Chapter 122
Chapter 122
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 122
Chapter Title: Try Raising Muscles Instead of a Baby!
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His eyes gleamed with an intensity that belied his small, frail frame.
Gazing up at Josephine with that piercing stare, Jessica spat out each syllable with unwavering resolve.
"Even if it's Your Holiness, you can't stop the Holy War."
"Cardinal Jessica!"
Josephine glanced around in panic, but every priest remained silent.
As if they hadn't heard a thing.
Only then did Josephine realize she was utterly isolated among Jessica's followers.
Seeing the true extent of Jessica's faction with her own eyes left her breathless.
"The preparations for the Holy War are already underway. So, Cardinal Josephine, instead of trying to stop this, focus on making sure Young Lord Armin's betrothal goes smoothly."
Without waiting for Josephine's permission, Jessica turned on her heel.
Countless priests followed suit, turning their backs in unison.
Josephine clenched her fists as she watched the priests walk away.
The Southern faction embedded within the Western hierarchy was far too powerful.
And if the Southerners succeeded in pushing through Monica and Armin's engagement in this situation, the Western Duke's house would be...
She had to stop this betrothal at all costs.
A priest waiting in the scriptorium bowed deeply to welcome us.
"Please come in. We've prepared seats over here."
What is this?
My jaw dropped at the sight inside the scriptorium.
'They expect us to sit still for two hours in a place like this, copying scriptures?'
There were no windows in the scriptorium.
Even during the day, the dim room was lit only by two measly candles.
And the chairs in front of the desks were nothing but crude wooden stools—no backrest for support, no cushion for comfort.
Reading our bewildered noble children's expressions, Armin smiled faintly and began explaining.
"When copying the scriptures, one must do so humbly from the lowest seat. Even the scriptorium in the Holy King's Court is like this."
"But it's so dark."
"Just devote yourself sincerely to peering at the scriptures. Compared to the theological priests who spend half a day copying and studying them, this is nothing."
Armin sat down first.
We hesitated, glancing around, but followed his lead and took our seats.
On each desk sat a scripture portion and a blank book for copying.
The scriptures were written in the ancient Holy Tongue, a dead language now, and the text was tiny, like grains of rice.
To read and copy it, one naturally had to brace the desk with one arm and hunch forward deeply.
'Since most people are right-handed, they brace with the left hand, letting the right shoulder sag downward.'
All the children sitting close together in the scriptorium had the exact same posture.
Even Armin, who settled in most comfortably, was no exception.
I tossed out a casual question.
"Does Your Eminence Josephine do scripture copying often too?"
"Yes. My sister has tremendous faith. She's copied all seventeen versions of the scriptures."
Pride for his sister shone on Armin's face.
Looking at him, I recalled the theological priests' slumped shoulders and twisted pelvis heights, and Josephine's as well.
Without an X-ray, it was hard to say for sure, but even at a glance, a body twisted like that must be quite uncomfortable.
The spine was the core pillar supporting the human body.
Problems there could make even walking difficult in severe cases.
Josephine and Armin didn't seem that bad yet, but...
"Ah."
In the darkness, Monica's arm—busy with the most diligent copying—accidentally knocked over the inkwell.
As the ink spilled across the desk, a startled Monica reflexively reached out to wipe it away.
That'll just stain her hands and make it worse.
While I fumbled for a handkerchief, two people moved first.
"Hey, you pig! Can't you even copy properly? What can you do right?"
One was Mark.
True to form, always lying in wait for a chance to belittle Monica, he shoved her shoulder hard and started yelling.
There was an old saying from my past life.
'A basket that leaks at home leaks outside too.'
He was so used to bullying Monica that he'd forgotten one key thing...
"Isn't that a bit too harsh?"
This wasn't the duke's estate—it was the temple.
And sitting right next to her was Monica's intended fiancé.
Armin, who had been glaring at Mark with a furrowed brow, stepped in and cut off his shouting with icy precision.
I'd thought he had such a gentle face, but in moments like this, he seemed subtly sharp.
"Ruining the precious scriptures containing God's words—that's the real issue, isn't it?"
"No matter how precious the scriptures are, they're not more precious than a person. Besides, isn't Lady Monica the sister of the Kalenberg heir?"
Well done, Armin!
Due to the seating, Monica was sandwiched between Mark and Armin.
So the spilled ink had soiled not just the scriptures, but Armin's pants too.
Armin didn't seem to mind in the slightest.
It was ridiculous that Mark kept throwing a tantrum when Armin—whose clothes were ruined—was the one defending Monica.
Realizing this, Mark grimaced but barely admitted his fault.
"I... might've gone too far. Sorry, Young Lord."
"You should apologize to Lady Monica, not me."
Mark's face twisted like he'd chewed a bug.
I stared at him, barely holding back a laugh.
Mark had really stepped in it this time.
He looked like he'd rather die than apologize, but he wouldn't hold out long.
'Picking a fight with Armin and then getting caught by his uncle— even Mark wouldn't get a pass.'
This betrothal with Monica was something his uncle was pouring his heart into making happen.
If it fell through because of Mark's rudeness, not even his aunt's favoritism would save him from his uncle's wrath.
Mark muttered a curt, insincere apology, like it physically pained him.
"Hey, sorry."
"N-no, i-it's f-fine. I-it was m-my fault anyway."
Monica waved her hands frantically, as was her habit.
As if she didn't deserve an apology from Mark, flustered like she'd been given something undeserved.
Armin's expression hardened further at the sight.
"Northern etiquette is fascinating. Calling your sister 'hey' is apparently allowed."
I'd only seen him as a gentle puppy type, but he had some bite too.
Not a bad thing.
Someone like Monica, who was only good at being meek and self-deprecating, needed someone firm like that by her side.
Armin usually seemed to revere his sister Josephine greatly.
So he could hardly understand Mark.
Catching Armin's full ire, Mark scowled deeply and whipped his head away.
"Sorry... Sister."
The last word was so small and quick it was barely audible.
But Monica clearly heard it.
It was probably the first time she'd heard "sister" from Mark.
Monica's face flushed bright red.
Yet her expression was brighter and happier than ever.
After what felt like an eternity in the scriptorium, I stepped out and immediately stretched my arms wide.
'My back was killing me!'
My butt hurt like hell too!
That cushionless wooden chair was brutally hard.
I'd tried to maintain good posture, but eventually twisted every which way.
"I'd rather hunt a hundred monsters."
"Tell me about it."
"We have to do this tomorrow? And the day after?"
"Exactly!"
"This is impossible. Baby Ella, I'll stand here, so give me a little push."
My words... what did that even mean?
Why push me down the stairs!
As I shot him a fierce glare, Dietrich—who'd thrown out the joke in earnest—flinched and shut his mouth.
Florian smirked at him, as if expecting a scolding, then naturally took my hand.
"Let go of our baby Ella nicely while I'm asking."
Dietrich's eyes changed in an instant.
Florian and Dietrich's fierce glares clashed in the air.