(Scalding! Scalding! Scalding to death!)

Almost instantly, the tiny version of Aelia in her mind clutched her arm and rolled on the ground, wailing in pain.

(What the hell?! Even such a trivial thing done wrong—and hot water spilled all over me?! What if my super duper cute, beautiful face gets ruined?! Aaah! It hurts! It hurts so much… And she won’t even apologize? Does she expect *me* to comfort *her*?! Unbelievable!)

True to her self-preserving nature, Aelia always kept protective spells active against ambushes and attacks.

But she’d never guarded against an orphan girl’s accidental harm. Caught completely off guard, her entire left hand was drenched in scalding tea.

“Your Highness Aelia, I am deeply sorry…”

Thanks to a certain mind-reader’s nudge, the bewildered Joliet remembered to apologize—but before he could step forward, furious guards and officials swarmed him.

Others either rushed to check on Aelia or seized the trembling girl’s wrists, ready to strike.

“Stop!” Aelia cried urgently.

(Ouch… damn it, what are you doing?!)

Don’t misunderstand—Aelia didn’t care if the brat got punished. Honestly? She thought the little brat *deserved* it.

But not here. Not where it might touch *her*.

Though The Church and royalty led the inspection, *she* was the invited face of it.

She couldn’t let recklessness stain her reputation.

Think about it: other inspections wrap up smoothly, harmoniously… Hers? Barely seated, and *this* happens? How could the esteemed Grand Saintess Candidate afford that shame?

Big issues shrink. Small ones vanish. That was the way.

So while halting the aggressors, she cast a calming spell without hesitation—steadying the near-chaos in seconds.

“Please, everyone. I’m fine. It was an accident.”

Knowing the girl looked ready to sob for hours even without a slap—and to block rumors that *Saintess made a child cry*—Aelia softened her expression. She walked slowly forward, knelt without minding the dusty hem of her skirt, and gently patted the girl’s head.

“No need to be sad. Everyone makes mistakes. Just be more careful next time.”

No one would question magic here. So Aelia openly wove a soothing spell into her touch—winning hearts, step by step.

This was a combo move.

“But… your hand, Saintess?” the girl whispered worriedly, recalling her own past burns.

*Perfect.* Aelia smiled faintly, extended her throbbing, itching left arm, and casually healed it—erasing every trace of tea, every mark of pain.

“See? All better.” She waved her arm with a gentle smile.

(Phew… finally free of this agony. Ugh, brat.)

But the combo worked: the girl’s face brightened into a relieved, spirited smile.

Still—not enough.

*Human nature is evil from the start.*

Aelia knew: end it here, and these slimy adults would punish the girl behind closed doors. Or the other orphans would bully her for “hurting the super duper cute, beautiful Saintess.” Death might be spared—but suffering? Inevitable.

She didn’t care about the girl. But *she* had comforted her. Any harm after would smear *her* reputation. Better to exploit this fully.

“Please,” she said, rising and facing the crowd, “let this end here. For good.”

“As Her Saintess wishes…”

Once murmurs of agreement settled, she turned to Joliet. Her eyes held trust—and a subtle, sharp warning.

“Lord Joliet… please take good care of her.”

Joliet was slow on most things. But with children? Sharp. He instantly grasped her unspoken fear and nodded firmly. “I will not fail you.”

“Good.”

Aelia gave the girl’s slightly dirty hair one last affectionate pat, cast a quick blessing—and subtly cleansed her own hands—before returning to her seat.

Predictably, once seated, every official stole glances at her… filled with quiet admiration.

(Yes! Total victory!)

Aelia’s heart bloomed with triumph.

Across the table, Luke felt genuine respect too.

He’d seen it clearly: the moment scalding tea hit, this pink-haired girl didn’t flinch. Not a flicker of pain crossed her face.

Measured by Galliton standards—magnified twentyfold—her usual brow-furrow was 0.047 cm for 0.059 seconds.

This time? 0.051 cm. Held 0.062 seconds.

*Impressive.* Luke knew he couldn’t match that control.

More crucially, her performance clarified the Saintess’s stance. Through guilt by association and political alignment, tolerance for the orphanage rose sharply.

Not enough for real aid—but this inspection would land smoothly… *if* all went well.

Sadly, one rotten element spoils the whole pot. Always has.

After comforting the girl again, Joliet joined the children serving tea—eager to prevent further mishaps.

Notably, though the orphanage was humble, the tableware was decent, the tea far from commoner-grade.

The officials’ lingering irritation faded. Curiosity stirred: *What snacks await?*

(Mere curiosity. Zero expectations.)

Even plain food would be tolerated—for the Saintess’s sake. A token bite. Or just sip tea. No shame.

Yet the covered dishes, hidden under iron cloches, teased an air of elegance.

Joliet hadn’t ordered it. Assuming the cook aimed to surprise the guests, he didn’t question it.

“Honorable officials… please enjoy.”

Then—cloches lifted.

Eyes widened.

Curses erupted.

“Viscount Joliet! Again and *again*—what is your intent?!”

Joliet stumbled to Aelia’s table, face pale, nearly collapsing.

“Modest” would’ve been kind.

Reality? Plates held indescribable, visibly unhygienic globs—things no sane person would call food.