“What’s going on? Are Lord Hero and that Charles really dueling?”

“I heard it’s over Lady Saintess… Looks like we’re in for a show.”

“No way! How can you sound so gleeful? Shouldn’t we be standing with Lord Hero right now?”

“Absolutely not! Lady Aelia is the kingdom’s most radiant jewel. What right does that outsider Hero have to take her?”

“Exactly! I don’t like Charles either, but this time—I’m rooting for him to thrash the Hero!”

“Go, Lord Charles! Oops—I mean, go, Lady Aelia! Long live Lady Aelia!”

Absurd.

Watching the crowd swell around the training grounds, Luke sighed inwardly.

Faced with that pink-haired schemer’s dramatic performance, Luke chose to “honor her effort” and accepted the duel.

Partly confidence in his own strength. Partly… curiosity about how far she’d go.

“Wait—is this a fight to the death?”

“It was… but Lady Aelia, in her kindness, persuaded them to make it a standard sparring match.”

“Truly, Lady Aelia’s heart is pure gold.”

“Frankly? I wish they’d tear each other apart—wipe out two pests at once… But Lady Aelia would be heartbroken. Ugh… why can’t we have the best of both worlds?”

Clearly, the pink-haired schemer knew her audience: people prefer compromise over extremes.

After she proposed the change, cheers erupted—praising the Saintess’s wisdom and compassion. Few noticed she never truly tried to stop it… and even stoked the flames.

Some saw through it. Yet most insisted the Saintess was simply *that* innocent.

And instead of mockery, they felt only protectiveness—as if she were a cherished daughter, too precious to hold tightly.

Others, the shrewd ones Luke half-respected, believed she was *strategically* acting—for the kingdom’s sake, using cunning beyond villains to uphold her sacred duty.

Admiration, again and again.

Luke, reading their thoughts, went silent.

He knew she was trusted… but this blind devotion? Almost… promising.

He looked forward to the moment her mask slipped—what faces these fans would make, what price she’d pay.

But one step at a time. First: put her in her place. Ah—defeat the opponent.

“Lord Luke… I’m so sorry. This is all my fault for dragging you into it.”

Aelia, of course, shared his insight.

At the training ground, she’d first “calmly” urged Charles on the other side—while secretly fanning the flames.

Once the crowd thickened, she approached Luke: ready to stage a tender, pre-battle farewell, feigning worry for her “lover’s” safety… to stir jealousy toward him.

“No need to apologize. I’ll prove my innocence through combat.”

Luke stepped back—creating distance—yet spoke with fiery resolve.

*(What the hell? Addicted to playing the hot-headed youth now?)*

Aelia’s inner self scowled. She wasn’t sure if he was acting… but her goal remained: drive him out.

Anything defying her will deserved scorn.

*(Too bad. No matter how chivalrous you act—it won’t save you.)*

She closed in. One retreat = plausible. Two = cold. Three? Ungrateful.

“Lord Luke… Charles isn’t evil. He’s impulsive, yes—but only because he cares. He’s always seen me as a little sister…”

She trapped him with false kindness.

Luke admitted it: the pink-haired schemer held all the cards. Any misstep would sink his reputation.

Unless—

“Don’t worry! I’ll go *very* easy on him!” Luke boomed, thumping his chest loud enough for the whole square to hear.

*(ARGH! YOU JERK—WHY SO LOUD?!)*

Aelia’s mind reeled. She *wanted* him to hold back—to provoke Charles—but *she* was supposed to stay hidden! Now everyone knew *she’d* asked… Would they think the Saintess disrespected warrior honor?

*Unlikely*, Luke mused. He listened. Sure enough—within seconds, chatter flipped back to “Lady Aelia is so kind!”

Only Charles radiated rising killing intent nearby.

Aelia’s heart fluttered with delight.

*(Huh? You’re… on my side? Nice work!)*

Emboldened, she pressed harder.

“Lord Luke… thank you. But please—stay safe. Don’t let my words cloud your judgment…”

Tarnishing Luke meant nothing if her Saintess image cracked. She aimed to lounge in royal comfort forever.

Even a ruined Luke must never tarnish *her*—ideally, help count the coins after she sold him out.

“Thank *you*, Lady Aelia! I’ll stay safe!” Luke bellowed again, bowing with wildly exaggerated gratitude.

Praise poured in—but Aelia caught the shift. Criticism of Luke faded. Some even *defended* him.

*Unacceptable!*

She played her trump card: a blush, downcast eyes, voice soft as a lovesick maiden.

“Lord Luke… after the match… may I speak with you… alone?”

In her mind, any man hearing this from *her* would fantasize, lose focus, or overperform and falter.

…If he didn’t see right through her.

“Rest assured, Lady Aelia! I’ll give it my all!”

Luke answered with the roaring enthusiasm of a battleship captain charging into battle.