The Vileness That Defiles Chastity (1)

Rnier Pterin, twenty-two years old. Born and raised in one of the continent's finest houses, she'd lived well and arrived at this point in life without much strife. The greatest hardships she'd known were brawls with her brothers or the occasional smack across the back from her father, the head of the realm's largest merchant guild. So it was no exaggeration to say this was the first time she'd ever been humiliated by another.

For the first time in her life, Rnier realized she was terribly vulnerable to criticism from others. And at the same time, she learned something else: how utterly maddening unresolvable anger could be.

Of all people, it had to be Astirnus. The Pterin family's eternal liege and steadfast ally—not just symbolically, but in reality. By a twist of fate, the family's ambition to establish a new church involved dismantling the schemes of the existing ones that threatened them. When he said dig, they dug; when he said rise, they rose. Was an superior's command always this unreasonable?

Don't forget this feeling. Starting tomorrow, be nicer to the servants. With that thought, Rnier accepted his proposal to become Sara's etiquette tutor.

Afterward, Colvin took the matter very seriously and impressed upon her its gravity.

"Do you understand, Rnier? The one you'll be teaching is our master's master. Our great liege."

"That ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠kid? I mean, yes! Yes! Put your hand down! I get it, so lower it!"

"That's my girl. I'm glad you understand your old man's heart."

Colvin's plump hand might look as harmless as a kitten's paw at a glance, but it harbored decades of back-smacking mastery. Rnier, who knew its power better than anyone, couldn't possibly defy that terror.

Through such ordeals, Rnier ended up tasked with imparting to Sara the arts of "the mask," as Lenoir had called it.

Thrust from a comfortable life into the role of teacher as if kidnapped, how could she complain endlessly? A positive mindset was key.

Following the wisdom of the ancients, Rnier assessed what she could gain even in these circumstances.

Right, it's Astirnus. This is an opportunity.

Rnier was deeply ambitious. Her brash personality often painted her as the family's wild child, but even her brothers and guildmaster Colvin acknowledged her competence. She aimed for guildmaster, straight to the top. The swiftest path? Unquestionably, the endorsement of Astirnus, the guild's eternal patron.

Hadn't she come all this way to meet him? Sure, things had soured a bit midway, making their rapport awkward, but she could rebuild her image through this tutoring role.

If I play it right, I might even surpass my brothers.

So there was no reason to wallow. Rnier steeled her resolve and headed to the mansion assigned to Astirnus, noting one more positive along the way.

And hey, I'm teaching her? She's cute and lively—gotta be fun to instruct.

To repeat: Rnier adored beauty. Hers was an artistic love, unbound by gender, age, or status. To her, especially biased as she was, a beautiful being was a timeless treasure that brought joy just to behold.

From that perspective, Sara was peerless among the girls Rnier had ever met. Her skin was innocently pristine, her features delicately refined, her eyes reminiscent of a fairy's—clear and bright—and her dazzling golden curls unmatched. Even the haughty, picky noble ladies would look like spiteful brats beside her.

Spending every day with that girl? This is a reward!

Dwelling on the upsides ignited her enthusiasm. Mindset really is everything, huh?

"Miss, we've arrived."

"Good. Open the door."

In front of the mansion, Rnier checked her makeup one last time with a hand mirror, then smoothed her attire using the full-length mirror on the carriage. Her black dress accented with navy highlights and gold embroidery projected refined elegance. Subtle yet assertive accessories lent her poise. Her sky-blue curls, tied up as always, exposed her graceful nape seductively. Her sharp features were innate, unavoidable—but did a teacher need to look too approachable?

Hm, perfect. Teacher vibes.

Quite self-loving, Rnier finished her inspection satisfied and entered the mansion.

It wasn't enormous, but distinctive. She'd heard there were specific custom orders—fitting for Lenoir Astirnus, indeed.

So refined.

The space was a perfect replica of the antiquated aesthetic she'd glimpsed in him. His tastes were remarkably consistent. Her merchant mind whirred to a conclusion: start with the budget estimate.

I get the educational direction.

In etiquette commissions, perfection meant satisfying the client. Posture-focused families nitpicked hand angles in greetings; rhetoric-obsessed ones judged elegant shade-throwing. Lenoir's desired outcome shone through his stubborn tastes.

A bit outdated... but classic. Boost her humanities knowledge. Metaphors will be key; posture less so. Focus on expression control.

She'd heard Sara would be the church's symbol and master. They wanted her seen as dignified and grand, so teach humanistic expression and a few gestures to evoke benevolence. Simple enough. For Rnier, steeped in knowledge since childhood, reshaping others' postures and habits was far harder than this.

He said teach her the mask. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Not rebuild her from the ground ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up.

Reaching the hall, she found her client on the sofa, immersed in a book. Black hair draped half over his eyes, golden irises rolling languidly beneath. His features were bold and sharp, nose strikingly straight. Though the composition might seem rugged at first, his aura lent overwhelming nobility. Undeniably handsome.

Yet distant from the beauty she revered. Facing him felt vertiginous, as if appraising him was blasphemy. She shrank involuntarily, the air thick with unease.

Without lifting his eyes from the book, he spoke.

"You arrived on time. Excellent."

"Greetings to the house of my benefactor."

She finished her bow and waited until he closed the book. It didn't take long. Lenoir set it aside, rose, and said,

"My lady is out briefly."

"Out...?"

"...Tending to the common folk. She left early this morning to study their culinary culture."

Snuck off for snacks, huh. Classic Sara.

Lenoir sighed faintly. Wild child and stodgy guardian—a timeless duo.

"She'll return soon; greet her then. I've informed her of your lessons, so she won't be late."

"She keeps her appointments well?"

"That's my sole comfort."

"A separate greeting means you're heading out as planned?"

"Matters to attend. Your father will be most pleased."

She grasped it instantly.

"My thanks for your grace."

"That praise belongs to my lady."

He'd vowed to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eradicate the Orin Church within the week. Rnier couldn't fathom how, but she wasn't fool enough to pry. She said only what was needed.

"Today, I'll assess her current level. Conversing thoroughly to plan the sequence comes first."

"I've entrusted that to you; I won't interfere. I leave it in your hands."

"You'll have your wish."

Lenoir nodded approvingly.

"A thick mask indeed. I dare say even the scales of an ancient dragon atop the world's end mountains are no thicker. Your credibility is beyond measure."

Why the jab? She bristled but held it in. He seemed genuinely awed, not mocking. Her voice trembled despite herself.

"...Thank you?"

She forced a smile. Lenoir ended the talk and departed.

"Rest easy, then. She'll be back in ten minutes at latest."

He left. Rnier kept bowing deeply until he was gone. Only then did she exhale her pent-up tension, shoulders slumping. She eyed the book he'd left by the sofa—his recent read. Seeing the title, she let out a hollow chuckle.

"What era is this from?"

Overly pedantic with a high barrier to entry, it was a centuries-old classic even nobles rarely read in original, now dissected academically. His stodgy tastes made perfect sense now. And pleasantly nostalgic.

"Haven't seen one in ages."

She lifted it, tracing the cover.

"The immortal classic."

Childhood memories surfaced. Wealthy kids first encountering it for lessons heard the tale from tutors, who heard it from theirs: Written by one of the gods' forsaken children.

Silly now. God's offspring? If real, they'd live near-immortally, bending the world to their will—yet none had appeared. No records of the author existed anywhere. He'd published this single book and vanished. Even his existence was dubious.

Be that as it may, its literary merit endured. Nostalgic, Rnier read the familiar opening.

For a dirge, it was savagely fierce.