“Having Lord Hero accompany us would be absolutely perfect,” came the reply.

Naturally, a publicity tour showcasing the royal family and The Church wouldn’t send the Saintess alone. After meeting up with The Church’s contingent, the leading bishop beamed the moment he heard Luke was joining.

(Damn it—why didn’t he refuse?!)

Inside her mind, that pink-haired scoundrel’s little avatar exploded, furiously pummeling a pillow she’d somehow conjured from thin air.

Later, when the matter reached the royal knights’ captain, the outcome was even more predictable.

“This is wonderful! I’ll protect you all—please, focus on your duties without worry,” Charles said warmly.

Since Charles led the group, Luke had dropped by his post all week. Favorability aside, their familiarity was already maxed out.

Thus, Luke smoothly joined the inspection team. Chatting and laughing effortlessly with bishops and officials along the way, he grew so familiar that they’d readily cover for even his minor slip-ups—Oh right, quantifying favorability was also a side effect of his mind-reading ability.

Though Aelia couldn’t see favorability stats, she instantly realized her meticulously plotted schemes to trip Luke up had come to nothing. Another internal meltdown of frustration followed.

(Forget it. Today’s tight. I’ll deal with him later.)

As the team neared the slums, a foul stench rolled in. Aelia promptly shoved her grand “deal with that damn Hero” plan to the back of her mind.

Nobles and officials hastily had mages cast mask-like odor-filtering spells. Soldiers, though avoiding such overt acts, still wrinkled their noses uncomfortably.

“Lord Luke, would you like one too?” the bishop asked. Ever mindful of The Church’s dignity, he’d wrapped himself in a Holy Light Barrier—functionally similar for filtering smells, but far more elegant.

“Mm, I’d appreciate it,” Luke replied.

After three years trudging through underprivileged districts and even stinking goblin lairs, the capital’s slums—with actual latrines and waste handlers—felt practically spotless to him. He accepted the spell only because everyone else had taken precautions; standing out would’ve been awkward.

Well… not entirely. One person stood apart—

Charles frowned, but his eyes held deeper sorrow and a barely perceptible anger.

As a fastidious elf, Elise summoned a gentle swirling breeze instead. The air within carried not just crisp freshness, but a faint minty fragrance… drawing immediate murmurs of awe from the nobles’ mages.

“Remarkable! Truly worthy of that young lady!”

“Is this the elven royal family’s secret art?”

Elise ignored compliments unfit for a maid and glanced worriedly at her Saintess. She’d expected Aelia to accept her spell—or at least cast one herself, or pull out a handkerchief or fan. But Aelia did none of it.

(Ugh… so foul. Gonna be sick…)

To be clear: Aelia hadn’t secretly blocked the stench. Her magic was skilled, yes—but with so many powerful mages nearby, even a faint ripple risked exposure. Yet casting openly like a commoner? Beneath her dignity.

She was the Grand Saintess Candidate—the Saintess among Saintesses. She *should* stand head and shoulders above the crowd.

This was an official inspection. If a compassionate Saintess performed such a discriminatory act toward commoners… how would the public view her? Or the royal family and The Church she represented? The thought of disgrace, being deemed unfit, losing everything… forced her to feign calm.

But there was an upside—

“Incredible! Remaining so composed in this stench—truly worthy of Lady Aelia!”

“As expected of the Saintess!”

If she showed even a trace of sorrow—

“Her Highness must be grieving for the people here… so noble!”

“Compared to Lady Aelia, I’m but a grain of sand in the ocean!”

(Heh. Keep praising~)

Her inner little person pinched her nose, chin tilted so high her nostrils pointed skyward—radiating pride. Alas, mentally covering one’s nose was pure self-deception. Seconds later, the avatar crumpled to her knees, vomiting uncontrollably.

For Luke, the stench was trivial. The slum dwellers’ hostility was the real issue.

No sooner did the team enter the district than glares and scowls met them.

(Here they come again—another hollow inspection.)

(We need jobs, warm clothes, food, medicine—not empty sympathy!)

(At least hand out thin porridge…)

(“Saintess”? “Hero”? Not worth a fraction of Princess Moonshadow!)

Luke knew their anger was justified. As snow melted, royal districts bustled with cleanup crews—while frozen corpses lay uncollected here. Forget the stench; avoiding plague was already a miracle. This team marched straight to the orphanage, ignoring everything en route, carrying almost no aid. Clearly, the kingdom’s elite cared nothing for these people.

And that infamous pink-haired scoundrel? Even less. Luke recalled chubby Tui’s words—and agreed. However gracefully she acted, she stood with the nobility. No real help for common folk.

(…Well. I’m not so different either.)

He knew he had no right to judge others’ silence. But if conflict ever erupted between Messiah Kingdom’s royalty and its people? He’d at least refuse to aid the tyrant.

Amid a storm of mental curses, the team reached Dawn Orphanage.

Before even stepping from the carriage, Luke caught two starkly contrasting thoughts from inside:

(They’re finally here! The orphanage is saved!)

(You bastards dare show up again… I’ll make you pay!)