Become a Rebel
To begin with the conclusion: Asty's prediction was only half right.
The Count of Montpellier did indeed intend to reclaim the free city's autonomy and challenge royal authority, but the conspiracy he was hatching was nowhere near as radical or destructive as she had imagined.
Swallowing a free city whole and then using that power to go head-to-head with the royal family? Who on earth would benefit from such a catastrophic act?
That kind of baseless, all-or-nothing gamble was the sort of thing preferred only by East Asian megalomaniacs who lived for the day.
Thomas, Count of Montpellier—who had inherited his precious lands and name from his father's father's father's father—was a man of common sense who, as a refined and dignified member of noble society, firmly rejected such reckless gambles.
All he wanted was to absorb the free city, grow his strength, and secure broader autonomy. And while he was at it, build a little camaraderie with the neighboring lords.
In other words, he was essentially contemplating secession with the entire Oxyca region in tow.
To a modern person lacking feudal sensibilities, this might seem worse than a dynastic change—but after all, the king was nothing more than a scarecrow sitting in the highest seat.
The position of King of France held no value whatsoever at present. With no Paris and no private estates, the royal family was freeloading off the Duke of Orléans—why bother replacing them?
A throne without the protection of the divine right of kings would only become a nuisance if claimed.
Thus the Count of Montpellier had no interest in the crown, and naturally no interest in dangerous gambles like a revolution or a coup.
Of course, Asty knew nothing of such trivial backstories. She was merely an eleven-year-old girl from a backwater village, and in her previous life just an ordinary unemployed young man from South Korea.
Naturally she couldn't possibly understand the subtle structure of this isekai-style feudalism, twisted even more bizarrely than real history, and so she fretted over countermeasures under the common-sense assumption that the Count of Montpellier was a megalomaniac aiming for the throne.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Count. I am truly delighted to encounter one so praised by his people for his benevolent rule."
"A pleasure, little lady. I am the one who rules this domain... Hmm?"
This peculiar misunderstanding led to a most fatal accident.
Believing herself entangled in a nonexistent plot of rebellion by the Count of Montpellier, Asty decided that since things had come to this, she would become a kingmaker—and slammed the accelerator to the floor.
"What did you just say?"
"To care so warmly for the lives of your people in this age of sorrow—you are truly a virtuous noble, Count. My father spoke highly of you as well."
And her rampage manifested as raw improvisation, utterly devoid of planning or caution.
Summoned to the Count's office as scheduled for an audience, Asty not only failed to observe the proper etiquette toward a noble but casually dropped all formality and spoke down to him—to a man far higher in status and much older than herself, no less.
"Uh, uh. Is that so? Haha, well, that's kind of you to say."
The Count of Montpellier, who had a granddaughter around Asty's age, short-circuited trying to process the surreal situation of a commoner girl speaking down to him.
According to the aristocratic thought circuits tempered over decades, an eleven-year-old girl addressing a fifty-year-old count informally was only possible if the girl were a princess. For a moment he had no choice but to fall into the delusion that his eldest son had discovered and brought home a hidden princess of the royal family.
No, that can't be. A man of my stature entertaining such absurd fantasies. If something like that existed, the Duke of Orléans would have already made a move.
But even that escape from reality did not last long. The Count of Montpellier was a capable man, after all.
He quickly regained his composure and concluded that he must severely reprimand this little inventor's rudeness. And he instantly devised a punishment of appropriate severity.
Asty was still young, and a useful talent who would serve the count's house in the future. Rather than risk damaging her brilliant gifts by treating her too harshly, it would be more stable to hold her older sister responsible, punish her moderately, and exile her—thereby firmly imprinting the hierarchy.
There was also the calculation that driving away the girl's only guardian would make it easier to control the raw gem left behind.
It was a delusion that would never come to pass.
Rebecca, bearer of the sacred relic, was a martial artist two ranks superior even to him in his youth. Had the Count of Montpellier sternly rebuked Asty's rudeness and ordered his soldiers to enforce the hierarchy, half of Vermont Castle would have been reduced to ashes and the family line extinguished on the spot.
The Montpellier count's house had, after all, been reducing military expenditures and focusing on intermediary trade, taking advantage of the peaceful situation in southern France. Once the Lantern Bearer who inherited the last flame of the Vesta Order decided to go on a rampage, there would be no way to stop her.
"...Ah, my apologies. I have yet to introduce myself."
Fortunately—or unfortunately—no one knew that fact, so Asty could do her utmost to act the part of a Saintess while tense to the core.
She silently received the lantern from Rebecca, who stood guard behind her, and gave it a light shake. As Asty's slender fingers gripped the lamp's ring and moved gently, orange flames began to flicker along the swaying outline of the lamp.
It was nothing more than a simple release of divine power with no particular effect, but hadn't the Order collapsed precisely because even that had become impossible for the clergy? In this world now, the only one who could use divine power was the owner of the lantern alone.
"Allow me to greet you once more, Count. I am Asty, the Saintess, the apostle sent to earth by the merciful Flame."
And the Count of Montpellier was a man born before Vesta withdrew her power, one who had received her grace.
"...Ahh. This humble servant greets the Goddess's representative."
Remembering the sight of the Goddess's priests kindling flames in their hands to heal the sick and burn sinners, he could not possibly deny Asty's claim. Not because he was a fool so easily dazzled by a mere handful of flame and so gullible of ear, but because his memory and eye for detail were sharp enough to recognize at a glance that this was the real thing.
Being a thoroughly wise and decisive man, the Count did not commit the folly of doubting the truth he had confirmed with his own eyes.
"So then, what does the Saintess desire of this foolish old man?"
But faith was strictly a domain that must be separated from official duties. Having grasped the principle of separation of church and state transcending the ages, the Count of Montpellier straightened his back that had been bent at a full ninety degrees.
It was truly a flexible handling of affairs that far surpassed the medieval average.
Frankly, claiming to be the Goddess's representative at this point sounded like so much empty talk. Whatever the reason, this was a goddess who had already abandoned the earth once. With even the formidable dignity of the Order melted away by the passage of time, there was no reason to bow and scrape even if the other party were the Goddess herself rather than a Saintess.
It wasn't as if Vesta was the only god in the world, and reviving a faith that had collapsed once would hardly be easy. If anything, he might be able to seize the upper hand.
No—right now, he could definitely claim superiority. Wasn't it ridiculous to even compare them in the first place?
A count aiming to become the leader of the Oxyca lords with abundant finances and excellent reputation as his weapons, versus an eleven-year-old eccentric girl claiming to be the Saintess of a fallen order. Anyone in the world would answer that the count was far stronger.
Having thoroughly calculated and recognized that he held the upper hand, the Count switched his attitude with uncanny speed—
"I shall get straight to the point. I believe the Count should become the new King of France."
—only for the madness of a panicking twenty-first-century man to slam him full force across the back of the head.
"Pardon?"
"I hope that the Count of Montpellier will overthrow the utterly incompetent Claude V and ascend as King of France."
The Count could not comprehend the situation. What kind of Saintess proposed rebellion so openly—no, setting aside whether she was a Saintess or not, where on earth was there a person who proposed rebellion so blatantly?
He wanted to pretend he hadn't heard. Water Frame or whatever, it didn't matter—he just wanted to act as if none of this had happened and leave this place.
"That is why I am here. It is an arrangement made by the Goddess, so you need only trust me and follow."
But it was already far too late.
The panicking madman from the twenty-first century began spinning lies without so much as wetting her lips. And they were lies that felt remarkably plausible and novel.
That was how the Count of Montpellier, who had merely desired the prosperity of his house, came to be elevated as the ringleader of a rebellion that would shame him no matter where he was presented.