Christine had kept her eyes on Hale the moment he stepped into the swordsmanship arena.
She’d arrived early today, eager to witness his true strength firsthand.
After all, everything she knew about the Understreet of District Six was hearsay.
That day still held too many unanswered questions.
First—why had Letitia even been down there? Many must have wondered the same.
Owing to the influence of House Childe’s head, even the Inquisition Bureau dared not press directly. Instead, the Third Division director paid House Childe a personal afternoon tea visit.
He laid out the risks to the old butler: Saint Louis’s underground streets swarmed with foreign spies; the master’s safety couldn’t be guaranteed.
What couldn’t be spoken didn’t mean it couldn’t be guessed.
Christine suspected Letitia had gone there for her own reasons—perhaps to purchase something.
Which made Hale’s presence there all the more puzzling.
After all, his name had stood out clearly in that black emergency dossier delivered that day.
The Inquisition Bureau should’ve been watching him closely.
So Christine concluded Hale must have taken a route bypassing their surveillance to reach where Letitia was in danger.
But how could he have known their deployment in advance?
Was he truly a spy from the Xia Kingdom?
In the aftermath, Hale walked away unharmed; the Xia masterminds vanished cleanly.
If Hale were indeed a Xia spy, that outcome wasn’t bad—escaping the Bureau’s tight net like that was near-miraculous.
But Christine knew the Bureau’s higher-ups weren’t fools. They’d flagged Hale’s name early.
How could they not anticipate his move?
Meaning—Hale hid other secrets.
Christine loved mysteries. She’d always been drawn to the enigmatic. Without that curiosity, someone who believed in the divine but not the Church would never have spent years translating ancient scriptures for them.
Some saw it as work. Others, as life.
She was the latter.
Now, she’d come to uncover this secret.
And that faint, inexplicable familiarity she felt toward Hale urged her to scrutinize every detail of this young man—leaving no secret, big or small, hidden from her gaze.
“Nothing much. Why has Vestal Candidate Christine come over? Weren’t you chatting with Count Reed?”
Hale’s tone was calm.
He sensed her probing gaze. This Vestal Candidate—who’d bluntly asked about dating from the very start and was famously sharp-minded—demanded his full alertness.
“Oh my~ Is Young Master Hale *that* attentive to me? Even chatting with Count Reed was just to learn more about you.”
Christine chuckled lightly.
“If Miss Christine truly wishes to understand me,” Hale replied coolly, “a private place—like last time—would be best.”
He had to stay firm. Keeping the persona from their last parting was crucial. Avoiding her outright wouldn’t work.
“Oh? Does Young Master Hale wish to teach me… *adult* knowledge? I’m rather curious too.”
Christine kept flirting.
Hale countered flatly, “Don’t just talk big, Miss Christine. What’s the point of empty words here?”
He projected readiness—but in the game’s plot, Christine never agreed to intimacy unless she urgently needed mana replenishment.
She wasn’t the type to give in easily.
Hale was certain this remark would make her retreat.
“Don’t be cross, Young Master Hale. What choice do I have? So many people around… we can only talk. Would you really discuss *forbidden* topics publicly? We’d be branded heretics and thrown in jail.”
Christine’s logic held firm.
She knew Hale was bluffing too. If he were truly desperate, things with Letitia in the grand hall wouldn’t have ended so simply.
Hale fell silent. He’d spotted Christine’s real target.
Their banter led nowhere—but someone was watching.
Naturally, Letitia.
The rose-hued princess’s hand, cradling her teacup, trembled slightly.
She might even approach.
Why did this suddenly smell like a love triangle brewing? In this game, heroines pushed to the edge unleashed ultimate moves without hesitation.
And he’d die faster for it.
“What exactly are you after?”
“Me? I want to uncover every secret of Young Master Hale.”
“You think I have secrets?”
Hale stayed composed outwardly, but unease coiled inside.
Her words felt like a declaration: *I’m latching onto you.*
“Of course. That day—why were you in the underground street? You must have met the Phoenix Fledgling… or someone from Mandala. The threads of fate are already weaving around you.”
Her theological phrasing unsettled him deeply.
He locked eyes with her. “Miss Christine… do you have another reason for approaching me?”
This time, Christine faltered.
…
*What’s wrong with Hale?* Christine wondered.
*Does he know I know about the power inside him?*
But that required Hale to be aware of it himself.
No—judging by his years of slacking, if he could wield that immense power normally, he’d have rampaged long ago.
His titles wouldn’t be “House Faxius’s wayward heir,” “Saint Louis’s blight,” or “nobility’s shame.”
They’d be “House Faxius’s elegant heir,” “Saint Louis’s hope,” “nobility’s pride.”
Saint Louis was brutally honest: Hale’s reputation suffered because he lacked ability.
If he’d been capable, virtues would be magnified; flaws dismissed as human imperfection.
Hale’s question was just a probe—testing if she knew about his mana replenishment ability.
When a supposedly pure Vestal Candidate acted like “hurry up and take me” daily, you had to ask: *What does she gain?*
Hale believed only mana replenishment benefited her.
In the game’s plot, that was always her prerequisite.
They locked eyes.
Silent mental chess unfolded between them.
But Christine held back her trump card. She couldn’t tip him off. She’d slowly make Hale hers.
She sidestepped past him.
Amid the crowd’s suggestive glances, she leaned close to his ear and whispered:
“Young Master Hale… if you win later, you may make *any* request of me~”
Everyone in the Western Continent knew: a Vestal never broke her vows.
