My, How You've Grown – That Starlit Night
Since tomorrow was Monday, I sat on the coachman's seat, waiting at the ready to head back to the Imperial Academy while also escorting the duke's daughter.
But with countless worries dragging my mind down into the depths, I happened to glance up at the sky.
This view—if Gogh had laid eyes on it, The Starry Night would've turned into a whole series. And here, in the capital, no less.
The stars gleamed just like they did back in my rural hometown.
"...Ha, haha! The city's this bright, yet no light pollution."
As expected of a rofan where folks live and die by romance. With a sight like this, how could I not light up?
So I glanced around, fished out my precious crumpled tobacco, struck a match, and exhaled—fuu.
My brain buzzed with that electric tingle.
"Long time no see, Sion Lagrange."
The daughter our bro Sir Laval had mentioned.
I knew her well. Hell, even before that, I'd seen her face plenty during the Hero Party days.
How many times did he kidnap me home, sloshed out of his mind, declaring, "I'll show you my one and only daughter"?
Back then, she was just a clueless little squirt.
That kid used to trail after me everywhere. She'd come running with a beaming grin, "Uncle Joseph! Uncle Joseph!"
I can still picture it clear as day—that cheeky smile lighting up her otherwise cool features.
No one could've guessed from that innocent charm that if I hadn't properly lopped off the Demon King's head, she'd grow into the century's ultimate villainess and unleash a bloodbath.
"...So you ended up at the academy after all."
In my memories of Rose of the Imperial Family, her brand of crazy was one-of-a-kind.
Laval was fated to die in the original plot, so our Sion naturally had a shit life.
End of story. Countess, fallen noble lady. Got some power. Case closed.
With her temper like a lit fuse, she spends the whole tale vowing to avenge her dad, thorns everywhere.
Then boom—one botched black magic spell later, she turns the capital to ash with her own hands.
Inheriting her old man's skills didn't help; she carved through crowds like butter.
So yeah, we're fucked.
How the hell should I know how she's changed? Truth is, maybe I busted my ass partly 'cause I was scared of that Sion.
Imagine her showing up sword in hand: Uncle couldn't protect Father either, huh? Guess I gotta die. Yeah, gotta die.
Eek. Legs numb just thinking about it.
...But in this world, I saved her dad. So she probably won't go off the rails like that.
......Or more like, she might not even remember me.
I've been a hermit since retirement, and it's been years since we last crossed paths.
"Sigh... If you're gonna blacken anyway, just spare me. I wanna go peaceful. Real peaceful."
Lost in these rambling thoughts, mumbling out of habit.
Speak of the tiger, and she appears.
A sharp voice rang out from below.
And in that instant—
"Coachman."
"Huh?"
A frigid gust brushed my ear.
"...It's unpleasant. Put out the cigarette."
The ice princess before me declared.
Domain expansion. Cold.
"Aigoo, if it isn't the duke's young lady."
But even as I played it cool, inside it was nonstop: Fucked, fucked, fucked, fucked, fucked.
Me. Looks like I botched the first button.
If she's blackening in this world too, I gotta at least save my skin—not to mention build some favor from scratch.
But day one, smoking lands me in hot water.
Why's the world gotta be this way? Miss my mom.
"...Wha—huh?"
But as she raked my disheveled self with a haughty glare, her vibe was off.
Like she had no clue I was her academy escort and coachman.
Nah, more like she didn't even know I'd set foot in the duke's mansion.
Her otherworldly violet eyes flew wide.
And soon enough—
"Oh my?! Uncle?!"
"Good to see you."
"...Huh?! The coachman is Uncle?!"
Yep. That's me. Coachman and uncle.
And now a broke-ass commoner out on the streets, wallet emptied.
Don't ask why. Just happened.
"Why... are you here... Uncle's supposed to be out in the suburbs?!"
"...Urk."
"Why are you here—?!"
Why here... why?
Fuuuuck...
Sion. Sorry, but yeah—you're right, I should be in the suburbs.
Just a month back, peaceful farm life all around.
Then Orlan Count tanks hard, and boom—dragged to this crap academy.
Don't you get it? This shitty rofan world.
As a duke's kid, you're high-society royalty. Word travels.
'Hohoho, remember the Demon King slayer?'
'Oh, that commoner swordsman. Retired to the sticks.'
'Heard he got screwed in Orlan's mess.'
'Lost his rental and hit the pavement?'
'Renting? Ohoho!'
Something like that, probably.
Not paranoia—straight-up, to them I'm peasant trash, mocked to hell.
Nobles gonna noble.
Yet here you are asking why I'm parked here.
Pitiful teabag to your wipe-your-own-ass-failing uncle.
No matter how I've fucked my life, airing my dirt in front of you?
Wanna cry.
—those words bubbled up my throat, but remembering her father's stature and his aid to me, I just smiled.
Social pro basics. Sales... smile...
"Long story. Figured your father prepped you, but guess not."
"Really...? Saw him on the way out. He just said a solid escort's waiting—head to the academy together."
"Pardon?"
"Never dreamed it'd be you, Uncle!"
But hold up. She acts like my capital presence was news to her.
How come.
"You didn't know I was here?"
"Not a dream."
"Even said hi to the Lagrange retainers after ages."
"Ah, well... Was home all weekend, but barricaded in my room—no visitors. First time out tonight. School tomorrow..."
"Why? Ruins your skin."
"Reasons!"
Reasons? Ah, chuuni phase. At 20? Prime late bloom.
Makes sense, though. Her iron will's capital legend since kid days.
Yell "stay out," and that's that.
Even Sir Laval folds.
Probably brushed it off: "Carriage's ready. Hop in."
Hearing that, my saltiness evaporated.
She legit had no idea.
"...Ah, th-that..."
But unlike my fears, she remembered her uncle status.
Face gone ashen.
"Uncle..."
"Yes, miss?"
"You've looked a touch down since earlier. My bratty words poked your sore spot, right?"
Yeah—the bossy "douse the smoke," plus no regard for my rough patch, blurting the "why here" bit.
Awkward as hell.
"Aigoo, miss."
Spot on.
"...S-sorry. No intent there. I apologize formally. Forgive this slight to House Lagrange's hero."
Prideful and stubborn she may be, but owns her slips.
Lifted her pristine white dress in a curtsey.
Whoa.
That poise melted my bruised ego.
Original Sion wouldn't peek my mood for optional sorrys.
But above all...
...Uncle title aside.
Just raw, stunning.
Epoch's top beauty pouring grace my way.
Cold beauty incarnate—a century's winter distilled.
...Nice. Good view. Grudge nuked.
"No sweat, Duchess."
"Thanks, Uncle? ...Why the gawking?"
"...Heh. You know."
"Know what...?"
"Almost bummed out. But you're cute, so forgiven. Grown splendidly, you have..."
Dumb of me, sorry. Beauty wins.
Academy awaits—proposals galore, smooth sailing.
"...Ah."
That instant—snap!
Sion, who'd listened still, flicked her fan wide to shield her face.
"...Duchess here. No filter, huh?"
"Ah, r-right... Old memories slipped it out."
Unconscious slip gave me chills, but she shook her head slow—no hard feelings.
"Eh, fine. Uncle. Your words back at ya: no sweat."
"Sweet of you."
Fan still up, but candid:
"Missed you tons. ...Uncle-driven carriage? No catch-up time. I'll sneak another coachman—Father won't know."
"Eh? No need. Smoke stench."
"Don't mind."
"Smoking's root of all evil. Secondhand too."
"...Jeez, said it's fine! Ride with me, pleeease!"
"For real?"
"Lagrange's name on it!"
Whoa. Nectar.
Coach seat kills the butt long-haul. Miss saves the day.
Worried for nothing. No blackening vibes yet.
House Lagrange. Subjugators of the Demon King, humanity's archfoe.
Strongest lineage, duke-born in her father's era.
As its daughter, she knew it unbecoming.
Yet Sion Lagrange, reunited with her uncle after ages, bit her lip beneath the fan.
To conceal the faint smile tugging her lips.
And muffle the erratic pulse fluttering post-reunion.
...Why am I like this?
Joseph. No blood tie.
But thick as thieves with Father, naturally uncle.
In Sion's memories, Uncle shone eternal.
Who else? Co-savior of the world with Father—the hero.
Nine-year gap. Close enough.
Yet from childhood, eyes glued to his blood-soaked returns, she'd always vaguely held:
Joseph: warrior worth respect, true adult. Pinnacle hero bolstering proud Lagrange endlessly.
But.
This sudden face-off after years—he'd... changed.
What. Huh...?
Gulp. Eye crinkles deepened.
Jaw stubble thick to bobbing Adam's apple.
And thickest: cigarette reek laced with world-weary man's musk.
No trace of old razor edge.
What's left... a touch...
Others'd call it rot.
To Sion: matured allure.
She knew. Post-Orlan Count collapse, brutal homelessness.
Rumors rife—duchess Sion couldn't ignore.
So her sharp unintentional jab? Genuine regret.
Would apologize anew, no hesitation.
But also.
The unbreakable titan.
Crumbled by piddly housing scam, hunkered cute on the perch.
Just...
Crudely: hot.
Childhood colossus, distant peak.
Now heir duchess: fragile, reachable, wistful.
Prime flavor.
This what?
Thump. Thump.
Thus, Sion's dormant odd possessiveness stirred awake.
Supreme blade propping revered Father.
His laughable, wretched fall.
Now...
Maybe mine.