Distrust, and Hatred (11)

Start the day, attend lectures.

Once classes let out, Sylvia found herself spending more and more of her time with Henna. Moments like these, which she had never once experienced before, had somehow woven themselves into the fabric of her everyday life.

There had been a time when she felt utterly abandoned, as if she were the only person left stranded in the vast expanse of the academy. She preferred not to dwell on those days, though.

Whenever she was with Henna, whose mouth never seemed to run out of things to say, loneliness was the furthest thing from her mind. She adored this peaceful, unhurried rhythm of life, soaking in the sweet taste of freedom.

"So listen to this! Today, that idiot Noel and John came crawling back, swearing they couldn't forget the taste of my bread and begging for seconds! So I told them..."

The stories spilling from Henna's lips weren't like the stiff, suffocating pleasantries exchanged among nobles. They were natural, effortless tales woven between real people—wonderfully ordinary, everyday gossip.

Inevitably, the conversation would take a curious turn.

Henna loved recounting the time Junon had dealt Professor Kyope a crushing defeat back when he was still in Class E. Just before the end-of-term evaluations, Junon had answered every single question posed by the magic formulas instructor without a single error. Henna had watched with her own eyes as the face of the professor—widely known behind her back as the Wicked Witch—contorted into glorious, helpless mortification.

Having run clean out of questions, Professor Kyope had practically fled down the hallway to escape Junon, only to trip over her own robes and take a magnificent tumble. Listening to Henna describe it made Sylvia laugh so hard she felt as though her lunch had been instantly digested on the spot.

Just as the academy rumors claimed, whenever someone went out of their way to pick a fight, Junon never cowered in the face of injustice or oppression. He dug in his heels and fought back every single time.

Remembering her own past conduct toward him made Sylvia sink into brief, quiet melancholy, but hearing that the bullies had since scattered brought an overwhelming sense of relief.

Then there was the time Henna happened to spot Junon walking down the hallway after dropping by the physical training grounds. Far from his usual composed self, he had been practically crawling on all fours.

Henna swore with absolute certainty that he must have overflowed with blind ambition, overtrained, and given himself crippling muscle cramps from head to toe. To prove her point, she had leapt up from her chair and delivered a spot-on impression of Junon's hobbling, bowlegged waddle. Sylvia had been forced to clap both hands over her mouth, desperately stifling her giggles so as not to appear unrefined.

For all his sharp intellect and stubborn principles, he could be remarkably clumsy with things he had never tried before, fumbling and flustering like anyone else.

During sparring matches against nobles, he was occasionally flagged for fouls, yet he would grit his teeth, throw himself forward, and wrench out stubborn, hard-fought victories. And when he ultimately clawed his way into the top five percent of the written examinations, it felt like a triumph of sheer human willpower.

Listening to those stories, Sylvia would find herself completely swept away. Sometimes she caught herself smiling without even realizing it; other times she applauded his brilliance, or even pressed her hands together in earnest prayer, hanging on every word.

Listening to Henna tell stories of Junon's rich human warmth had become the brightest highlight of her days lately. It felt like those rare, fleetingly happy times from her childhood, when she would drift to sleep nestled in her mother's warm embrace to the gentle cadence of a bedtime story.

Yet the deeper those feelings grew, the harder it became to actually face Junon in person.

She ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had a decent idea of where he spent his free time, but her feet simply refused to carry her anywhere near him.

The root of the problem traced back to the end-of-term evaluation.

"Ugh... why on earth did I do that?"

During the final field assessment, after collapsing unconscious in the pouring rain...

Recalling the feverish nonsense she had blurted out upon waking had her clutching her head and pacing in frantic, mortified circles. And as the absolute crown jewel of humiliation, she had seized his collar—only for Junon to bluntly point out that she was standing there in nothing but her underwear.

Counting the days since she last saw him... it was already day three. Three whole days of furiously kicking her blankets and burying her face in her pillow, desperate to deny reality whenever that memory resurfaced.

He was someone she owed endless gratitude to—a benefactor she ought to eagerly step up and assist whenever needed. She couldn't keep running away forever.

Steeling her resolve, Sylvia headed straight for the bathroom and checked the mirror.

For dozens of minutes, pale grey strands had been braided, unraveled, and twisted before the glass.

Twisted and tangled without ever coming together cleanly—much like Sylvia herself, who turned into an entirely different person whenever Junon crossed her mind.

"Why is this so difficult...?"

She tried braiding her hair exactly as Henna had instructed, but she possessed zero talent in that department. Chores like cooking, laundry, and cleaning came naturally to her, and she was hardly lagging behind in her academic studies or spellcraft, yet when it came to personal grooming, she was hopelessly out of her depth.

"No. Just one more try...!"

She patiently tried styling it once more, but whenever she thought she was finished and turned to check the angle, she despised the result. She unraveled the braid. Then she started over from scratch.

‘It suits you. ────.’

It suits you.

That single phrase was the sole reason Sylvia had unbraided and retied her hair countless times over.

One might wonder what meaning could possibly lie in plain grey-white hair, but there was nothing unusual about a young woman caring for her appearance. Some felt pride merely from drawing the eyes of passersby. Some found genuine joy in the simple act of adorning themselves. And, most importantly of all, there was the desire to hear that one compliment—it suits you—from the person who held your interest.

At a single word from him, it was only natural for a woman's budding affections to pour all her attention into a few strands of hair.

Yet Sylvia was astonishingly dense when it came to her own heart.

At first, she had casually accepted his suggestion, thinking a small change in appearance might be nice. But before she knew it, her hairstyle and attire had become matters of paramount importance.

It's just because I'm terrified of Henna's nagging. Nothing more, nothing less.

Clinging to that excuse, she gave it another try, but cold reality refused to budge: her hair simply would not take the shape she envisioned. Deciding she would have to consult Henna again, Sylvia took a comb and gently unraveled the half-finished braid.

"Wait... why was I doing this again...?"

A sudden wave of hollow emptiness washed over her as she combed through the loose strands. A hairstyle that suited her? Sure, it was a nice compliment, but something felt off. Other people offered polite compliments like that all the time.

Tracing it back to the very beginning... wasn't it because Junon had advised that her bangs looked like they might poke her in the eyes, suggesting she try changing them...?

"Gasp...?"

The moment the realization clicked, she startled herself.

She wasn't doing this just to hear a casual, passing remark about how nice her new style looked.

Oh, good heavens.

"Eeeeeeeek!"

A shriek—or something remarkably close to one—reverberated off the bathroom tiles. Coming to her senses, she realized this entire ridiculous ordeal had been set in motion because her thoughts were consumed by Junon.

"S-Since when...?"

Because Henna constantly chattered about all sorts of people, Sylvia had never noticed, but the culprit had been Henna all along. Whenever stories about Junon came up, hadn't they always been fed to her through Henna's mouth?

Now that she thought about it, that was always the pattern. Henna would start with mundane gossip about other students, only to deftly steer the conversation toward Junon every single time.

‘Oho. Don't tell me you've gone and fallen for someone?’

The memory surfaced in her mind, accompanied by Henna's characteristic mischievous smirk that practically screamed she had caught onto something. Henna was the type to feign ignorance when she already knew everything, only to mercilessly tease her victim later for being so gullible.

Only now did Sylvia realize she had been played like a fiddle. A second, utterly mortified shriek echoed through the room.

"This is no time to sit around...!"

Today was the day Henna was supposed to return to the academy after visiting home to help her parents. Never mind fixing her hair; Sylvia intended to track down Henna immediately and demand an explanation for toying with her like this.

I can't let her say a single word to Junon! He'd tease me for the rest of my life!

Determined to swear her friend to secrecy, Sylvia hurried straight to the third-year girls' dormitory.

"What? Henna isn't here?"

"Something came up this morning, so she dashed out the moment she arrived."

She ran out right after arriving...?

If she wasn't in the dorms, that meant she was wandering somewhere on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the academy grounds. Sylvia searched high and low, asking around until she finally spotted Henna stepping away from the personal lockers with something in hand. But that wasn't important right now.

"Sylvia...?"

Though she had successfully cornered her mischievous friend after all that trouble, the moment their eyes met, Sylvia found herself completely overpowered by Henna's aura.

"Hehe. Hehehe... Sylvia? Mind if I ask you just one little thing?"

"Y-Yes?!"

Gone was the fierce resolve from the bathroom mirror to silence Henna at all costs. Her friend exuded such an ominous, suffocating pressure that formal honorifics tumbled from Sylvia's lips involuntarily.

"You have to answer honestly. Got it?"

Under the crushing weight of Henna's gaze, Sylvia turned into a meek, trembling lamb, nodding nervously.

"That 'friend' you were talking about... you were talking about Junon, weren't you?"

"Hic!"

Bullseye.

Instead of words from her tightly sealed lips, her body betrayed her with a loud, involuntary hiccup.

What was she supposed to say to someone who had seen through her from the very start? Just as Sylvia hesitated, about to plead with her to keep it between them—

"Special lecture starts today, Sylvia."

She thought it was a joke, but Henna's expression was deadly serious. And that was where the "Operation" began.

And so, Sylvia found herself faithfully carrying out the assignment Henna had handed her three hours ago.

"Hey... come on, stop crying, Sylvia. Please?"

Sniffle.

Sylvia had simply followed Henna's advice to execute a plan. Even now, she didn't entirely grasp why she was supposed to be doing this.

Still, somehow... I kind of like this.

As long as she kept tears welling in her eyes, Junon hovered over her in a flustered panic, desperately trying to tend to her every need. At that moment, Henna's second directive flashed across Sylvia's mind.

‘Don't just stop there because it feels nice! Make sure you trigger his protective instincts completely! Got it?’

Indeed. While Henna's strategy had its merits, simply acting like a crybaby wasn't going to cut it. Henna had urged Sylvia to appeal to him as a woman, awakening a man's innate protective instincts to maximize the effect—all while thrusting two character dossiers into her hands.

‘W-Why are you giving me these...?’

‘Just look at them! This one is the youngest baroness, the head of the Eshrelt Merchant Guild! She's a first-year who's a year younger than you, so she's fresh and adorable—’

One was a first-year junior with a charming appearance and a razor-sharp, capable personality, whom Sylvia had briefly glimpsed at the infirmary.

‘And this one, well, need I say more? She's basically the living ideal of every man alive—’

The other was a second-year junior known to every single student across the academy—bright, vivacious, and utterly captivating.

Sylvia had no idea why Henna had handed her those two profiles. Even after hearing the explanation, it went straight over her head. Nor could she comprehend why Henna was telling her to stay on her guard.

When Henna grew exasperated and told her to get her head in the game, Sylvia had only tilted her head in innocent confusion. Watching her, Henna would clutch her chest as if her heart might burst, letting out bizarre roars before springing up from the cafe table in sheer frustration.

Every time Henna growled like that, Sylvia shrank back, which was how she ended up blindly following the instructions without understanding the reason. But then, did she really need one? She was enjoying the situation quite enough as it was.

Of course, oblivious to the fact that her tears were drawing murderous glares toward the opposite side of the table from a growing crowd of onlookers, Junon was currently enduring sheer agony.

"Uh... so, I'm kind of hungry. Want to grab a bite together? I found a great place recently!"

Junon intended to escape the brewing crisis by buying Sylvia food. He had heard somewhere that sweets put people in a good mood; if reason failed, bribery with a meal was his default mindset. If for no other reason, offending the nearby crowd of Sylvia's passionate admirers was extraordinarily hazardous to his health.

Rendering all of Henna's frantic warnings utterly meaningless, the meek lamb wiped away her tearful expression in the blink of an eye.

"Y-Yeah. I'd love to."

There was no way Sylvia would turn down an opportunity to spend time with Junon.

With ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that, the operation ended in complete and utter failure. Henna's grand advice—to appear fragile and vulnerable to awaken Junon's protective instincts—had long since evaporated from Sylvia's mind.

Around the same time, the subjugation campaign was proceeding smoothly under the strategic direction of the Empire's premier prime minister.

For those familiar with the front lines, Muniherr's name was legendary, making his very presence an immense pillar of reassurance. Yet no matter how rigorously one drilled in mock combat, human beings could not operate like flawless clockwork. Mistakes were bound to occur in any squad. His seasoned eye caught even the most minute lapses and translated them into immediate feedback.

"Your formation was sloppy, Goden. Who was responsible for issuing deployment orders?"

"...I have no excuses, sir. I gave the command."

"You should know full well that maintaining a standard deployment is useless when the enemy outnumbers your vanguards."

With distinct roles assigned, squad members had to remain faithful to their designated duties. Yet battlefield conditions were never static; terrain, weather, and monster species introduced endless variables. Minimizing these fluctuations to curtail squad casualties was the fundamental duty of the leader directing the formation.

Though temporary, committing the painful error of an improper deployment laid bare the squad's greenness in their very first real ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠combat operation—driving home the glaring absence of a tactical commander, a true Center.

"In such circumstances, support mages must wrap the vanguards in reinforcement spells to assist them. The buffers sustaining the engagement must also step in to buy time. Understood?"

"Hasirt Third Form. I will commit it to memory once more, sir."

"Good. Ensure the rest of the squad reviews it as well."

Even so, Goden showed no hesitation in absorbing the lesson to find the right answers. The squad comprised students Muniherr had observed with great interest during the end-of-term evaluations, and their individual combat prowess ranked among the very best. With proper seasoning, they looked like a gathered cohort of promising talents destined for the vanguard of the front lines before long. It stood as a clear testament to Goden's discerning eye.

"Pardon the interruption, Lord Muniherr! An urgent dispatch!"

A soldier came sprinting toward him, clutching a communication artifact. The courier offered no preliminary explanation, but the frantic pace alone signaled a matter of paramount gravity.

"From where?"

"Lady Dahlia sent it posthaste, sir!"

"Dahlia?"

A few days prior, following additional sightings of the Orthoptera swarm, a detachment including Dahlia had been organized and deployed. Because they were omnivorous beasts, they frequently emerged in farmlands and open fields without warning. Given their habit of migrating along mountain ridges, failing to intercept them across the western expanse of Schytz Province risked their driving south and inflicting catastrophic damage upon civilian settlements.

Yet an urgent message had arrived from Dahlia herself. Nursing a grim foreboding, Muniherr activated the communication device.

A soldier's frantic voice echoed through the channel, searching for Dahlia. It was unquestionably the voice of the soldier Muniherr had personally selected and sent just days ago. That faint unease instantly curdled into sharp, cold anxiety that something had gone terribly wrong.

"I'm listening. Speak. What happened?"

"...What?"

Just as his instincts had warned, the gears of the campaign had undeniably begun to grind out of alignment.