* * *
It was the flower that once filled the gardens of Castle Pomel, and the reason Gardener Petro lost his son.
The very same flower whose pressed bloom had been tucked into Zavad’s cherished psalm book—now it was here, in this place.
It felt like more than coincidence.
Primula was a rare flower in the Empire.
Petro’s son had gained Charlotte’s favor by successfully cultivating it in bulk.
But when the Empress grew enraged, the fields were set ablaze, and Primula flowers became even scarcer than before.
This book had been left untouched long enough for its pages to meld together.
Surely, it had been here since before all those events unfolded…
“……”
He couldn’t be sure just yet.
But it was worth investigating.
Slipping the restorable prayer book into his coat, Ranshel quietly made his way out during a free day with no classes or lectures.
Zavad was still in bed—a rare sight.
Normally, he’d start nagging Ranshel the moment he walked in.
‘Did he go to bed late?’
But it felt off.
Zavad lay completely still, blanket pulled up to his head.
Ranshel couldn’t recall ever seeing him sleep like this since they left the palace.
A chill ran down his spine.
He dashed over and yanked the blanket down with force.
“Young Master!”
Fwip.
The blanket flew to the floor in one pull, revealing Zavad lying there with both hands neatly folded over his abdomen.
Just as Ranshel was about to grab his shoulders—
“Five points.”
Ranshel froze, arm still midair.
“Out of a hundred, you get five points.”
“…What?”
“Points for how a servant should wake their sleeping master.”
“…Huh?”
Zavad sat up with ease, as if he hadn’t just scared Ranshel to death, and started brushing himself off to change.
“Is it your teacher who’s incompetent, or are you just a hopeless trainee? I sent you to the academy and this is the result?”
“….”
Ranshel abandoned his urge to defend himself—he had been genuinely worried something had happened—and just picked up the prayer book from the floor.
“What’s that now?”
“…My spiritual stabilizer.”
‘Maybe it’s time I found religion.’
Ranshel clutched the book tightly.
“You can’t even read it. Why’re you carrying it around?”
“Exactly. If I could read it, I’d be reading it. Since I can’t, I’m carrying it…”
“…What are you even saying?”
Zavad, full of energy even in the morning, threw open the door with a dramatic flourish.
“…What now?”
He muttered as he glanced at a white note on the floor.
Ranshel rushed over, picked it up before Zavad could, and checked it thoroughly before handing it over.
“Just a piece of paper.”
“You’re such a drama queen. Ten points.”
“…Why did the score go up?”
“You jumping out like that was funny.”
“……”
‘Can only the master rate the servant?’
‘Why can’t servants rate their masters too?’
Ranshel gave Zavad an internal score of 8.
Seven felt too low.
Nine was a bit too generous.
“What was that about anyway?”
“It’s from the apothecary. The medicine is ready whenever we are.”
“Perfect, let’s go pick it up now.”
It just so happened they were heading to the villa where Hans and Petro were staying.
“Alright. Go get it.”
Zavad gave the order, but then followed Ranshel on his way to the apothecary.
Ranshel wondered why Zavad didn’t just relax—instead of tailing him like a watchdog.
“You’ll get a new batch every month. Just come pick it up when it’s time.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Ranshel bowed politely and left the room.
Zavad, leaning against the hallway wall with his arms crossed, glanced into the basket of medicine.
“Let me see that.”
He took the basket, rummaged through it, and pulled out a note similar to the one from before.
Reading it, Zavad scoffed—then crumpled it in his fist.
Ranshel’s eyes widened.
“Why? What does it say?”
“They’ll charge for the medicine later.”
“…Wasn’t it supposed to be free?”
Ranshel was taken aback by the sudden bill.
Wasn’t this part of the medical system provided by the seminary for the students—something they could use without paying?
But Zavad answered nonchalantly, as if he’d already expected it.
“It’s a fee for keeping secrets. Anyone could tell that medicine wasn’t for me.”
“So we do have to pay for it…?”
“No. What that guy wants isn’t money—it’s a position. He wants a job, and he’s planning to use the power of the Pomel family to get it.”
Zavad grinned and strode forward confidently.
“This works out better. If I ever need medicine again, I’ll just squeeze it out of that apothecary.”
“…Okay.”
Every time he realized it again, Ranshel felt a cold ache deep in his chest.
Zavad was constantly surrounded by people who wanted to use him—including himself.
…Which is why Pray was necessary.
Only Pray could lead Zavad’s life toward the light.
No one else could.
Ranshel gripped the basket with both hands and climbed into the carriage behind Zavad.
The shared carriage, which ran through the school grounds, dropped them off at the front gate.
There, a tall and broad-shouldered man was waving at them enthusiastically with both hands.
It was Hans, who had been contacted in advance and come to escort them to the estate.
“Have you been in good health?”
“Save the formalities. First, take the medicine and hand it over to the courier. It’ll take a while to reach the Pomel territory.”
Hans, eyes wide, creaked his head around like a broken machine.
Ranshel quickly offered the basket in his hands.
Hans accepted it with trembling fingers—then immediately dropped to his knees right there on the spot and bowed at Zavad’s feet.
“Thank you! I know mere words aren’t enough, but someone as lowly as myself has no elegant poetry to express my gratitude! I can only thank you, thank you again!”
Hans banged his forehead against the ground, his voice trembling with tears.
“Young Master, you are a saint sent to me by the god of the Holy War! If you hadn’t helped me, I wouldn’t have been able to save my mother’s life! I truly, truly thank you…!”
They were still near the school gates, and even though it was a holiday, there were still many people around due to the dormitory system of the seminary.
The curious gazes of passersby all turned their way.
“…You don’t have to do this. I just did what anyone would.”
Zavad suddenly took on a conspicuously benevolent demeanor.
Hans didn’t seem to think much of the contradiction—it was typical for nobles—but Ranshel always felt unsettled when Zavad acted like this.
Murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd—mentions of the Pomel family and the Saintess.
Ranshel was sure now: it wouldn’t even take two weeks, let alone a month, for the rumors about the two of them being lovers to spread across all of Lima.
A Saint and a Saintess, blessed by divine grace, as a couple?
Could anything be more fitting?
Their marriage would be celebrated as a sacred union blessed by all creation.
By then, he would have returned to his rightful world.
Even this moment would fade into a blurry past, and those he would never see again would live on only in memory…
“……”
Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.
His chest tightened with anxious thumps.
As he tried to steady his erratic breath, Ranshel finally reached out and clutched the medicine basket.
“…Sir Hans, I’ll take the medicine to the school’s delivery office. It’ll be faster than trying to find someone in Lima.”
“Wait, Ranshel—”
Pretending not to hear Zavad calling after him, Ranshel dashed back through the school gates.
He ran all the way to where supply wagons gathered for deliveries outside the school.
As expected, he found a familiar face there.
Simon, feeding a carrot to a horse, looked at Ranshel in surprise.
“What the—why’d you come running like that?”
“Ah… I… I need to ask… something…”
Panting with breath caught painfully in his throat, Ranshel finally forced out the words.
“That thing… how’s it going?”
“Huh? What thing? What’re you suddenly talking about?”
“You know… what I asked you to look into…!”
He blurted it out between ragged breaths.
“Charlotte. Where is she now?!”
Simon’s voice was flustered, but Ranshel couldn’t answer.
He was gasping too hard. He crouched down, unable to stay on his feet.
He had to go back. Someone was waiting for him.
He couldn’t not go.
That’s why he was desperately chasing down Charlotte’s whereabouts—to stir Zavad’s thirst for revenge, to become the most vicious person imaginable.
That was the right ending.
He knew it.
He’d accepted everything and understood exactly what he needed to do.
And yet—why did it feel so hard to breathe?
What was it that was choking him, pressing down on his chest so tightly?
He knew it all.
He understood it all.
So why…
* * *
