Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 4.1 - Chapter 3

Postface

Ending

Should the split party succeed in their endeavors, they will reconvene to share their tales—though there is no guarantee that all will be fit to participate in the next adventure. Yet if the story goes on, the truth must be accepted, whatever that fate may be.

Though I was growing accustomed to waking under unfamiliar ceilings, my awakening filled me with a sense of hollowness.

“I’m...alive?” It took me several minutes under the light of dawn, staring at a marvelously embroidered canopy, to collect my frayed thoughts.

I’d figured I was just dead. While I had some memory of help arriving, having all but one limb torn off was more than enough to put me over. Even though I recalled my savior’s noble appearance, the art of limb reattachment was heavily guarded by the College; Miss Celia may have been a priestess, but I’d heard that the miracles able to achieve such effects were locked away at the peak of devotion, so the odds of that seemed slim. I mean, I didn’t even know how she ranked within her church. Since traditional care wouldn’t cut it, I’d assumed I’d been at the end of my line, but...

“What, did these things just grow out of nowhere?”

That crank of high rank had torn me asunder, and I couldn’t imagine what kind of omnipotent cheat code could have put my arm and legs back in place like they’d never left.

Gingerly, I tried to move my arm...and found no pain, nor even discomfort. Flipping the sleeve to my curiously soft nightclothes—the needlework made questions of its price too terrifying to ask—I was met with skin unblemished by scars; I couldn’t find so much as a scab. My legs were much the same, and I was able to wiggle the tips of my toes, proving that my whole nervous system was in order.

I sighed in relief, only to come across another revelation: “It doesn’t hurt to breathe either.”

The snapped ribs that had been giving me so much grief were better. Running a hand over my chest with dainty care, I felt no pain or tingling; going down to my stomach, I felt only the smooth definition of my abs, unmarred by any unnatural breaks.

I was the picture of health; in fact, I began to suspect that the whole fight had been an illusion. The only evidence it’d been real was that I was a tad dizzy, probably because I was famished and parched beyond belief—but that could just as easily be explained by the fact that I hadn’t eaten since noon the day prior.

But where am I?

I couldn’t reason out what had happened by pure inference, so I shelved the topic and started looking around. Judging by my surroundings, my circumstances seemed rather complicated.

I was laying in a gargantuan canopy bed, and a thin, nearly transparent curtain separated me from the outside world. The quality of my sleepwear needed no expanding on; pressing against the mattress betrayed springs buried within—I’d heard the wealthiest enjoyed luxuries like this—and the blankets on top of me were stuffed with the most epicurean of fluff.

When every part of my sleeping space was so delightful to the touch that it tickled my kleptomaniac impulse, it was clear that I was in blue-blooded territory. This bed could service a “gathering” of several people with room to spare, so I was sure to be in a particularly notable noble’s home. Even aristocrats with loose purse strings ordinarily wouldn’t bother with beds of this size.

There were plenty of potential avenues that could have led me here, but pondering them wouldn’t get me anywhere. Getting a grasp of my surroundings was a rule of thumb that extended beyond just TRPGs: Okay, GM. What do I see?

Playing out a joke that no one in this world would get, I looked around to find a small bell at my bedside. It had a memo attached to it, which read, “Awake?” in gorgeous calligraphy.

Ah, I see. So I ring this when I wake up. Good to see the gimmicks here are straightforward.

I picked up the obviously priceless bell and rang it.

“Huh?”

Yet I heard no noise. Confused, I turned it upside down to see that the instrument lacked a clapper. That alone would have made it a defective tool, of course, but I could squint to make out minute engravings that produced a mystic formula. It felt like every last thing around here was a premium product.

I studied the spell’s construction in awe for a short while, until I heard a reserved knock at the door. After a moment, I cocked my head: why weren’t they entering? It took me a full minute before realizing, Oh...I’m supposed to give them permission first.

Although I asked to enter rooms quite often, I’d never been in the opposite role. The only time anyone bothered to knock for someone like me was when I was in the changing room at Lady Leizniz’s favorite clothier.

“Um... Come in?”

Nerves caused my words to pitifully inflect upward. I couldn’t help it! I was a genuine country bumpkin; learning the ins and outs of how patrician society operated did nothing to help me when I had to act like one of them.

“Excuse me.” The woman who entered with the nigh inaudible sound of the door was none other than a true-to-life maid.

Wow, a maid! A real maid! As multicultural as the capital was, this style that came from the islands far to the east was a rarity. Traditionality survived in her every detail: she wore a long and plain black dress capped with pronounced cuffs, covered by a frilly apron, and her hair was kept in place with a headcap; she was the living embodiment of retainership. Her skin was fair, her eyes green, and her hair light russet, all culminating in a youthful set of facial features that had me feeling pumped.

Vassalage in the Trialist Empire was a complex thing, on account of the intermingling feudalistic and modern ideas pervading it. The upper crust customarily took in the second sons or daughters of other houses as attendants or had entire lineages devoted to waiting on them; these upper servants generally became trusted stewards of the family. Meanwhile, lower servants were trustworthy common folk—their character guaranteed by their canton’s leaders—that originated from their feudal estates, and they served in exchange for a stipend or tax cut, usually sent home to their families.

On the other hand, those brought on by wealthy merchants or farm owners were hired help in every sense of the word: after a period of unpaid labor, they could expect to use the skills they learned during servitude to gain employment. Theirs was a contract bound by interpersonal relations and wages as opposed to the territorial and hereditary circumstances that determined noble obedience.

Spending any time at the College was an easy way to internalize the difference. Magia invariably had money, but those who only had money employed very different help from those who were highborn. The former relied on rural hicks like me or working-class citizens of the capital, while the latter were waited on by people of considerable pedigree—perhaps even a clan of thoroughbred retainers that attended to their family’s affairs through the ages. These maids and butlers were masters of the most humbling version of palatial speech and were literally born to serve the elite; comparing them to a hastily trained kid like me was like comparing a farm horse to a military stallion.

With all this in mind, I looked her over and...wow. It looked like I’d found myself in the home of someone near the top of the pyramid. The quality of her mannerisms, speech, and clothing went without saying, but upon closer inspection, two pointed ears poked out from underneath her hair. How high up do you have to go to employ methuselah as servants?!

“Nothing should please me more than to see that you have arisen. My name is Kunigunde, and I have been duly charged with the responsibility of waiting upon you. Please do not hesitate to task me with your every need.”

“O-Okay.”

I could only muster a one-word response; for all the effort and experience points I’d put into figuring out the servile palatial tongue, her absolutely perfect diction made me want to get down on my hands and knees in reverence. Worse still, she was using the dialect meant to be used when engaging with a guest of the highest honor. Not only was I ignoble, but I wasn’t even a bureaucrat; I could hardly process the words as they came in my ear.

Seriously, what happened to me?

“Though I am sympathetic to your confusion and am sure you have many queries, allow me first to ready you for the day. My master shall elucidate in due time. If you’ll excuse me...”

Wrapped in silk gloves, her hands reached back to a rolling tray behind her—I hadn’t even noticed because I was too excited about seeing a real maid—to grab a pail full of hot water. She swiftly wiped down my face with a wet towel and began brushing my hair before my surprise could catch up to me.

My hair was getting to the length that people would assume I was a woman from behind; she combed through the entire length, going so far as to apply a layer of oil. Things were moving so fast that I simply sat there, unable to keep up.

“Your hair is wonderful,” she said. “Do you treat it with anything in particular?”

“Huh? No, not really...” ...unless you count fey blessings.

But my hair was unimportant: the more pressing issue at hand was that she had me sit at the edge of the bed and was doing her work from the front. The chest bobbing and weaving in my face was more impressive than any of my locks, and it was markedly worse for my psyche. Thankfully, what I assumed to be light anemia relieved me of the foolish boyishness that often accompanied the morning, but I actively had to fight stray thoughts like, I wonder if I can dream up an excuse to bury my face in those...

Too focused on reining in my steamy thoughts, I found myself clothed before I knew it, and then pushed back in bed to sit with my back against the frame. The maid then brought out a folding table from who-knows-where and lined it with a meal.

“My sincerest apologies. We were unable to prepare anything more than the simplest of basics, as we were unsure when you would arise. Should you have any particular requests, I will strive within my power to fulfill them. Is there anything you would like?”

“Simplest...? Basics?”

I’d been served fragrant red tea, a danish—you couldn’t even get those around town—that had clearly been baked fresh this morning, a boiled wurst packed with herbs that was just outside the price range of a common citizen, and a bit of honey-glazed cheese, which was something we peasants could only hope to taste during times of celebration. This breakfast put the Konigstuhl spring festival’s feasts to shame; if this was a basic meal, then what was I eating every day?

What’s wrong with these bourgeois pigs? Someone get me a hammer and sickle!

“If it is too heavy for your tastes, I shall prepare a light soup or porridge posthaste.”

The maid misinterpreted my dumbstruck stupor as a mark of poor health and tried to compensate; I denied in a panic and happily took the tray. I had no clue what was going on, but I couldn’t call myself an imperial if I let a steaming cup of red tea go cold.

As soon as she saw me begin eating, Miss Kunigunde the maid stepped away from the bed in relief. Though she only took a single step backward, it instantly became difficult to ascertain her position. She naturally employed magic at every turn—perhaps she was using traits from the Arcane Attendant section I’d once skimmed through on my character sheet. I guess second-rate heritage just wouldn’t cut it to wait on true nobles.

“The sun is high and the madam and princess are resting at present, so I beg you to make yourself at home and await their awakening here.”

I was clutching my stomach after finishing the lavish meal my gut was wholly unprepared for, and didn’t get a single moment of repose before she dropped this bomb on me. The word “princess” evoked one possibility: I’d written it off when I’d come to, but apparently she had been the one to save me. The fact that I hadn’t dreamt up that final scene before the pit of despair took me made me want to sigh.

“...Oh. A moment, please.”

The maid cut herself off, closing one eye and placing a hand on her temple. I recognized that reaction: it was that of someone who’d received an unexpected telepathic message. Some mages also used the pose to ponder arcane semantics more deeply, but a retainer interrupting her own speech betrayed a message from her master.

“My apologies,” she said. “It would appear it is too late.”

“Huh? Too late?”

Before I could ask what she meant, the door burst open.

“Thou’rt wakened, boy?! Most splendid!”

For a moment, I thought someone had assaulted the door with a battering ram; looking over, however, I saw nothing but a stunning woman who demanded the eye’s attention. It was the scarlet-eyed, black-haired, toga-clad lady who’d dispersed the masked nobleman’s attack. The magnificent colors she shared with Miss Celia were so striking that they were burned into my memory; though I couldn’t recall what color tunic she’d worn when I first saw her, she now had on something of vibrant crimson trimmed with golden thread.

As she made her way through the emptied entrance, the methuselah servant closed her eyes and stepped back with a resigned shake of her head. The message was clear: I wasn’t to ask for her help, as she could do nothing more for me.

“Zounds, the night was burdensome indeed. When the thaumagram arrived unbidden with its ill news, I raced forth to find thee dawdling at the reaper’s stoop, my darling grandniece unable to unhand thee for worry, and my senseless nephew yapping without reserve. Ah, which reminds me: that cretin proved so vexing that I pursued to leave him half-dead, and it fell short of mine ambition to butcher him only the once. O how I wished to be done.”

Unbelievably, the beautiful woman reminiscent of Miss Celia planted herself onto the side of my bed without a care in the world. Still, for all their similarities, this lady lacked the nun’s fragile grace; in its place was a pervasive confidence. Her thin, arched brows capped off two proud gems that gleamed with intimidating pride.

What do you think would happen if someone this gorgeous stared at me at such close range? The answer was that the strands of thought I’d managed to sort out got all tangled up again. Badly.

“Mistake me not. To cut a banquet short for my lovable, lovable darling cannot upset me, nor will I grieve mine own paltry effort to cudgel my clownish nephew. Doubly so when the endeavor is accompanied by a child of mensch so passing strange.”

Her beauty was something Miss Celia would never attain no matter how she matured: it was the ferocious allure of vampirism left bare. Curling her features into a smile, the yet-unintroduced woman ran her claw across my chin...and laughed. Her laugh was terribly unique—almost scornful, even. Her voice and archaic dialect slithered into my brain and locked their coils there, leaving me dazed.

“Ah, and how could I fail to mention? Thou must offer my niece thy gratitude in time. That thy flesh remains as it were when thou wert first born took my darling’s immolation as its price.”

I supposed this was a form of charisma in its own right. She showered me with a deluge of statements without any concern for me, but I strangely felt no displeasure. Her every action, her every word, buried itself within my memory with no intention of leaving. She was endowed with a ruler’s disposition. Blessed with magnetism that could pull along anyone around her, her talents evoked the image of a strong statesman, but the ruthless tyranny she could no doubt enact lurked just out of sight.

It was as if the personification of the dignity that had given way to history was here, sitting before me.

“Though that very darling niece hath run me round with all manner of tribulations. First sobbing over the whereabouts of some other, then demanding a courier dispatched without delay upon her discovery... Fleeting favorite of my kin, I imagine thou, too, hast much of my favor to ask. Dost thou not?”

While she’d posed it like a question, the flint-hard command in her voice goaded my soul to affirm her.

“May I ask why you’ve forgone garments below?”

...I can explain. She’d already gone off and talked about everything I wanted to know, and, well, I was curious. Tunics were big sheets of cloth that enveloped the body, but they were only meant to be an outer layer as part of a full outfit. For some reason, she was naked underneath. She was stark naked. It demanded so much of my attention that I mentioned it twice.

Her overwhelming presence had run over my muddled mind to the point where I couldn’t restrain my curiosity. More to the point, something had bugged out in my mental faculties, robbing me of the ability to produce anything but the shallowest thoughts. Why I was here, what happened yesterday, how my limbs regrew—I knew I had a lot to ask about, but still!

“Hm. The reason is simple.”

I could feel the maid’s incredulous glare jabbing into my side, but the half-naked vampire only skipped a single beat before answering.

“Fools adorn and embellish; I entice most as I am!”

The beauty showed off her body with exaggerated form, like an actress proud of her performance onstage. Her supple limbs paired with curves akin to rolling hills, all wrapped under skin polished to pristine condition. More alluring than the greatest works of marble, the toga hid her privates with salacious uncertainty—an unambiguous seduction. If someone were to freeze her as she was now and place her in a museum, guests would gather from around the globe to see her.

“Oh... Um... Well...you are indeed very beautiful.”

“Truly? Thou hast an eye for beauty, boy. Speak, then; if thy claim is more than mere puffery, tell me plainly what of my charm has enraptured thee.”

I’d let my base instincts take hold and blabbed out my true opinion, and now she meant to make me pay for it in concrete praise. Considering her peerage, I doubted she wanted for praise; why was she goading a dumb kid into offering her compliments?

Giving up on untangling my brain, I began to extol her appearance with the full extent of my verbiage, stammering every now and then out of fear that I might offend a person of such considerable stature. All the while, I had to swallow back what was probably the most important question I could’ve asked: Who are you, anyway?

[Tips] Retainers span the range of feudalistic serfdom to apprenticeship to paid labor. Ordinarily, this refers to lifelong, professional stewards as opposed to temporary servitude.

In the Trialist Empire, blue-blooded children will often spend some time waiting upon the masters of another house as part of their training in etiquette; there are also entire servant families who possess far greater history and influence than many new-money upstarts. Scandals caused by people looking down on “the help” without knowing their true stature are fairly common.

Nobles were tiresome creatures—animals propped up on a little something called “pride.” The whole of their power came from brand value and influence, and no material fortune could buy the respect that came with history and character. As a result, their spending was liable to seem utterly wasteful from a financial perspective: they erected mansions, laid out carpets, and prettied themselves with the finest clothes. Appearing cheap to one’s countrymen would come with a dip in standing; seeming unreliable to one’s subordinates would see them leave orbit; and meeting a foreign rival shabbily dressed threatened to damage the entire nation’s prestige.

This pride brought another issue with it: the tedious formalities of ceremony.

To meet someone casually was unthinkable. After all, one wouldn’t want to appear starved of companionship, merrily running around at just anyone’s beck and call. Urgency was reserved for superiors who resided far above, and only those who frequented the same cliques, at that. At times, the likes of mere knights could refuse the summons of imperials should their factional allegiances not align.

Thus the nobility considered the drudging procedures preceding a meeting a must. They sent letters to inquire about availability, only offering the first true invitation once schedules were sorted. If anything went wrong—and it often did—two nobles could rally the correspondence back and forth countless times before finally meeting in person.

When a meeting was absolutely imperative, an aristocrat might chance upon their counsel in the middle of a hunting trip or find themselves caught in a storm when they just so happened to be in the neighborhood; in short, they crafted coincidences. That was how oblique their etiquette had become.

It was people like Theresea and Martin—directly summoning a researcher ennobled by a foreign crown was unprecedented, to put it lightly—who were the strange ones; entering someone else’s room without prior notice was ordinarily unthinkable. The task was beyond imagination for those living in a culture where parent and child were expected to adhere to these rules.

“Erich, are you okay?!”

Yet the faithful priestess of Night known as Cecilia was so distraught that she had brought this inconceivable notion to fruition without reserve. Though her monastic life had been long, the circumstances of her birth meant that she had been taught enough to know her way around high society.

After overcoming the chaos of the previous night, Cecilia had taken her grandaunt’s advice and turned in for a few hours. While the Night Goddess had blessed their manor to protect them from the sun even at noon, the light remained discomforting. Most vampires locked themselves away in pitch darkness the whole day.

The bliss of a completed adventure and the relief that the boy was safe swirled together to produce a pleasant, but shallow sleep—one that failed to go the distance.

After scrambling to sort out the nearly dead duke, Mechthild had finally gotten to reunite with her liege. As morning heralded the end to yet another sleepless night, she shook the girl awake. Despite being employed by Martin, her loyalties lay with Cecilia, and she had continued to work dutifully in spite of the ghastly look on her face. Although she couldn’t be of much regular help to a cloistered nun—an Immaculate, at that—she handled all of the lady’s burdensome noble tasks.

Late as it was, Cecilia felt sorry for what she’d put her retainer through. She knew Mechthild had given chase out of worry that someone of her position might fall into evil hands in the midst of an impulsive escape; the mensch certainly did not wish to see her stripped of her faith and wed to the entire Empire.

Though Cecilia had possessed no means of making contact, this whole episode would surely have gone very differently had Mechthild been on their side...not that this was anything more than a fantasy. The mensch woman led other servants who swore their oaths to Martin himself; she would not have been able to let them go.

As soon as Mechthild had heard that her master had returned, she ran straight to the old, lonely estate reserved for when the young lady of the house was in town—blinded by the bright yellows of the fourth daybreak without sleep, of course. Alas, she didn’t have time for a heartfelt reunion; instead, she repeated the news that Kunigunde had telepathically sent her.

“The head maid reports that ‘your great-aunt is toying with Erich.’”

Cecilia cast away much of that which defined the bounds of a genteel lady, tearing through the house without so much as changing. She sprinted down the hallways barefoot, ignored the disturbed looks from her servants, and made her way to the room where Erich was resting.

And here she’d been preparing to explain everything tonight, once they’d had time to settle down. But looking back, she had known from the start that her grandaunt couldn’t control herself around a potential plaything—how could she, when all Erstreichs shared her mental affliction? Even Cecilia had forced her way into the sun with the Goddess’s protection just to partake in her favorite hobby of ehrengarde.

Having been burst through the once, the door was already ajar. Upon stepping into the room, the first thing Cecilia saw was...

“Your fair skin is nearly translucent in its glow, and yet it retains the profound depth of white snow. It appears at once supple and soft, beckoning to the hand, but the lightest touch will surely see it melt away. In fact, I have difficulty believing that such an enchanting tone can be produced by a living being at all. And that that beguiling contour of its outline makes itself known through your crimson toga proves...”

...a young boy sweet-talking her great-aunt—that is, her grandmother’s sister—with an utterly lifeless gaze.

[Tips] Invitational procedure is a practice amongst the purest of nobility, and those who win honorary titles for their accomplishments often forgo the formalities. Any professor at the College, for example, is sure to have learned the value of a quick turnaround during their time as a researcher.

That said, many do learn the rules of formal invitations for use with their most prominent backers. The achievements needed to go from a unigenerational noble to a true mainstay in the upper crust are as difficult and expensive as breaking into high society in the first place.

“My precious Cecilia! What stirs thee with sun so high? Never thee mind, hear this: I ha’ been serenaded by this mensch lad’s mawkish phrase. Perchance my confidence is yet meant to wither.”

Nuh-uh.

Okay, she wasn’t strictly wrong speaking from an impartial perspective, but nuh-uh. And sure, if it came to a yes-or-no of whether I could spend a night with her, I would be more than happy to—ahem. Anyway, nuh-uh, this was slander.

And Miss Celia, can you stop looking at me all shocked? I can tell that you’re basically thinking, “You’re into MILFs?!” from your expression alone.

Unfortunately, to object here would mean I’d lied to a noble, and that would definitely worsen the situation. The best I could do was avert my eyes; I would’ve loved to defend myself, but shame wasn’t grounds for social misconduct.

At this point, there was only one thing left to do: give up and own it.

“Neither race nor age can play a part in captivation. Those granted true glamor will draw sighs of infatuation by presence alone. As poorly spoken as I am, I simply attempted to put that beauty to words.”

“Hark! Hast thou heard him, poppet?! My, what a villain I am. To think I might woo a fledgling son of mensch by mine company alone!”

The more heartily the woman laughed, the colder the young lady’s glare became. Uh, you know, I was beginning to worry that the masked nobleman had just been a midboss to prepare for a climactic fight here. Could I please catch a break? I was out of resources and my stamina had been ground down to near zero—mainly in the psychological sense.

It was nothing short of astonishing that paltry praise from someone like me could please this woman so, but she was clearly the highest-ranking person present; I preferred this over her mood souring by a mile. Though it cost me a pair of wet eyes to do it, I managed to snap out of my stupor and finally reroute the conversation toward more important matters.

“Though you have honored me with your graceful presence and allowed me to remark on your elegance, I beg you to grant me an additional request. May I be so fortunate as to put a name to this icon of beauty?”

“Hm? Ah, I ha’ indeed failed to announce myself,” she said, in a tone that suggested this was the first time she’d considered it. Putting a finger to her chin and groaning for a moment, she paused, and then said, “Franziska. I am Franziska Bernkastel.”

I figured you’d have a last name.

Family names in the Empire were weighty things reserved for the ruling class and those acquainted with them. They were so tightly guarded that the easiest way to get one was for the keeper of a noble’s estate to produce decades of substantial crop yields.

Some passed down hidden names, whispering to their children that they were once part of an honorable lineage, but that was an exception that didn’t serve much purpose. No matter the world, people loved to take pride in distant relations in high places. I’m sure if we took every one of these claims seriously, half the Empire would be the sons of Richard the Creator.

Jokes aside, the lack of a winding list of names didn’t change the fact that she far outranked me, and it was a pleasant coincidence that she shared the name of my favorite poet.

“Wait,” Miss Celia said, “but—”

“Let it be, let it be. Defer to me, my babe.” Lady Franziska turned to me. “Now, boy, that thou hast solicited mine identity betrays queries yet unposed. I blame thee not: to wake in an manor unfamiliar without a shred of thy trappings begs answers.” Covering her mouth for a laugh, she added, “Had I been in thy position, I would ha’ torn the place apart long ago.”

Something about the pair’s exchange felt fishy, but I couldn’t tell which way their conversation had been headed. Was Miss Celia worried about giving away their family name so casually? Or perhaps...

“The tale is long,” Lady Franziska said, joyously rising to her feet. “I gather thou wilt never find thy footing so enfolded; we shall not bring thee harm, so repose a moment to relinquish thy bedwear for more befitting togs. I ha’ been possessed by an especial humor today. Take thy time—my cup overfloweth with it.”

Miss Kunigunde had hidden herself away with a look of pure disengagement, but resumed her post at the grand dame’s orders. I supposed there were spare clothes just lying around in a mansion so plainly extravagant.

“And though I care not...Cecilia, what art thou wearing?”

“Huh? ...Oh.”

Finally noticing her appearance, Miss Celia’s skin went redder than a flame under her thin nightgown. She must have rushed here in a state of alarm—which implied that this aunt of hers was so dangerous that she felt the need to rush—because she only had on a thin silk underdress. In terms of exposure, Lady Franziska was throwing a massive boomerang, seeing as her tunic covered far less; however, the way the light cast a silhouette of her frame under a lone layer of fabric was...well, it was worse for the eyes than someone brazenly letting it loose.

The outline of her girlish arms and legs was plain to see; the hazy contour that bled through her clothes betrayed a maturing body, its enchanting pull enhanced by the opacity of its filter. Juggling the push and pull of these elements and picking only the most understated words, I would have described her as...crazy sexy.

I couldn’t help it! I spent my first life in a country where the ambiguous line right before exposure was the height of eros! Sue me!

Besides, I was in a middle-schooler’s body! You should know what that means!

Gods, was I thankful that I didn’t have any blood to spare for superfluous causes.

“I...um! Uh!”

Miss Celia waved feverishly in a fruitless attempt to cover herself as her overheating brain ground to a halt, lowering her verbiage into the grave. She made a few attempts at producing some sort of excuse, but ended up doing no more than silently gaping like a fresh-caught fish before fleeing the scene.

Her departure smushed the tightly packed carpet out of shape, and I could smell something smoldering. A terrific sound rang out too, probably caused by an obscene amount of friction. Notes of embarrassment were palpable in the charred odor wafting my way.

“How naive, oh how sweetly innocent she is,” Lady Franziska said. “What a joy to behold—dost thou not feel younger just watching her?”

“My sincerest apologies,” Kunigunde replied. “I am unfortunately too young to share in your sensibilities.”

“Come again? Hast thou lost count of the years spent at my side alone?”

“Rounded down, I am no more than a newborn.”

“How easily this maid of mine forsakes three digits...”

Ignoring the dumb banter between master and servant, I shook my head and massaged my eyes. Futile as it was, I was trying to wipe away the distracting image burned into my retinas. Frankly, the dangerous beauty’s naked body—note that I did not say the beauty’s dangerously naked body—didn’t come close to putting as much burden on my mind as the modestly hidden frame of a girl who looked about my age. As I shook my head back and forth, I heard a scolding jingle in my ear.

[Tips] The Trialist Empire subscribes to more rigid views on feminine virtue than modern Earth. Men more often than not face the consequences of an accidental peek, whatever that may entail—whether they are murdered in the social sense or outright depends on the circumstances.

“May I have an explanation?”

Scrunching up her pretty face into a frown, Cecilia tugged on her hastily thrown-on loungewear and glared at her great-aunt. Theresea had entered without so much as waiting for the girl to get changed, and whether she truly intended to hide her grin was dubious, given how much of it spilled out over the sides of her fan.

“In plainest exegesis, dear niece of mine: this old dame hath not spent her years slumbering, and I thought to put my wisdom to good use on thy behalf.”

Laying on a couch, the empress spoke the same words that adults of every class and kith repeated around the globe. Grown-ups invariably had once been children, and it was precisely because of their youthful mistakes that they lectured and restricted those who came after. There were some events in life that only provided a single lesson: that they were better left not experienced.

“The blood coursing through our veins is far darker, far heavier than thou can know.”

The nun tried to retort that she knew as much, but the words got stuck in her throat. She looked to her grandaunt: although her eyes narrowed to match a showy smile, the beads gleaming within sorely lacked playful spirit.

“Blood maketh man; so too does it spell his end. ’Tis fixed as the stars. As said since time immemorial, let the horses work as horses may.”

Theresea delivered her statement with a chuckle devoid of laughter. Her smile was perfect, she produced the right sounds, and her body shook in an approximation of amusement, but at its core, her actions lacked true sentiment.

Separated from her emotion, the woman’s words took the form of maxim: men were the product of blood—of their births. Just as a workhorse could not play the part of a gallant martial steed, the lowborn could not don the airs of nobility.

Those born to a fate of common life would see out the destiny engraved in their veins and die a common death; those born to titled fortunes surrendered themselves to their heritage. The two did not mix. Not ever. Forcibly combining incompatible halves wrought nothing but tragedy. Just as a drop of filth corrupted a whole barrel of fine wine; just as the finest wine could not cleanse the waters of the sewers.

“Thou art taken by that evanescent mortal, art thou not? Then listen to thy kind, caring aunt when she speaks: let not the burden of thy blood see light. Blood is our maker, and it shall sweep along those in its current as long as it flows in the peoples of the world.”

Then her imperial background was best left hidden. Perhaps there were some who would accept her anyway—who would continue to honor her as a person first.

But they would undoubtedly see her as different.

The more clever the companion, the more perfectly they would replicate their current relationship while decisively distorting their position within it. How could anyone hope to casually associate with the most prestigious persons in their motherland?

Perhaps there would have been a chance if Cecilia were dealing with a person of reputable peerage. History had plenty of examples of loyal vassals maintaining close friendships with their lieges.

But the boy was lowborn: he was a mensch child with no story or background to his name. From the Empire’s perspective, a single breath could blow away thousands just like him. A mere commoner with nowhere to turn could not hope to stand against the authority that ruled the nation. Cecilia could accept him all she wanted; the upper class would never allow someone to corrupt their values, or worse still, damage their worth.

A child could find the shiniest stone in all the lands, cradling it to bed every night, but no adult would acknowledge its value. If they deemed it unseemly, then off into the river it went, never to be seen by the child again.

To be held dear, the article had to befit the holder. Or, if that proved impossible, then the holder had to step down to its level.

“Alas, to be drawn to fleeting embers of life is an illness guaranteed to all unripe immortals. A sweet plague that shall last thee a lifetime.”

Cecilia only knew this woman as her sweet, loving great-aunt. She had completely forgotten that Theresea Hildegarde Emilia Ursula von Erstreich had once been a verifiable empress in her own right. In the past, the Delicate Empress had hidden away her years and the lessons they told out of a doting love for her grandniece, but the intimidating aura of a ruler now began to take tangible form.

Theresea snapped her fan shut, exposing a perfectly set smile that seized her niece. Her voice slithered into the back of Cecilia’s head like a venomous cobra, leaving a massive locked box within which to store these words in her mind forevermore: “Bedevil him not.”

As the words sank into the young priestess’s very soul, she understood: Ahh, she still carries her remorse with her. Such was the only explanation for why the aunt would go so far to prevent Cecilia from repeating her error so early in life.

“Well, I suspect my reproval shall keep the pup—ah, thy father—obediently at the helm for another century. Carry thyself as thou shalt in the meantime. To be the daughter of an esteemed house remains freer than an imperial, remember.”

As she spread her fan and rose, the ancient vampire’s hollow smile regained true emotion.

“Time enough to see him off, thou wilt agree.” The nun remained frozen, unable to parse the cognitive toxin passed down by her foremother; Theresea looped around to lay a hand on the girl’s shoulder and smiled. “Consider this hundred years a gift of mine for thy hard work...but I pity he who waits. Learn thy part quickly—fret not, the settings of a playwright shan’t crumble. Crafted in five minutes though they may be, our backstory will endure.”

And so, the girl donned a new identity for the time being. Whether it was the product of genuine consideration or some other scheme, she knew not. All she knew was that she was Cecilia—Cecilia Bernkastel.

[Tips] One will sooner find a snake and hen married in Rhine than a noble and commoner.

Perhaps a round of thanks was in order to the esteemed von Leizniz for accustoming me to fine clothes. Or maybe I was better off sulking in shame about enabling her fetishes to the point that I’d grown used to them. Though this was a quandary for the ages, for now I looked at my reflection and was satisfied with how I’d turned out.

I wore a black doublet with a high collar up top, with shorts that went over a set of sleek white tights. While the clothes were refined, the overall look was simple; I’d probably been given a steward’s uniform, and one stylish enough to not stick out when serving upper-class guests, at that. That the garments were jaw-dropping but clearly less remarkable than anything the master of the house might wear was a delicate touch that blatantly spoke to the sheer money around me.

There was only one possible explanation for why they kept a stock of such high-quality goods on hand: need. Their possession of a spare set of threads fit to wear in front of the most refined elites meant they kept that sort of company, and the staff’s ability to don these clothes without appearing ridiculous spoke to their thorough training.

Seriously, how distinguished was this family? I noticed that Lady Franziska didn’t employ a nobiliary particle, but I’d heard of influential clans rescinding their nobility for political reasons while retaining their leverage. There were also a handful of families who were granted the right to a last name for continued service to the Empire in a system like that of Edo-era estate stewards.

“My, it quite suits you.”

Miss Kunigunde looked somewhat surprised when I stepped out of the changing room. These sorts of clothes tended to tighten up in spots ordinary shirts and doublets didn’t, so people untrained in how to properly wear them usually couldn’t pull them off.

“Well,” I said, “I’ve been through a lot.”

“I should think you would do fine as an attendant here with how flattering you make the uniform.”

We enjoyed a bit of chitchat as she led me along, but unfortunately, I didn’t have the background to join the ranks of upper servitude. As an aside, she let slip in the midst of our back-and-forth that the starting wage for an upper servant in this manor was determined in drachmae—in which case, maybe the old joke about butlers from the biggest families making more than rural barons had some truth to it.

I followed the maid for a while, enjoying the small talk and growing awestruck at the fortune required to line even the hallways with carpet. At last, we stepped outside into a roofed walkway that led to a greenhouse.

The building was structured like a birdcage with pristine glass—uniform sheets of glass were practically gems under current Rhinian technology—lining the gaps in the frame. It seemed less like a nursery for fickle plants and more like a place to host garden tea parties under temperate conditions even in the dead of winter.

There was one quirk, though: despite all the glass, I couldn’t see a thing. The interior was pitch black.

“Please wait here for the time being.”

When she opened the door, I was so incapable of processing the scene in front of me that my brain shut down. It was night.

I stepped into the grassy greenhouse and found myself in a cut-out patch of nighttime. Looking up, the round moon led its loyal stars in a dazzling glow of lights. This wasn’t a trick of painted glass meant to fool children, nor was it a mystic recreation of faraway scenery like the madam’s atelier; the cool, tranquil air was unmistakably that of serene midnight.

“No way... What kind of blessing is this?”

I didn’t have to ponder too deeply to know this was the work of a miracle. Neither the expression nor my understanding had any defect: this was an outright miracle that had been brought to reality by the will of gods. Vampires could only know true respite at night, and this was undeniably a relic from the Mother Goddess so that Her followers could rest easy in the day.

The divine power present was so strong that even I could sense it; ancient in origin, I could tell that this had been a gift bestowed on grounds of favoritism. Which meant that Miss Celia descended from someone worthy of this level of heavenly intervention.

Getting myself in order, I sat down at the lowest seat at the round table prepared in the middle of the room. Now that I had a moment to myself, I could spend it trying to sort out how I’d found myself here...or I could look at my experience points.

The reasonable part of my brain nagged that I shouldn’t turn my attention away from reality, but this was all so muddled that I couldn’t make heads or tails of it anyway. Knocking on death’s door had left my memories foggy, and I’d been barraged by an endless assault of surprises that I’d consistently failed to save against. I was pretty sure that my average roll was undercutting my usual five today.

So distracting myself with a bit of fun was fine, right?

“Whoa.” Summoning my character sheet, I let slip an audible gasp of awe at how much I’d stocked up. Combined with the fruits of my daily labors, this episode that had left me flirting with fatality earned me more than my first big adventure, where the madam had thrown me into the daemon-infested mansion. Maybe welcoming a new dawn served to load me up with a bonus for clearing the campaign.

I was ecstatic. In fact, I could almost forgive the GM for how badly they’d dropped the ball on balancing every encounter I’d ever had.

Of course, when a real GM had done that to me, my friends and I had jeered, “What, apology gems?! That’s pathetic! Give us more!” We ended up forgiving him after laying out some D4s in the guy’s shoes and all having a good laugh.

What about the next session, you ask? Well, the laid-back nature of the game got thrown out the window, so we jacked up our characters with optimal builds and foiled every conspiracy in the land with brute force, plowing through every gimmick and story beat the GM prepared along the way. Schemes meant nothing in the face of someone whose brain was muscular enough to punch a man to death.

Anyway, this payday was spectacular. My longtime dream of double Scale IXs in Dexterity and Hybrid Sword Arts could become a reality, and I’d still have enough experience left to experiment with new combos or dip into things I’d been putting off.

And now that I was looking closer...I saw that I’d unlocked some upper-level miracles of the Night for purchase. Maybe this was Her way of thanking me for helping one of Her own. Or perhaps this avenue opened up after involving myself with a family so clearly interlinked with Her.

Regardless, I would have to pass. Being the motherly figure of our pantheon, Her repertoire mainly dealt with defense and healing; not to be rude, but it didn’t line up with my build. While the passive blessings like improved sleep or night vision were tantalizing, I would feel bad if I professed my faith for those alone.

Religious conduct in this world was not the same as in Japan; frequenting shrines devoted to the god of scholarship just before taking entrance exams would not fly. With verifiable gods sending out genuine prophetic messages, claiming loyalty for purely practical purposes would backfire and come off as an act of disrespect.

Picking up some luxury options would be nice, but perhaps it was time to start preparing to set off. I’d gotten by on my Apprentice-level Camping skill until now, but Mika had taught me some basic building principles that let me unlock the enticing Basic Construction. Things like Campfire Cooking, First Aid, and Basic Medicine seemed evergreen if I planned on making any long journeys too.

Down the line, if I ever ended up leading a party of adventurers, skills and traits to command them would be in order. Not the kind that so often showed up in cheap CG sets, mind you—there weren’t any skills that convenient anyway, and trying to fashion a spell to that end would cost a fortune—but some leadership perk to organize a small squad.

Otherwise, I could always get value out of the Negotiation skill, and the litany of traits that improved others’ impressions of me drew my attention like twinkling stars.

Furthermore, there was a part of me that had been dormant in my childhood that now nudged my tastes toward a certain pile of skills...

“Mine apologies for the wait.”

An ice-cold bucket of water—no, of liquid nitrogen—appeared to douse my mind the instant my line of thought began to grow feverish. That I managed to spring to my feet without knocking my chair backward was probably an act of god. Why did this woman have to appear without any forewarning? Even Lady Leizniz sent in her manservant—me—to announce her arrival before entering a room.

“Wow...”

My ire dissipated in an instant. Clad in a wonderful gown, Miss Celia’s elegance stole the show, depriving me of the spare computing power to contemplate trivial grievances.

“Um,” she murmured, “it’s embarrassing to have you stare.”

“Let my niece’s charms excuse our tardiness, wilt thou? Selecting her attire proved arduous, what with the pointless clamor of wanting her robes or not wanting her outline to show...”

“Of course not! Great—great lengths of time have passed since the outfits you put forward were considered in style, Aunt Franziska! Nowadays, we don’t show so much shoulder, and we do not have slits to expose the leg!”

Miss Cecilia was dolled up in a classic afternoon dress. Puffed at the shoulders and fanning out at the skirt, it was the quintessential garment that most imagined when hearing the word “dress.” The deep, auric gleam of the cloth was like water under light, bringing out the best in her jet-black hair.

Flowers were woven across its surface in like colors: not large blooming petals that demanded attention, but small, scattered blossoms that accentuated her refined grace. Despite likely being a hand-me-down from her aunt, it matched her perfectly, as though the tailor had prepared it for her from the start.

“Say what thou wilt, but thy features are like mine—at their best when extravagantly framed. Simple garb and unweening powder shall waste thine ancestry. Look at this travesty: thou art no different from a mensch older than thee. If only thou wouldst accept a streak of rouge, at least.”

“I’m fine as I am! And what of you, Aunt Franziska?! H-How can you call those clothes?! They’re practically cloth and string! Are you stupid?! Forget your ankles, your thighs are in plain view!”

Her hair was tied up in ladylike fashion and held in place with ornaments that did not overpower. She was the picture of a noble girl; the air about her compelled me to kneel. I didn’t quite know how to describe it. Something about her manner spoke to an inherited dignity—one unattainable by an upstart—and it left an impression. Perhaps I would have appeared this way to others if I could tap into aristocratic traits.

...You know what? I think those traits that affect how I’m viewed are pretty important. I should think it over and grab a few, seeing as I’m almost an adult.

“This is eastern fashion,” Lady Franziska said. “When the Eastern Passage flowed freely, I secured these garments in the style of a faraway dynastic tradition. Mock not the culture of a foreign realm.”

“But they say not to fill a domestic chalice with foreign liquors! And the sitting Emperor has already reopened the Eastern Passage!”

I’d been lost in Miss Celia’s appearance this whole time, but an uptick in the conversation’s intensity brought me back into the moment. I’d managed to pull out chairs for them to sit in, but I’d totally lost track of what they were saying.

“What thinkest thou, boy? Dost thou not wish to see my niece forsake the fashion of an aging crone to make better use of her endowments?”

“Excuse me?” My voice cracked under the surprise at having been reeled in. Feel free to praise me for not answering with a dumbfounded “Huh?” instead.

“Long arms and legs are best viewed unclad. To take after me may overmatch thee, but must thou pick sleeved dresses for thy eveningwear? And that wretched cape thou clingst to...”

“A lady is at her best when chastely dressed! Erich, don’t you agree?!”

“Huh? Right.” Oh, I guess they were talking about clothes. Honestly, I thought Miss Celia would look good in anything, but saying that out loud would probably be poor form.

In my past life, I’d said something similar to a woman I’d been seeing and received half an hour of grief for my troubles. I hadn’t been trying to give a cop-out answer either—I’d really meant it.

“Speak, boy. Art thou not curious? Not interested in witnessing my darling’s allure in a different light from that of her nightwear?”

Lady Franziska’s voice oozed lasciviousness; it was as if she’d cast a spell to worm into my ear and rouse my memory of Miss Celia’s pajamas. The image triggered a cascade of racy outfits—when had my brain planted itself in a permanent state of holiday daybreak, anyway?!—to flood my mind, causing my cheeks to go red.

That said, I hadn’t been born yesterday; I whipped up a smile and politely answered, “I think her current outfit suits her wonderfully,” without delay. I knew that not even the most handsome of men could get away with open lust outside of a pub.

“And besides,” I added, “I think she looks best in her holy robes.”

Wait, what? Why’d I say that out loud? Although it was the honest, unfiltered truth, I was well aware that the statement risked coming off as a disparagement of her current attire.

Suddenly, I heard a loud thud. I looked over to see Miss Celia had banged her forehead onto the table. Looking closely, I saw her pale complexion had turned bright red all the way to the tips of her ears... Apparently, I’d stumbled into a heart-palpitation-inducing land mine.

Lady Franziska opened her fan and began merrily laughing at her silent niece. After a brief gleeful spell, she rang a small bell to order tea.

“My word. I shall consider it a stroke of fortune that we had yet to lay out our cups. I am reminded of how I ha’ been pondering the issue of what thy reward ought to be, boy. But mayhaps the answer is here.”

My heart went aflutter upon seeing the serving tray lined with red tea and deluxe snacks. No one in the Empire could begin tea time without excitement in their heart.

“Perchance it would be best to give thee my niece as thy bounty?”

“Aunt Franziska?!”

But man, was this woman good at causing a commotion. I nearly dropped the teacup I’d just taken into hand, and Miss Celia almost destroyed the table when she shot up and grabbed her aunt for crossing the line. Lady Franziska’s initial impression may have been dramatic, but she was just incredible all around.

You know, maybe it would be best to consider saving my experience stash for the nebulous future...

[Tips] Aristocrats are trendsetters, and trendsetters are prone to seeking out the most striking styles. As a result, merchants scour foreign lands for new material that they can subsequently tweak to suit the ostentatious tastes held by lovers of exoticism. The culture that is ferried across international trade routes is not always as authentic as one might expect.

Though we had a quick diversion where a full tank specced out on racial bonuses—note that I didn’t say anything about whether or not she could deal damage—tossed around a purely supportive healer, we resumed tea before the drinks could lose their heat. Yup, letting it go cold wouldn’t be right. We were imperial citizens, after all. Now that would be a slight on our dignity.

“Well then, to put aside my jesting, let us regain the matter of your reward.”

I took a sip of fragrant tea and let the light sweetness soak in. After having reflected on her faux pas, Lady Franziska put her fingers to her forehead and sighed as she spoke.

“But, in fairness, ’tis better to say amends than reward.”

“I don’t remember anything you would need to apologize—”

“Not so.” Cutting me off, the matriarch snapped her fan shut. Though her smile remained, she dexterously fashioned together a stern expression as she explained in a sonorous tone.

According to her, involving a commoner in a family crisis that then led to said commoner sustaining life-threatening injuries was an unthinkable scandal for those who postured as superior. Worse still, the episode revolved around the young lady of the main branch, sure to one day lead the house; word that a lowborn kid had single-handedly solved the issue was sure to undermine their image in the eyes of their subordinate houses and branch-family relatives.

Of course, they could easily hide the event entirely. The engagement process had apparently only been handled within the family, and the prospective partner was a good character who would be understanding of the circumstances. If they wanted to, they could work something out quietly.

However, no matter what the world at large may come to know, the people of the house would forever remember that Erich of Konigstuhl canton had saved one of their precious own.

They were, if nothing else, immortal. Decades were not enough for the torch to be passed; their perceptions differed greatly from those of peoples where century-old tales became the stuff of legend, and so too did their family code. An unwavering memory made each sin indelible: past ingratitudes stuck around in the mind forever. As such, while they often pitied us forgetful souls...

“...at times, we envy thee. The burden of recollection everlasting binds more harshly than any shackle.”

They envied us. The ancient vampire toyed with a hard candy delicately shaped like a flower—kind of like a rakugan, their classy sweetness paired well with tea—and squinted at me, as if I were something too blinding to gaze upon normally.

Immortals had immortal woes. Originating from mensch, eternity was long to vampires; the inevitable privilege we temporal beings resigned ourselves to must seem so sweet to their eyes. Why else would we have tales of those who deliberately returned themselves to the Sun?

“Accept it, O warm child of blood. Become not a thorn to forever torment our hearts.”

A sugary acacia blossom crumbled between her fingers. The dust sank into the dimly lit fathoms of her cup, stirring the depths of my heart. In the end, all I could do was humbly accept her offer, making sure not to let the words squeak out of my mouth.

We truly were different creatures from the start.

“Thy acceptance is appreciated. Now, then: first, allow me to supplant the articles thou hast had upon thee.” Now that she mentioned it, I wondered where my armor had gone. “Greatly damaged as they were, I shall produce new—”

“Um, please wait! That armor has a lot of sentimental value!”

It had been the first piece of adventuring gear I’d prepared through my own work. The Konigstuhl smith had tailored it to fit me for years to come, and I couldn’t bring myself to part with it.

“Is that so? Sentiment indeed... Wouldst thou not prefer a set of the finest metal plates?”

As alluring as this seemed at first glance, it wasn’t actually that great a deal. Full plate armor was great for defense, but I took after the style of the galactic samurai that warred between the stars, and it’d be too heavy. The most glaring flaw was that metal was a mana conductor, and being covered in the stuff would impede my spellcasting. Chain mail and the plate on my chest already gave me enough trouble; full plate might cut down my Hands by half.

Last but not least, the utility just wasn’t there. Unfoldable metal would need a giant case to carry, it’d be hard to equip without help, and I’d stick out like a sore thumb. It was too much for an adventurer hopeful.

“I see,” Lady Franziska said. “Then I shall send it to an acquaintance at the local artisans’ union to be mended. Will that suffice?”

“I could ask for nothing more. I apologize for refusing your considerate offer, and you have my greatest thanks for accommodating me.”

“Ha, be at ease. Sentiment is ideal luggage for a child of mensch. Treasure it, boy.”

I was genuinely so, so grateful. Repairing it on my own would have cost gods knew how much; I couldn’t let my meager wallet dip into Elisa’s tuition fund.

“I suppose the simplest reward following would be in coin,” Lady Franziska said.

My heart fluttered at the mention of my most beloved bounty. The one thing keeping me from elation was that she put her hand to her chin and cocked her head with a dubious arch in her brow.

“...How plentiful are the masses’ wages as of late? A drachma every moon, I should guess?”

I nearly spat out my tea. I’d known she wouldn’t comprehend my lowly monetary values, but this was a bit ridiculous. Ladies Agrippina and Leizniz seemed to at least have a realistic picture of working-class life... Then again, I supposed my master had traveled around for fieldwork, and the dean employed lower-class servants.

“No, Aunt Dearest. I suspect it would be half that at most.”

“Mm, verily? Whatever reign am I thinking of? I recall the price of repairing the manor to have been a stately sum.”

“Are you perhaps including the mediationary fee paid to the union dispatching the workers?”

No, fifty librae a month is still too much. One would have to work for a big shop in a big city to earn that kind of money. The sheltered princess here must have been basing her calculations off wealthy patrons who donated to the church to curry divine favor.

To be fair, it was difficult to make generalizations about imperial income levels. Though the Empire was somewhat federal in nature, even within territories, cost of living differed drastically between the cities and rural outskirts. Still, I wasn’t going to accept that someone out there was making a farmer’s annual salary—not a sharecropper’s—every month.

I knew cutting off my privileged company was in bad form, but it spelled bad news if I let them name my reward with this sort of mindset; I informed them of a more accurate estimate of ordinary life.

Speaking as a munchkin, I would have been happy to accept a ludicrous sum and run off if I were turning in a quest to someone I’d never meet again. But I wasn’t going to kick up sand in the face of a person I hoped to continue interacting with: as far as obtainables went, connections were far stronger than cheap coins. Between a gold piece that disappeared once used and a bond that could see me through trials time and time again, it was obvious which choice was min-maxing.

More importantly, Miss Celia had flipped my snake eyes over to reveal the sixes that awaited on the other side. I wouldn’t dare swindle a girl who was practically my guardian angel—that would make me a bad person, not just a bad power gamer. Like Lady Franziska had said, memories could not bear the weight of guilt.

“I see... To think life in the capital could cost such precious little.” The grand dame nodded along in surprise and bent her fingers to count, then revealed that following Berylin’s founding, rent alone cost a minimum of ten librae a month. “How the times change... Methinks I ought to put aside my antiquarian dramas a while and acquaint myself with the modish canon.”

I had no idea where it had come from, but the ancient vampire began jotting down a note on a sheaf of papers, nodding to herself all the while. The constant effort required to update old preconceptions in order to keep up with us mortals seemed truly exhausting.

“Divorced of lay life and submersed in fiction, I find myself forsaken by the times. Very well, then—hmm... Wouldst thou say five hundred drachmae an adequate sum?”

“Bft!”

“Eep! A-Are you okay?!”

This time there was no almost: I spat out my tea. Were you even listening to me?!

“Though such a price pales in the shadow of my darling niece’s value, I thought a treasure too handsome may corrupt thee. Thus, the proposed sum.”

Thinking I’d come down with a sudden ailment, the niece had begun praying for a miracle; the aunt ignored her, quizzically cocking her head.

“Still too high?”

“Please refrain from tossing out numbers that’d straight-up take my whole family an entire lifetime and change to earn!”

I’d let my lower-class palatial speech slip a bit, but that was just how shaken I was. Sure, I was confident that this escapade had been a great adventure, but the payout was so unfathomable that it was going to kill me. A land-owning farming household made about five drachmae a year; to make more would mean buying up swaths of land to hire sharecroppers. This was utterly alien to me.

Adventurers admittedly tended to have insane fiscal sense. We poured piles of gold fit to build whole castles into our weapons, cashing in all our reputation to turn equipment into unique, enchanted gear—only to turn around and sleep in a cold stable drinking cheap liquors. But hearing a real, exact number...just made me balk.

I stopped Miss Celia before she could invoke a miracle and wiped my mouth. I had the perfect alternative in mind: a price that was suitable, that wouldn’t torment me, and that Lady Franziska would be happy to accept.

“If I may... Would you please instead fund my sister’s scholarly pursuits?”

“Hm? Scholarship?”

Trying to take far less than what someone offered could very well upset them. It was effectively scoffing at their perceived value, so it wouldn’t be a surprise if doing so now drew out the woman’s fury.

“Yes. On account of her penchant for magic and some extraneous circumstances, my sister has been taken under the wing of a College researcher.”

“Truly? The Imperial College of Magic? That would indeed be a considerable fee for the financially bereft.”

“Tuition alone is fifteen drachmae per year—more than two years’ worth of our household’s income. This isn’t to mention the cost of living, clothing, and everything else needed to fulfill her responsibilities as a student, making the true total more than double that.”

Lady Agrippina provided room and board, but not all of it was free, and the list of things Elisa would need going forward never ended. Once she officially enrolled as a student attending general lectures, she’d need a robe and staff to mark her as a magus-in-training; anything too shabby would see her stand out amongst her upper-class peers. Changelings didn’t require a wand to cast spells per se, but I wanted my baby sister to have something good so her studies in sorcery would go smoothly... Though in truth, I expected Lady Leizniz to be more than happy to provide a complimentary robe, and Lady Agrippina seemed liable to produce a hand-me-down of incredible quality, so maybe I was wasting my time.

Regardless, a scholarship was a big investment—just not “five hundred drachmae” big. In the back of my brain, the Negotiation skill whispered that it was sizable enough to not upset Lady Franziska. Yeah, I’m definitely gonna upgrade this later.

“Ah,” the lady mused. “It would seem I am to resume my usual pastime.”

“Whatever might that be?”

“Patronage. I sorely lack an ear for the musical, thou seest. The Minister of Finance hath much to say whenever I allow my idle mintage to amass into mounds, and as such, I seek promising youths to steer into the realm of the arts.”

Of course, I thought. Anyone with enough time and money on their hands was practically expected to partake. Painters, playwrights, and innovators of every make had lived off noble endowments since the dawn of civilization, spawning works to match their benefactors’ tastes in exchange. That way, they could spend all of their time spreading their creative ideas.

“Very well. Then let my backing be henceforth thy sister’s to claim. I will cover her every expense and fund her every experiment. I shan’t set any particular expiry, nor shall I pester her for progress in tangible terms on account of my dearth of arcane comprehension. Mine will be a lenient support.”

The relationship between patron and patronized was close to that of a parent and child, but with one key difference: patrons withdrew their backing if results couldn’t be produced. Mika and all the other students attending the College on the purses of their local magistrates were perfect examples. If they failed to prove themselves time and time again, they obviously lost their backer’s trust; eventually, those who couldn’t offer anything would be forgotten and cut off.

As such, being promised continued sponsorship as a reward was amazing. My cute baby sister wouldn’t have to worry about falling into destitution at the whims of a fickle master. Moved to the core, I held back shivers and got out of my chair to kneel at Lady Franziska’s feet.

“You have my sincerest gratitude. If I may ever be of use to you, please call on me without hesitation.”

“Mm. Thy efforts were admirable, Erich of Konigstuhl. I shall pen a formal letter of thy reward and ha’ it sent to thee in the coming days.”

Basking in her magnanimous words, I waited for her permission to rise—until I suddenly found a hand thrust toward me. Her vampiric skin showed no signs of the blood flowing below, and it glowed smoother than the finest marbles and porcelains under the crisp moonlight.

“But this privilege is thine. Thinkst thou not it sorry to receive naught to call thy own?”

“...An honor more than I am due.”

For a man to place his lips on a lady’s hand was a sign of deference, but obviously, this was a tradition meant to take place between two persons of fitting statures. I should have had nothing to do with it.

But to be granted that right symbolized worthiness. I took her hand in my own, handling it like fragile glass, and pretended to place my lips on it. I’d read in the library that actually pecking the woman’s hand wasn’t part of the social ritual.

“Hm, thou art awash with modesty. Hither—how tepid it would be should I be the only giver of gifts.”

Lady Franziska had on a wonderfully ostentatious grin as she pulled back her hand and stood. She made her way to Miss Celia—who’d been eyeing us disapprovingly—and pulled her niece up by the armpits.

“Huh?! What?! A-Aunt Franziska?!”

“Wilt thou not offer him a reward of thy own? Thou hast the hand of a young lady—the velvety blanket of an untrodden snow belonging to a maiden so beloved by the gods, at that. Surely thine wilt confer great favor from the heavens.”

The woman carried her niece to me like she was handling a hapless kitten, and smacked her on the back to goad her along. That Lady Franziska didn’t command her to offer her hand quietly hinted at the aunt’s character: though she wished to enjoy all that amused her, she did not force others into tasks they truly opposed—a rarity coming from the creative sort.

“Um... Er...” Miss Celia hung her head and looked at me; her gaze and hand both shifted to and fro as she hesitated.

I completely understood. Although it was only the back of her palm, a nun raised in a monastery would naturally refuse the sudden order to surrender her bare skin to a man. But just as I began scheming for a way to help her weasel out of the situation...

“Here.”

“Huh?”

She gave me her hand. In fact, she even went out of her way to remove the long glove covering it.

It truly was as pure as a virgin snow. The sight of it alone made saliva pool in my mouth; what ought to have been body temperature felt like boiling water too hot to swallow back.

Lady Franziska watched us with a wide smirk, her gaze a heavy net entangling us. Miss Celia’s eyes were downcast as she looked upon me. For all their similarities, the two faces before me were strikingly distinct.

Unable to withstand their gazes, I took her hand; to not would be to shame her.

Just like before, I moved in to bring my mouth close and then quickly pull back...but couldn’t.

Redder now, the hand in front of me came to meet me halfway. Vivacious enough to call the sensation of wetness to mind, her skin pressed into my lips with the quiet sound of a kiss. An observer might wonder if my heart had exploded, because a beat later, my face flashed bright red.

[Tips] A kiss placed on the back of the hand symbolizes love, reverence, and loyalty. The greeting is exclusively used from those of lower rank to those of higher; it will take some time before gentlemen come to employ it with ladies of their class. However, at times, a well-to-do woman will permit someone she holds dear to take her bare hand—an invitation to deeper bonds, perhaps...

Hanging us out to dry with a casual, “I shall leave thee to thy youths,” was not helpful. Doubly so following an event as embarrassing as that.

Miss Celia was perfectly unmoving, simply staring down with a bright red blush. I averted my eyes and reached for my steaming cup in search of some relief.

What am I supposed to say now?

I wasn’t explicitly uncomfortable, but the time ticked away with the awkward atmosphere lingering in the air. Around the time the kettle was drained and all the snacks were gone, I heard a clacking sound.

“...Will you join me in a game?”

“Huh?”

I looked up to see Miss Celia fidgeting, her face just as red and downcast as before.

“I-I’ve sent along a message to the College detailing your safe return with an invitation to the manor, so I imagine Elisa will join us shortly. My aunt has managed to locate Mika and is sending her a similar summons, and I suspect they will both arrive around the same time... S-So, while we wait, would you please join me in a match?”

I was too stupid to think, so I just nodded; she reached under the table and pulled out an ehrengarde set. She’d apparently gotten it from a drawer hidden below.

Sporting wooden marquetry, the thick board glimmered like a dance hall under the moonlight; in the box, white pieces fashioned out of pristine marble mingled with black pieces of pure obsidian. I picked one up with an unsteady hand and instantly recognized just how much more impressive it was compared to my hobbyist handiworks.

What surprised me most, however, was a realization brought on by my Keen Eye trait and the artistic sense it incurred: the pieces had been custom-made for this setting specifically. Every detail had been perfectly calculated to appear best under moonlight. I was absolutely certain that these were some of those infamous pieces that went for entire territories; she really did belong to an incredible family.

“If I recall, the first move...”

“...should be mine,” I answered.

It felt wrong to even touch such masterpieces, but I reached over and placed the stern-faced white emperor onto the board. White had the first move, and the rules dictated that both players were to start by placing their emperors and then their crown princes. For a short while, the sound of pieces echoed like a beautiful instrument as we placed their loyal subjects onto the field.

We filled the board at our usual bullet pace of five seconds per turn, but something was off. Both of us normally favored noncommittal openings that allowed for changes in strategy, but today she’d gone for a strong offensive start.

Her favorite empress was on the front lines as a matter of course, and a full squad of major pieces—including her emperor—were posturing forward without any intentions of hiding her attack. I’d begun placing defenders around the middle of the setup phase after seeing her army, but she could plow right through me if I slipped up.

We took brisk turns placing our pieces, developing the battlefield along organic lines. The nuance of the position shifted back and forth in a blink of the eye, transforming worthless pieces into linchpins and reducing vital units to dead weight; this was quintessential ehrengarde.

The awkwardness was less noticeable by the time we’d finished preparing the board, a distant memory by the fifth move, and completely absent by the time she invited me into a gambit on the tenth. Her every move was a new introduction, telling me, “Hello, this is who I am,” and I pushed my pieces with every intention of returning the favor.

Though we were in a different location, occupied different positions, and played with different pieces, nothing had changed at its core. She was still the same strong, honest player.

Her knight tore through a hole she’d made by sacrificing a pawn; the magus I’d begrudgingly placed to stymie her offensive fell to a dragon knight, further opening my fortifications. Her play felt like a heavy barrage of raw emotion. Each push of a major piece was precise enough to cause my position to creak, and my defenders fell like the withering teeth of an aging comb.

I took in the feelings imbued within her pieces and returned them with a counterattack of my own. Forgoing a panicked attempt to plug the leakage, I shifted my pieces away, trading them off to divert the course of her vanguards.

The end to our conversation devoid of words reared its head around the time her forward momentum fizzled out. Her minor pieces couldn’t keep up with the major ones in front, giving me the tempo to break her formation with a dragon knight. An archer—which could only take pieces one tile in front of it—blocked her retreat, meaning she had to choose whether to save her knight or dragon knight. Furthermore, my counteroffensive looked like it might have the steam to close the game out.

“The game is sealed.” She placed a piece, its click reverberating through the air like a bell, with the first words spoken in tens of minutes. Combined with the unique setting, these large pieces produced a very particular tone when hitting the board; the heaviest and most pleasing sound belonged to the emperor she’d marched forward for her last-ditch attack.

“It’s still too early to say that.”

This was more than a nicety: I was close to taking it home, but one of the peculiarities of this game was how the favored player had to stay on their toes. One piece shifted over by one tile was enough to turn an unattainable checkmate into reality. The one closest to winning had to squeeze the best out of their mind until the bitter end—in fact, it was commonly held that holding the lead was more mentally taxing.

The remnants of her army rallied to charge forth with reckless abandon, throwing themselves into the jaws of death for the slim hope of victory; I carefully picked apart the attackers and struck blow after crushing blow. The knight tumbled, unable to keep pace; the dragon knight plummeted to earth; the guardsman met his end defending the emperor.

“It is over.”

Having served as the conduit for incredible skill, the pieces and board produced a dramatic sound even as her cornered emperor fell. The ruler had taken his own life before I could deliver mate; I stared at the troops that survived him and heaved a profound sigh.

“You truly are you,” I said.

This exhausting game finally put my mind to rest. As short as our relationship thus far had been, I knew that being saved by Miss Celia wouldn’t totally overwrite what we had...but I’d been afraid that she’d become someone from another world.

Up until now, ours had been an accord between me and her. But now I knew her as Cecilia Bernkastel, and had gained a tie to her aunt who drew the same Bernkastel blood. Bonds draw people together, but so too do they tear them apart—especially for those separated by inherited barriers of class.

The fallen emperor symbolized much, but there was one thing I knew for sure: Miss Celia had not misrepresented herself in our time together, and was the same person she’d always been. Had she abdicated a few turns prior and pulled back part of her forces, she could have begun a war of attrition to wait out a mistake on my end. Yet she’d pushed forward in pursuit of victory, and eventually brought the game to a close by felling her own emperor.

Her play was the same as it had always been—she was the same Cecilia I’d always known.

It was time to make up my mind: even though her position demanded consideration, I would treat her as I always had.

“Then I must say the same of you, Erich.”

Her strong-willed, bloodred eyes loosened into a smile. Not one lacking strength, but one tinged with relief—maybe she felt the same as me.

Just as I’d thought, this match had been another first meeting. Delivered over the board, her introduction only emboldened the unshakable impression of her in my mind.

I am me; you are you. So long as we understood this, that was enough.

“My goodness, this watchman was so, so vexing!”

“I actually thought I may have misplaced it for the longest time, until...around here. This was where the game shifted, and I thought to myself, ‘I’ve got this!’ as soon as I saw this move.”

Smiling, the two of us tiptoed around the topic as we began our postmortem.

Basically, it boiled down to this: let’s keep being good friends.

Miss Celia froze in the middle of recreating a regrettable board state, placing a hand on her temple and closing her eyes. A moment later, she smiled and looked over at the door: knocking preceded two very welcome guests.

Despite looking a bit tired, Mika looked like the picture of health; Elisa had done her best to dress up like when she’d come to visit me at home.

Our moonlit tea party was about to become a wonderfully blissful victory banquet.

[Tips] The official rules say nothing on the matter, but common etiquette places the burden of declaring defeat on the loser.