Luke didn’t go to the location written on the note.
The sender had been cautious—avoiding the base and picking a rendezvous spot instead.
Futile effort. Luke’s mind-reading ability extracted information directly, and residual traces on the note were no exception.
Following that imprint, he swiftly located the writer.
At that moment, the man was spying from thirty meters outside the meeting point. Luke circled behind him and lightly tapped his shoulder. The man jolted violently, nearly jumping out of his skin.
“Who—?! Ah, how are *you* here? Wait—what does the Hero want with me?” the man stammered, playing dumb.
“You wrote this, didn’t you?” Luke flicked the note.
“Hero, I… I don’t understand,” the man persisted weakly.
“No more pretense, Thomas. Probationary knight of the Royal Guard. Thirty-five. Lives with a seventy-three-year-old…”
“Enough! I confess!” Thomas surrendered instantly.
His quick surrender—and Luke’s blunt approach—weren’t surprising.
In this kingdom, those who hated that pink-haired scum most were often lowest in status, education, and character.
Not absolute, but observable.
Within the vast Royal Guard, only Thomas—a mere probationary knight—dared doubt her.
His reason? Petty: *No one’s that perfect.*
Many thought similarly, but if Aelia offered help or benefit, flaws were ignored.
Not Thomas. He fixated solely on her faults, aiming to smear and discredit her entirely.
Naturally, an organization built by such people reflected their caliber.
Luke engaged them out of necessity. Others were too blinded by admiration for that pink-haired scum—brilliant or not, they yielded zero intel.
“I knew it! Hero, you’re truly our ally!” Thomas beamed.
Seeing Luke wouldn’t report or punish him, Thomas instantly claimed kinship.
How Luke knew his details? Thomas didn’t care. *He’s powerful. He’s joining us. Joy.*
Thanks to that simplicity, Luke was swiftly led to their meeting place: an ordinary house in the royal capital.
No soundproofing magic. No winding routes. Luke almost doubted they were the same group who’d tested him earlier.
“The lack of disguise *is* our defense,” Thomas explained. “No one suspects we’d criticize the Saintess here. But seeking dissenters? That requires caution.”
Recalling Charles and Elise’s reactions, Luke admitted it: others wouldn’t believe anyone disliked that pink-haired scum. If they did, they’d preach until they “converted to the Aelia Cult.”
Inside the master bedroom-turned-meeting-room, Luke saw four men and one woman. Mind-reading confirmed: this was the entire group.
“This is Hero Luke!” Thomas announced proudly. “From today, he joins us to expose that vile Saintess’s true face!”
“The kingdom is saved!”
“Evil can never triumph over justice!”
Tears of joy welled in some eyes.
Luke itched to leave. But he stayed—curious what intel this laughably incompetent group held.
They, eager to recruit a Hero with direct access to the Saintess and formidable power, held little back.
After brief introductions, Luke cut straight to the point:
“Why are you dissatisfied with Lady Aelia? What first made you suspicious?”
All six erupted eagerly:
“Her perfection feels fake!”
“Don’t think her fake-sweet act fools me—a woman sees right through it!”
“Princess Moonshadow deserves reverence far more than any Saintess!”
Others’ remarks were predictable. But Tui—the sleazy, robed man—piqued Luke’s interest.
“Who is Princess Moonshadow? Another Saintess? A real princess?”
“Neither. Just a notorious thief,” Bibis, the freelance writer, scoffed with an eye roll.
“Don’t insult *my* princess!” Tui snapped.
“Enough,” Thomas intervened. “Garridon, you start.”
Garridon—five years unemployed—stood promptly. He pinned two enlarged close-ups of Aelia onto the board and turned confidently.
“This is why I distrust the Saintess.”
Silence.
Thomas nudged him: “Explain! No one gets it!”
Garridon sighed. “Left: daily Saintess. Right: returning from slaying monsters.”
“So?” Bibis pressed. “What’s different?”
Angles and expressions matched perfectly. Even Luke saw nothing.
*That* was Luke’s real frustration: they’d united purely on hatred, yet never asked *why* each other hated her.
(If absurdity were a contest, Garridon would win.)
“Watch closely…”
Garridon pulled out a ruler, measured both photos, and showed the gap.
Expressions turned bizarre.
“See? Her head is raised *0.1 centimeters* higher here! Proof she was smug over her victory!”
His voice rose with righteous fury.
“A person who lacks humility after triumph, lets pride cloud judgment—*flawless*? Impossible!”
