfast within the storm, then released the ring. Illusions vanished… yet felt hauntingly real.

“This is Judas’s Ring of Verity,” the priest intoned. “I received it from Lord Alex eight years ago.”

*I know,* Morris thought. *Oh, I know all too well.*

Because back then? He played with this thing like a VR headset—daily.

Young Morris would clutch it, giggle with every squeeze, stay delighted for hours. Alex saw the danger… but hiding it only made the boy seek it harder. So he sent it out of Macedon, saying: “I’ll reclaim it when you become Pope.”

Years passed. Both forgot.

Without today’s reunion, Morris might never have recalled that curious little trinket.

(Though it was far more: Judas engraved his entire life into it—a relic of immeasurable historical and arcane value.)

Alex called it “a mobile library of the Holy City.” Morris? Just an e-book. A VR e-book.

*What use does the Emperor have for this? Why do so many crave it?*

Having devoured every tome in the Holy City library, Morris couldn’t grasp the allure of a portable encyclopedia. And as the Saint wielding Destruction’s strongest catalyst? He held zero interest in its stored secrets.

He toyed with the ring, sighed inwardly—*I’m not nine anymore*—and casually handed it to Sherlock.

The priest’s eyes bulged.

Sherlock nearly dropped it, flustered, shivering. “W-what are you doing…?”

“It’s yours,” Morris said softly. “Give it to your father or keep it—your choice.”

The priest clutched his chest, nearly choking. *Eight years of guardianship… and to him, it’s just… this?!*

“How could I give it to Father!” Sherlock cradled the ring, eyes shimmering with its light. Clasping it tightly, she turned to Morris with a radiant smile. “I’ll keep it. Treasure it forever.”

Bathed in golden light, her long lashes framing a smile of breathtaking beauty—like a masterpiece passed through ages.

Only the priest remained, face buried in the table, utterly heartbroken.