“Her Grace Duchess Letitia’s been showing up at campus a lot lately.”

“Yeah, I spotted her near the Swordsmanship Academy yesterday.”

“The Swordsmanship Academy? Why would she be there?”

“Obviously because of Hale. Haven’t you heard about what went down on Theology Day?”

“What *exactly* happened? I’ve asked a few people, but no one spills details…”

“Can’t blame them. Rumors like that might get House Childe’s attention.”

“Riddlers, scram from Sanctum University!”

It was Wednesday.

Gossip swirled endlessly through Sanctum University.

After a long silence, Hale’s name had shot back to the top of the campus trending list.

Hale himself felt utterly indifferent.

All he wanted was to dodge Letitia day by day until weekend arrived.

Ever since Siman delivered the map, she’d occasionally seek him out.

But her topics always felt a little awkward—conversations fizzled after two lines.

Hale had zero interest in chatting.

Actually getting drawn in would be trouble.

Still, he wasn’t just waiting for Friday. He was also waiting on feedback for his submitted report.

After the Xia Kingdom spy incident, the Curia had required him—as a participant—to file an account.

Naturally, Hale poured generous creative flair into it: painting himself as a duke’s son passionately chasing Letitia’s favor.

No mention of Xia spies. No Inquisition Bureau. No Western Continent politics.

Just women. Women. And more women.

For dramatic effect, he even asked the Curia to mediate House Childe’s resistance toward his “relationship” with Letitia.

Yep—Hale Faxius? All he sees are women. A perfectly law-abiding citizen. How could he possibly be a Western traitor?

Yet days passed. No reply from the Curia. No word from the Inquisition Bureau.

After another dull theory class wrapped up, dismissal time came.

Hale was about to clock out when Siman’s voice cut in.

“Hale, when are you heading to the Demon God Labyrinth?”

“This weekend. Alone.”

*Why’s she bringing this up again?* Hale wondered inwardly. *Is the game forcing a duo route? There’s no such plotline…*

“Not about that,” Siman said. “The Academic Affairs Office summoned the Sanctum Sword Society today.”

“Huh?”

The name sounded grand, but it was just Sanctum University’s swordsmanship club. Siman currently served as its vice president.

“What for? You know I don’t join clubs,” Hale deflected, ready to refuse.

A faint hint of disappointment crossed Siman’s face—she’d hoped to recruit him.

Centuries ago, the Society was co-founded by a Hero and Sanctum’s first dean. Nobles once prized membership.

“But it wasn’t my call,” she added. “The Swordsmanship Academy dean specifically requested you. Friday, the Kingdom of Cathrine’s envoy visits for a swordsmanship exchange. He wants you to compete.”

Hale recalled the bulletin board notice.

Confusing. Sword exchanges were Siman-route staples—monthly events. Casual players grabbed participation prizes; hardcore grinders chased ranks for rewards and Reputation Points.

But this had nothing to do with *him*.

“Why me?”

“I don’t know! The dean came back from out of town just to name you. It’s an honor. Why question something others fight for?”

Siman’s tone sharpened. She couldn’t grasp why he hesitated over clear advantages.

But Hale *really* didn’t want more Reputation Points.

Higher Reputation meant more side quests, higher shop discount odds, better mentor event success rates—great for players. Grind hard, loop endlessly.

For Hale? More Reputation = more event entanglements = more interactions with the heroine.

Death rate: UP!

Shop discounts? He didn’t maintain a team. Barely mattered.

“You’re not joining?” Hale sidestepped.

“Of course I am. Three students from our year were chosen.”

“Three?”

“Mm.”

Per tradition: win two matches to uphold the Papal Dominion’s Western leadership, lose one to spare the envoy’s dignity.

“Oh. Right.” Hale relented. No need to be stubborn. Someone *had* to take the loss anyway.

“Then I’ll do my best. Appreciate the dean’s consideration.”

Siman’s eyes softened. “Looking forward to your performance, Hale.” She left, visibly pleased.

…

Saint Louis’s District Three housed embassies from every nation.

Among them stood an ethereal azure castle, seemingly carved from ice. Even from afar beneath the night sky, its chill pierced the air—the Cathrine Kingdom embassy.

Cathrine, nestled in the Western Continent’s frozen northwest, was its coldest realm. Before the Demon God’s fall, only scattered tribes roamed the land.

A millennium ago, the first Eternal Winter Saintess, guided by divine will, retrieved the Fimbul Eternal Winter Sword from the frozen sea to confront the Demon God. She unified the tribes and forged the northern kingdom.

Yet Cathrine remained lightly bound by religion. Its people revered only the Empress, heir to the Eternal Winter Saintess’s bloodline.

After the previous Empress’s sweeping church reforms, the Papal Dominion unleashed fierce criticism.

For nearly twenty years, no royal envoy had set foot in Saint Louis.

Embassy staff dwindled yearly—only routine diplomats remained.

“His Majesty sends you now… to mend ties with the Papal Dominion? With Eastern-Western tensions rising, if war comes, the Curia *must* ensure Cathrine stands with them,” mused Marquis Chekhov, watching a carriage parked below the ice-palace under Saint Louis’s lamplight.

He addressed the envoy clad in black.

The envoy glanced at the aged marquis. “My mission: secure Hale Faxius’s records for Her Majesty. Mandala of the Salvation Sect should have contacted you.”

“Hale Faxius? What’s special about him? All I recall is he’s… skilled with women.” Chekhov frowned.

“I don’t know. But the Salvation Sect told Her Majesty he is essential—as essential as the Hero is to the Eternal Winter Saintess.”

“Then—for Cathrine!”

“For Cathrine!”

Glasses clinked.

…

That night, Christine lay awake, thoughts gently tangled around Hale.