A Ball, As They Say
"No, I'm telling you..."
"It's hilarious, honestly."
Where was I? Who was I?
A place packed shoulder to shoulder with people. An outfit so uncomfortable it made my skin crawl. Just yesterday, I'd been rolling around the training grounds without a care in the world.
...Right.
I was standing in a ballroom thick with perfume so cloying it made my head spin.
The feeling was thoroughly unpleasant.
Unwanted gazes prickled against my skin, and on top of that came the sniping gossip traded back and forth. Still, skipping the event hadn't been an option. I wasn't the only one who'd come.
This was an imperial ball—the princess's birthday ball, no less.
No matter how sword-obsessed I was, this was a Rofan world. And having arrived in a Rofan, I was bound by Rofan rules. The law of the land—and its main stage—was the ball. This wasn't a gathering I could simply refuse because I felt like it.
And the one celebrating her birthday today was none other than Princess Adelaide Drakar, the same age as me.
...The original novel's villainess.
In other words, a principal antagonist of the Berce family in the source material—and, if you looked at it a certain way, something close to the final boss of the entire story. Formidable magical talent paired with a uniquely cruel temperament. The fact that her interest had fixed on Ragnar of all people made her a considerable threat to the heroine, Eleanor.
Of course, none of that had happened yet. There was no need to flaunt open hostility. I was already in a position that demanded caution. The Sword Saint I wanted to learn from, Isolde Valeria, was a woman who owed the Empire her gratitude. Fall out of imperial favor and I wouldn't just fail to learn the sword—I might well lose my head to her blade.
Adelaide watched the nobles heaping gifts upon her with a twisted little smile at the corner of her mouth, as if none of them held the slightest interest for her.
Come to think of it, what gift had our family prepared? Well. They'd handle it fine on their own.
Once the gift presentations ended, the ball proper would begin—the hour when people doused in enough perfume to give you a migraine took to the floor and danced. A stretch of time that had absolutely nothing to do with me. Dance or no dance, I knew the steps and had zero desire to use them. The original Bellatrix had been the same, so no fool would dare ask me for a turn.
I could have simply sat somewhere comfortable, but the perfume wafting from every direction kept crumpling my expression. There was such a thing as restraint. My senses, still raw and sharpened from recent training, picked up every note with merciless clarity.
What soured my mood just as much were the snatches of gossip drifting from every corner. In a place like this, nothing made for better conversation than tearing someone down behind their back. You had to be careful badmouthing anyone of higher rank, of course—one wrong word and you could spark a feud between houses. But empty-headed people existed everywhere.
"Don't you think Young Master Ragnar is a bit much?"
"Right? All that arrogance and nothing to show for it. Last time he turned down my dance—can you believe it? A lady approached him first, and he just left her standing there embarrassed."
"Young Lady Bellatrix is just as bad. That bored, half-lidded look she always wears, like everything is beneath her."
"Shh. Someone might hear."
"Let them. Even if she does, she'll just glance over with that same indifferent face and move on."
"True enough. It's like other people's words go in one ear and out the other..."
I can hear every word.
I knew their names. Fragments of Bellatrix's memories still held them, however faintly. The Berce family was a founding pillar of the Empire—a ducal house. The only young ladies with the nerve to gossip about a daughter of that house were those belonging to the opposing faction.
The empty-headed girls currently tearing into me were no exception. They belonged to the faction of House Lumiere, another ducal family locked in rivalry with Berce. And watching them with benevolent eyes was, of course, the woman who led that faction.
Camilla Lumiere.
She listened to their chatter with an endlessly pleased expression, as though watching devotees sing her praises.
In truth, I could have let it slide. People gossiped one way or another so long as you weren't being insulted to your face. This was an imperial ball, besides—cause a scene and I risked falling out of the Emperor's favor. All the more so when the guest of honor was the daughter he cherished above all others.
But I didn't particularly feel like enduring it.
I knew perfectly well that allowing this sort of thing at a gathering like this only made it worse. And Berce was a house that still held the Emperor's trust. In the original story, the Emperor's mind would later grow clouded and Adelaide would turn against Berce, setting the two houses at odds—but that was a future concern. Right now, I knew full well that the Emperor would laugh off almost anything I did. Especially if it involved putting the thorn-in-his-side Lumiere family in their place.
In a Rofan, a ball was supposed to be a dopamine-soaked free-for-all of incidents and accidents, wasn't it? In that case, I fully intended to honor the laws of the genre.
I walked toward them at an unhurried pace, a smile settling on my lips. In moments like these, a smile was far more effective than a blank face. Add a spoonful of mockery—the kind that asked where the dogs were barking from—and it was perfect.
It was an expression the original Bellatrix had almost never worn, so the young ladies startled the moment they saw me. Not that Bellatrix had ever been a pure-hearted little lamb; the ease with which the look and the behavior came to me now was proof enough of that.
They cleared their throats and looked my way.
"Ahem. Ahem. Is something the matter, Young Lady Berce?"
"You seemed to be having such an interesting conversation."
The voice was soft on the surface, but I had sheathed a blade inside it.
At that, the faction's leader—who had been quietly enjoying her followers' chatter—stepped forward. Camilla Lumiere.
"Young Lady Berce, is something wrong?"
"I overheard something fascinating. That my brother is arrogant, for instance. Or that I let other people's words go in one ear and out the other."
In fairness, none of it was particularly vicious. Ordinary grumbling, the kind that slipped out without much thought. But this was a Rofan world—a world where status was absolute, where the power of nobility and house mattered above all else. A world where you always had to be careful speaking of anyone above your station.
Which meant that even petty gossip, when aimed at someone of higher rank, amounted to handing them a perfectly legitimate grievance. Even if House Lumiere stood behind them.
The original Bellatrix had hated getting tangled in this sort of trouble and let it pass. I was not her.
"Would you care to say it again, exactly as you did before? I'm finding it rather entertaining."
I sharpened my gaze, and the young lady's face went deathly pale.
Huh. This is more fun than I expected.
"That's quite enough. I'll apologize on Young Lady Liana's behalf."
Camilla Lumiere cut in, clearly eager to display the magnanimity of a leader who generously overlooked her subordinates' mistakes. She had simply chosen the wrong opponent.
I felt the crowd's attention swing toward us. Curious eyes, hungry for a show. I wanted to give these people a hit of dopamine they would never forget.
"I'd rather not."
I refused her flat, stepped up to the girl who'd put my name in her mouth—Liana, or whatever she was called—and—
Crack!
—delivered a full-swing slap across her face.
"Aaaah!"
Anyone picturing an ordinary noblewoman's slap would be sorely mistaken. I was someone who had completed her Blooming—someone who could thrash even a full-fledged knight like Ragnar in sparring. Granted, that was without mana on his part, but still. A slap thrown in earnest by a trained knight was more than enough to knock the senses clean out of a delicate young noble lady.
Shock rippled through the surrounding crowd. For people who'd expected nothing more than a diverting war of words, the spectacle was nothing short of staggering. And where was this happening? The Imperial Palace. Causing a scene this spectacular at a ball hosted by the imperial family itself.
Every eye swung toward the Emperor and the guest of honor, Adelaide. They must have expected the Emperor to erupt in fury and hand down a severe punishment.
Instead, the Emperor merely smiled, as though amused... and Adelaide, seated beside him, watched me with a light kindling bright in her eyes and a smile curving her lips.
Well. Looks like I've earned myself a considerable amount of goodwill.
"W-what do you think you're doing?"
"I simply corrected the manners of a foolish young lady who insulted House Berce. Now, allow me to ask you something in return, Young Lady Lumiere."
I turned a thin smile on the thoroughly flustered Camilla.
"If a young lady from a house far beneath your own were to insult you, Young Lady—what would you do?"
"That is..."
A problem she'd never even considered, no doubt. But I was the one who'd lived it.
Camilla opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, looking frustrated—unable to find a rebuttal. In a setting like this she needed to defend her subordinate somehow, and she simply couldn't. Which meant, more likely than not...
A clean cut-off ending.
"W-what is the meaning of this?!"
The man who burst in then looked to be Liana's father. Handsome enough in a polished way, his face flushed scarlet as he glared at me in a rage.
"Did you not hear what I just said, Count Merdin?"
In truth, Liana's house wasn't particularly humble either—a family of considerable influence, more accurately. But comparing a mere power-broker to an imperial founding house, the Emperor's right hand, was an insult in itself.
I looked at him and asked,
"If someone from a house far beneath your own insulted you, Count—what would you do?"
He trembled with fury, yet couldn't string a proper reply together. Rage or no rage, he knew perfectly well his daughter was in the wrong.
"I would deliver a fitting punishment for the insult, of course."
"How fortunate. I feel exactly the same. Which brings me to my point... I take it you have no wish to leave things as they are, Count?"
"What are you implying?"
"I no longer intend to let insults against myself or my house slide. I used to brush them off out of sheer annoyance, but... my thinking has changed. So, Count."
I pulled off my glove and flung it into his face.
Gasps of shock erupted around us. Meeting their stares with an elegant gesture, I spoke.
"A grand ball deserves entertainment befitting the occasion, wouldn't you agree? I challenge you to a duel, Count Merdin. I'll give you the chance to atone for your daughter's mistake yourself. Should you defeat me, her offense will be considered never to have happened—and I will bow my head and apologize."