Christine’s voice wasn’t loud, but quite a few heard her.

The reporters outside caught little, yet those inside possessed sharp hearing and considerable skill.

An awkward tension settled over the room.

Count Reed had planned to approach Duchess Letitia again with his usual opener—“Oh, my dear Duchess Letitia”—hoping to secure another modest donation for the academy. But now, all attention fixated on Christine’s words. Dean Morgan and Marquis Chekhov were no exception.

They knew Hale and Christine got along, yet never imagined their rapport ran this deep. Even as a jest, a Vestal Candidate wouldn’t speak so freely to someone distant.

Two others, however, held different thoughts.

Master Andry finally understood: he was merely the side character. Hale was the protagonist. No one cared about his swordsmanship display—they awaited Hale’s surprise. Christine, a Vestal Candidate, speaking like that? The unspoken message was clear: *You must win.* His pride stung anew. He longed for the match to begin *now*—to showcase his prowess by soloing three opponents spectacularly, reclaim his dignity, and leave Hale with zero room to shine. Whether Hale was here to slack off or carried expectations, silence rendered it all meaningless.

Siman, meanwhile, genuinely hoped Hale would win. A victory here could swiftly bury his tarnished reputation. Yet worry gnawed at her: what if he actually made an improper demand of Christine afterward? Christine wasn’t Letitia. As a Vestal Candidate, any hint of impropriety—*adultery*—would brand him a heretic.

Alarmed, Siman hurried to Hale’s side. “What demand would you make… if you won?”

“Don’t worry. I haven’t won yet,” Hale replied calmly.

He knew her concern. He had zero intention of making demands—*at most*, tell her to keep her distance. He also felt Master Andry’s gaze: hostile, burning with urgency to prove himself.

*Perfect. What a wonderful start.*

“I know… but you *will* win, right, Hale?” Siman probed, testing his resolve.

After a brief silence, Hale shook his head. “No. I won’t.”

“Huh? Why?”

“If you and Master Andry win, Papal Dominion diplomatic custom dictates *I* must lose.”

“Oh… I didn’t expect you to notice that.”

Siman was genuinely surprised. She knew the unspoken rule but rarely minded it—some ambitious nobles had defied it before, winning outright with little consequence beyond slighting foreign pride. Yet Hale had already accepted this burden.

“Well… it’s thoughtful. But I don’t *have* to win either.”

“?”

*Don’t say that.* Hale’s inner voice screamed: *Siman, are you out of your mind?* She *couldn’t* lose. In the game’s logic, the system triggered his intervention based solely on how many times the heroines were defeated or fled.

“No. You *must* win. You’re the Feng family’s only daughter—what happens if you don’t? I’ve endured years like this. It doesn’t matter for me.” He urged her firmly.

Siman froze.

*She’d heard these words before.*

Her childhood had been joyful—spoiled, mischievous. The duke’s cherished only daughter. She’d pestered Hale to call her “big sister,” giggled with noble friends about whose chest was bigger *before puberty*, adored stockings and heels, smudged lipstick and powder trying to look “grown-up.” Clumsy? Yes. But to her, it *was* fashion. It *was* maturity.

Who changed her?

*Hale.*

After she lost a classical swordsmanship match—to a *viscount’s daughter*, shaming the Feng legacy renowned in Saint Louis since her grandfather’s time—she’d sobbed uncontrollably. The teacher panicked, dismissed onlookers, fetched the principal.

Only Hale remained.

Leaning by the door. Watching.

When she saw him, fresh tears welled.

But before they fell, he stepped close.

“Stop crying. You’re the Feng family’s only daughter. When Uncle ages, who inherits? You’ll marry. Be weaker than your husband, and you become a puppet. Fate is what it is—you must seize it yourself.”

His voice held no warmth. No comfort.

Young Siman barely understood.

Yet slowly… she became the daughter determined to make her family proud.

Now, hearing those same words, she stared at Hale.

*So familiar.*

*Had he never changed?*

*Or had she simply not noticed?*

If he lived by his own words… she needn’t worry.

“Alright,” Siman said softly. “If you don’t shine today… there will be other chances.”

Relief washed over Hale.

*If only the heroines were stronger now…*

No need to fear their losses.

If he’d reincarnated earlier—or kept his memories—he’d have pushed them harder, accelerated their growth beyond the game’s pace.

*Whatever.* Not worth dwelling on.

Just survive this exchange.

If Andry and Siman won? He could slack off completely!

Wuhu!

But as he turned toward final preparations—a glacial gaze pierced him.

Beside Marquis Chekhov stood a white-haired girl, her presence sharp as winter wind.

*No way… Is she the Katerin delegation’s swordsmanship representative?*

Hale’s blood ran cold.

*He’d faced her in the game before.*