Of course, blaming everything on luck was simply unacceptable.

After all, most things in this world aren’t mere coincidences—they’re inevitable results of actions taken by you, me, and others.

Take this delegation: the officials and nobles complemented each other precisely because, the moment they heard Aelia would attend, they swiftly implemented internal adjustments—"departmental quota limits" and "competitive participation."

Thus, every person who stood out held real influence or substantial wealth within their department.

Working together, renovating a slum district was trivial. Even building a Saintess Palace nearby rivaling the royal palace wasn’t far-fetched.

And the guards lacking power or wealth?

Far from idle, they cleaned the orphanage or made simple repairs under officers devoted to the Saintess. Charles even stunned everyone by expertly mending dolls.

While the crowd buzzed with future plans or volunteered enthusiastically, the very person they sought to please had quietly slipped away.

*(Finally… a chance… Ugh… Sand fills my throat and stomach… You bastards—may even cold water choke you!)*

Aelia cursed inwardly, her expression perfectly calm as she walked toward the restroom, ready to cast a spell for a full gastrointestinal cleanse.

But she hadn’t gone far when the little boy from earlier—the one who’d locked eyes with her—came running over.

*(N-no way… Again?! Did my acting convince you your cooking was good?! No… One more bite and I’ll really vomit!)*

At the memory of that "delicacy," the little person in Aelia’s mind turned green.

*(What do I do? Will casting magic in front of a kid go unnoticed?)*

Her worry was needless. The boy carried no food. Seeing her pause and offer a gentle smile, he bowed his head deeply, voice trembling with guilt:

"Saintess Big Sister… I’m so sorry! For making you taste something so… unsightly."

The truth couldn’t stay hidden. Once the leftover pastries were taken back, he realized Aelia had eaten them only to spare his feelings—and rushed to apologize.

*(You know you were foolish… Ugh… Then scram already!)*

Aelia roared inwardly.

Unlike with the little girl earlier, she couldn’t just invent an excuse to cast magic now.

Judging by his demeanor, he’d likely helped make those pastries. Kids craved praise and dreamed big—maybe of becoming an imperial chef or even a biochemist.

If she purged it right before him, his confidence would shatter. Rumors would spread: the radiant, beloved Saintess couldn’t protect a child’s dream. Humiliation.

Besides… why did *he* look ready to sob? *She* was the one who should be crying!

"That’s not true at all."

Aelia knelt—her signature move. Children hated being looked down on. Meeting them eye-to-eye, even lowering herself slightly, naturally won trust.

Gently wiping a single tear with her handkerchief, she smiled. "There were foreign bits, yes… but the pastry itself was excellent. Believe me—you’ll become a wonderful chef one day."

Blatant lie? Absolutely. She didn’t even blink.

But as expected, the boy only needed validation. He sniffled, wiped his sleeve across his face, and offered a wobbly, grateful smile.

"I’ll work hard not to disappoint you, Saintess Sister."

*Zero expectations. Just step aside. Please.*

He didn’t hear her inner plea, but sensing he shouldn’t hinder such a kind Saintess, he quickly moved aside.

Fate, however, had other plans.

The moment he stepped back, a middle-aged chef in stained whites sprinted over and dramatically prostrated himself between Aelia and the restroom, kowtowing repeatedly.

"Ten thousand apologies, Lady Aelia! It was all my fault—the children are blameless! Lord Jorit bears no guilt! Punish me—I deserve death!"

Luke, considering Jorit’s goodwill and the chef’s good intent, had gently steered the children toward praising Aelia and celebrating the orphanage’s salvation.

But the more others praised her, the heavier the chef’s guilt grew—until he broke down and came to beg forgiveness.

*(Enough! If apologies fixed everything, why have guards?! Ugh… Stop talking—just let me pass, you bastards!)*

While her inner self convulsed from imaginary nausea, Aelia bent down and lifted the sobbing chef.

If word spread that she’d reduced a humble chef to tears, whispers would question her saintly compassion—and her very title. For the life she cherished, she had to endure.

Ten minutes later, after soothing him to work diligently and mentor the boy kindly, Aelia finally reached the restroom of her dreams.

*(Phew… so much better… Wait—what did that bastard say? The food was *deliberate*? To disgust nobles?! Damn it!)*

After refreshing herself with magic, she unleashed a silent fury—then regretted promising not to blame anyone.

If only that were the end.

But the moment she reentered the hall, she saw Luke.

Memories flashed: him watching as hot water drenched her… him untouched while she choked down that revolting pastry… him urging everyone not to assign blame.

*(Why do I suffer while he walks away clean?!)*

It’s not scarcity people fear—it’s unfairness.

Aelia’s anger boiled over. She’d deploy her ultimate weapon—not just against the damn Hero, but against *everyone* who’d disrespected her lately.

*(Huh?)*

Luke froze.

Through mind-reading, he knew this time… her threat was real.

But the method she’d chosen?

Something he never saw coming…