Chapter 31 - Project: Make the Duke’s Daughter Hate Me (1)
Chapter 31 - Project: Make the Duke’s Daughter Hate Me (1)
Hmm. A love rival, huh.
So that means…
“Would it be correct to interpret this as Your Highness and I competing for Lady Parmela’s affections?”
The Crown Prince glared at me with murderous intensity.
I didn’t need verbal confirmation—my ominous premonition had been spot on.
“…I believe I’ve made my position abundantly clear.”
The silver sword in his hand dissolved into particles of light.
“Wait, I still don’t fully understand the situa—”
“Then I shall take my leave. Next time we meet… we’ll be enemies.”
Poof.
Between blinks, Edgar vanished as suddenly as he’d appeared.
Leaving behind dialogue straight out of a cheesy comic book.
Chuckle. Quite amusing. First the Saintess, now this—you seem to have a natural talent for attracting women.
“…”
The Crown Prince’s shocking declaration left me in such a daze that I barely registered anything afterward—disembarking from the carriage, entering Arcadium Academy, unpacking Parmela’s belongings at her dormitory, then moving to my own servant quarters to arrange my things…
The entire sequence passed in a blur.
The only thing I vaguely recalled was a staff member mentioning tomorrow morning’s opening ceremony in the main hall.
My dorm room—while not as nice as the cottage I’d been using—was decently sized, comparable to a spacious studio apartment back in Korea.
Lying on the bed, I stared blankly at the white ceiling.
“…Must be a misunderstanding.”
The Crown Prince’s words had to be mistaken.
It simply didn’t make sense.
Since when does a duke’s daughter fall for some random commoner swordsman just because he saved her once?
Unless she’s some hopeless romantic who fantasizes about storybook encounters daily.
But…
If the Crown Prince’s claim held truth, it would explain Parmela’s excessive kindness toward me.
“…”
What’s got you so troubled?
“Strategizing my way out of this mess.”
Running away again? Like you did with the Saintess.
“Watch your wording. We parted amicably and went our separate ways—I didn’t abandon anyone. Besides, that’s not an option here.”
Why not?
“You think I can afford to be wanted by both the Radain Church and now an imperial ducal house?”
The Radain Holy Nation was an insular country at the northern edge of the continent—powerful yet reclusive enough that I could evade their pursuit by fleeing to the opposite end of the land and altering my appearance with artifacts.
But the Herthe Ducal House was different.
The Arkesia Empire dominated the central continent as its supreme power—and the Herthe family ranked second only to the imperial household itself.
If the Crown Prince was mistaken and Parmela didn’t actually harbor feelings for me, disappearing overnight might work. She’d just be puzzled by her suddenly missing page boy—annoyed at worst, but unlikely to launch a full-scale manhunt.
But if she truly did have romantic interest…
Vanishing would turn both the Radain Holy Nation and Arkesia Empire against me with relentless pursuit.
And there’s one more problem.
I examined the ring on my right index finger.
Outwardly, it appeared ordinary—a gilded band with a green horizontal stripe and small magic core embedded in the center.
In truth, it was the artifact maintaining my current disguise.
During my journey from Radain to Arkesia, I’d rescued an alchemist in distress and received this shape-shifting artifact as reward. Powered by replaceable magic cores, it could alter the wearer’s appearance simply by proximity without needing direct contact.
The issue is… the Arkesia Empire is renowned for its mastery of magic.
And the Herthe family had produced archmages for generations.
If their pursuers included someone skilled enough to see through my artifact’s disguise…
My true appearance would be exposed, forcing me to flee from a joint Radain-Herthe manhunt.
What to do? How can I escape this predicament…?
I can practically hear the gears grinding in that Heavenly Demon skull of yours.
Ignoring Vertus’s nagging, I racked my brain until…
“Got it!”
A brilliantly simple solution struck me.
Heh… The answer was obvious all along—I was overcomplicating things.
What’s with the sudden outburst? You startled me.
“Want to hear my masterstroke? Of course you do.”
…You’ve finally lost it.
“Listen carefully. All these problems stem from Parmela developing feelings for me. Therefore…”
Therefore what?
“I just need to make her dislike me instead.”
Operation: Lower Parmela’s Affection—commence.
The next morning, Arcadium Academy’s main hall.
Two hundred students listened attentively to the headmaster’s speech from the podium.
The scene was undeniably fantastical.
Instead of foldable metal chairs typical of school gymnasiums, circular dinner tables spaced generously apart accommodated three to four students each—each table accompanied by servants like myself standing behind their masters, with juice and light refreshments served.
Nobles’ academy indeed.
The headmaster wore a long blue robe befitting a mage, while student uniforms consisted of suits with capes.
Aside from appearances, the opening ceremony proceeded like any mundane school event—school anthem, principal’s address, announcements…
But my focus remained fixed on one person.
“…”
Parmela listened to the headmaster with composed elegance, her folded fan resting against her lips.
The familiar noble grace paired with unfamiliar school uniform created an oddly captivating contrast.
Snap out of it. Falling for her defeats the whole purpose.
Swish.
Without a word, she lifted an empty glass toward me.
A silent request for more grape juice.
Now’s the chance.
Phase One: Feigned Incompetence.
Displaying unreliability as a page should lower her opinion of me.
The plan was simple—“accidentally” spill juice on her while serving.
Glug-glug—
Pouring from bottle to glass, I pretended to lose balance while handing it to her.
“Whoops!”
A deliberate misstep sent me lurching forward slightly.
Here’s where precision mattered.
One might think any spill would suffice—but no. This required surgical control.
Too much would be disastrous. Spilling on overly sensitive areas equally so.
I’d risk more than just her affection—my position as her page hung in balance.
The optimal target? Somewhere noticeable yet minimally damaging.
After deliberation, I chose the curve between cheek and neck.
Red grape juice on her face would publicly highlight my blunder while minimizing clothing damage.
Why care about the dress? That thing costs three months of my wages.
Some staining was inevitable… but the maids could handle laundry. Minor stains I could personally remove through diligent washing.
Regardless, the die—or rather, glass—was cast.
The tilting cup sent juice cascading toward Parmela’s face.
Splash—
Grape juice splattered across her cheek.
“Eek!”
“M-my apologies!”
A classmate’s shriek overlapped with my flustered apology.
Frantically, I produced a handkerchief, first wiping the juice trickling down her neck.
Fortunately, only her collar suffered minor staining—manageable with proper laundering.
“You there! What kind of behavior is this? Is this how a ducal house’s page conducts himself?”
While Parmela remained silent, her tablemates made up for it with indignant scolding.
“My apologies, my sincerest apologies…!”
I bowed repeatedly with Oscar-worthy remorse.
Now—Parmela’s reaction…?
Mid-wipe, our eyes met.
“…”
…Chilling.
Her usual complaints absent, the silent icy glare amplified the pressure tenfold.
“…What is the meaning of this?”
Her tone matched her expression—frigid.
“M-my deepest apologies. I was overcome with nerves…”
“…Be more careful.”
“Lady Parmela!”
“Everyone, please calm down. It’s nothing serious.”
A single gesture silenced her defenders—true aristocratic poise.
Regardless, the operation seemed… successful.
Her stiffened expression and slightly flushed cheeks—whether from anger or suppressed irritation—confirmed it.
Success. She’s definitely upset with me.
“Theodor.”
“Y-yes!”
“Here. You missed a spot.”
“Ah, right away!”
She pointed to her neckline, prompting another thorough wipe.
“Eep…”
“A-are you alright? Did I press too hard?”
“…Just finish properly.”
Complying, I eradicated every last juice droplet.
“You’ll answer for this later.”
“My apologies.”
After the ceremony concluded, Parmela returned to her dorm without another word—coldly accompanied by the head maid.
Excellent. Phase One complete.
En route to the third-year girls’ dormitory.
“…Hehe… I can still feel Theodor’s touch on my cheek and neck…”
Parmela traced the areas my handkerchief had touched with dreamy expression.
“…Sigh.”
The black-haired head maid trailing behind released an almost imperceptible sigh at her mistress’s behavior.