Shirley was a restless girl.

From the moment she stepped inside, she spread her arms and began spinning in place on her own.

As Miss Monica put it, it was simply her habit.

Most Avianwings couldn’t sit still either.

Noah had assumed she’d just keep spinning until the end.

Until he slapped Shirley’s bill onto the table and asked, voice echoing his earlier tone: “Miss Shirley, please explain—what exactly are these fines about?”

At the word *fine*, Shirley froze as if struck by thunder. Her feet halted mid-spin.

Dazed, she stood rigid for a beat, then slowly turned her head and instantly played dumb: “Shirley doesn’t know anything about fines~”

Noah didn’t even glance at her. He read the clauses aloud:

“July 15, New Calendar 3324: Trespassed into the mayor’s residence in Arvin Hamlet. Scratched four walls, shattered eight windows, stole unspecified food. Cited emergency evasion. Equilibrium Guild fined 40,000 Ayn Coins.”

“August 9, New Calendar 3324: Trespassed again. Smashed valuable vases, scratched three paintings, injured four servants, stole more food. Emergency evasion cited. Fine: 67,000 Ayn Coins.”

“April 2, New Calendar 3325: Trespassed yet again…”

By now, Shirley had crouched with her head tucked between her knees.

Pitifully, she mumbled, “Shirley had no choice… Shirley was starving. Had to find food…”

*This* was emergency evasion?

Noah sighed helplessly. “Even so—why *only* the mayor’s house?”

He shook the bill, utterly baffled. Fourteen break-ins in one year!

Did she think the mayor’s mansion was a wholesale market?

Shirley answered simply, earnestly: “Because the food there tastes better.”

Noah froze. “That’s it?”

She nodded, then added with sudden seriousness: “There’s one thing *only* the mayor’s house has. Shirley visits just for that.”

*You call smashing through windows a ‘visit’?*

Noah swallowed the retort. “What is it?”

“Fries.”

“…”

Noah blinked. “What?”

Shirley’s eyes lit up like starlight. She bounced up, shouting:

“FRIES!”

“Shirley wants fries!”

Noah: “…”

*Oh no.*

*Another one who’s not quite right!!*

…

…

Noah’s panic simmered.

Anna’s example had braced him—but Shirley’s fry-fueled logic still stunned him speechless.

Was she not an eagle or crow… but a seagull? A seagull whose life mission was scoring fries at the docks?

Wait—does the Avianwing Clan even have subgroups?

Monica, sensing her Guild Master’s mental overload, gently clarified:

“She’s an outlier. Her appetite dwarfs other Avianwings’, and she’s in a growth phase. Guild funds rarely cover her meals, so we let her forage.”

“But due to… *certain* reasons, she’s not great at finding food. When starving, she seeks refuge at the mayor’s.”

Noah almost asked *what reasons*.

Then decided his brain deserved a vacation.

“Let’s skip the debt. What’s your *role* in the guild?”

“Role?” Shirley tilted her head, pointing behind him. “Shirley usually stays *there*—on the iron swing.”

“Not *that* kind of role.”

Doubting her comprehension, Noah softened his tone: “Shirley, I’ll ask simple questions. Answer when ready, okay?”

She nodded obediently—*Guild Master said so*.

*At least she’s compliant*, Noah thought. *A slow but obedient bird.*

“Five times eight?”

“Twenty-seven!”

*You’ve got to be kidding me.*

Noah nearly choked, then gently added: “Take your time. Think it through.”

“Okay.”

She counted fingers. Then toes. Then spread her tiny arm-wings, tallying feathers with profound intensity—as if tracing cosmic truths across starry oceans.

Eyes brightening, she declared: “Thirty-five!”

*Alright then.*

Noah saw it clearly: numbers weren’t her strength.

Monica smoothly interjected: “Guild Master, Avianwings’ number-blindness is legendary across Ayn Continent. Try non-math questions—she’ll manage.”

Shirley nodded. “Numbers *are* troublesome.”

Noah trusted Monica.

Later questions drew slow, slightly off-track answers—but nothing shattered reality. After today? He could almost believe the *Almighty Fry God ruled a starry domain*.

What complaint could he have?

She dodged rain, fled collapsing buildings, scavenged when hungry.

*(Though the mayor might dispute “scavenged”…)*

“I understand your situation,” Noah sighed earnestly. “Please avoid the mayor’s residence. Our guild can’t afford more fines.”

The Avianwing girl murmured “Okay,” wiped drool from her lip, and asked brightly: “Guild Master—when’s dinner? Fries tonight?”

Noah glanced at Monica.

The maid bowed her head in silent reply.

“No fries for now,” Noah said gently. “We’ll wait until guild income stabilizes.”

*(He had no idea when that’d be.)*

Monica had promised money-making paths once he settled in. *Then* his role would matter.

“Okay!” Shirley’s disappointment lasted seconds. “Can Shirley go out? Want to swing in the courtyard!”

Noah smiled. “Go ahead.”

*Whoosh.*

A gust whipped past his ear.

*CRASH!* Glass shattered; shards flew.

Noah spun around—Shirley had burst straight through the window, soaring into the yard.

Fragments dusted his coat, harmless.

*Is this her protest against no-fries life?*

Monica produced a fresh pane from nowhere. “She takes words literally, Guild Master. Explain carefully… or this happens.”

Noah startled. “When did you prep that?”

“A maid’s foresight,” Monica said calmly.

*Good.*

*At least Monica’s reliable.*

…

As Monica reinstalled the window and Noah brushed off glass, his faith in the Azure Round Table crumbled further.

An Undying One haunted by ritual backlash.

A fry-obsessed, math-challenged bird-girl.

*Now* he grasped why the guild drowned in debt.

And it wasn’t over.

He settled back into his chair, pulled another bill, eyed the unfamiliar name, and called wearily toward the door:

“Next—Miss Pascal.”