Fissure (3)
“Your swordsmanship was perfect, Lady Ricotta. Save for one thing.”
The moment the words left my mouth, Ricotta’s pupils gave a faint, trembling flutter.
It wasn’t anger.
It looked far closer to unease.
“…One thing?”
A short, low voice.
Sharp, yet defensive.
“The speed of your strikes, the flow, the control of distance—all of it was excellent. But…”
I met her eyes straight on.
“The hand that held that sword was gripping it far too tightly, as if terrified of letting something slip away. As though…”
I cut myself off there.
Silence.
The air itself seemed to snap.
The entire corridor fell so still it might have frozen in place.
Her ash-gray eyes shook violently, as if an earthquake had struck them.
That gaze locked onto me.
A look that hungered for my lips to open again.
One of the traumas I had learned through countless bad endings.
I had only prodded it lightly, yet the reaction came instantly, just as expected.
But I closed my mouth right there.
Using the roll call echoing from the far end of the corridor as my excuse, I bowed with all the casual politeness I could muster.
“Ah… it seems my turn for the spar has come. If you’ll excuse me.”
Without a moment’s hesitation I turned my back and walked away. The gaze that stabbed into my spine was so sharp I could feel every fine hair on the nape of my neck stand on end.
“I’ll remember what happened today.”
Her voice drifted low from behind me.
Stronger than anyone,
the most arrogant sun.
Ricotta, young lady of the ducal house.
If there was a keyword for capturing her heart, it was this:
Push and pull of just the right intensity.
Never press too hard.
Never retreat too clumsily either.
Approach as if indifferent, then pierce her guard with precision,
and make her the first one to grow restless.
Only in the tiny crack that forms can you seize your chance.
A high-difficulty technique where a single misstep means instant disaster.
Yet among all the strategies for Ricotta, it had proven the most effective.
Damn it. This was never supposed to be my role—it was the protagonist Basil’s.
A sigh escaped me on its own. If I tried teaching that pure-hearted fool a recipe this dangerous, catastrophe would unfold as surely as fire burns.
In the end, for now I had no choice but to raise both of their affection levels myself and become the stepping stone between them.
When I stood before the sparring grounds, my name was called along with my opponent’s.
From the opposite side appeared a girl whose soft purple hair held a gentle glow. Her expression was so compassionate that the word “holy” rose unbidden.
The third capture heroine of Melting Recipe, and a Saintess candidate—Ravne.
Even if I focused on Ricotta’s route, running into the other heroines during the academy’s major events was inevitable. I needed to build at least a minimum of affection to avoid trouble later.
Besides, knowing the trials and tragedies she would face in the game, I had no desire to treat her harshly.
After running countless simulations in my head for raising her affection, I reached a single conclusion.
I have to lose here.
But I couldn’t simply lose. Giving the impression that I was going easy on her was even worse. Her capture method required an approach completely different from Ricotta’s.
The surest way to win the affection of a merciful, soft-hearted future Saintess.
Look as pitiful as possible, as wretched as possible, and get thoroughly crushed right before her eyes.
Thanks to that conclusion, every minute of my sword-sparring practice over the past few days had been poured into training Basil instead.
All right then. Time to roll around as miserably as possible in front of the Saintess.
The moment I stepped onto the sparring floor,
a noisy murmur rose from the spectator seats.
“That’s the kid… right?”
“The one who caused the scene at the entrance ceremony?”
“Tsk, and she looks so pretty too…”
Countless remarks poured toward me.
It felt as if every eye was mocking me.
Annoying noise.
I paid it no mind.
Pushing every scrap of static outside my awareness,
I left only one thing sharp and clear before me.
Across the sparring grounds,
my opponent, Ravne.
“Begin the spar!”
At the instructor’s call I adjusted my grip on the wooden sword. As if on cue, a single shaft of light poured from the ceiling and bathed Ravne completely.
Softly glowing purple hair. A compassionate smile that seemed ready to forgive every malice in the world. Within that sacred atmosphere she gave me a light bow of her head.
Ahhh… now that’s a real Saintess.
These days, characters labeled “Saintess” in fiction were usually men, or more lewd than a succubus… twisted settings of every kind.
Ravne was different.
Truly holy, sublime, and beautiful.
Even her combat style avoided lethal wounds; instead she used sacred power to neutralize her opponent and break their will to fight. A being who toppled others with love and mercy.
Before a sword that gentle, I had to act even more wretchedly.
“Hraaah!”
I kicked off the floor with a shout. Clumsy, awkward. I deliberately threw my footwork half a beat off, and made the arcs of my swings so large anyone could predict them.
Victory was not my goal.
I only needed to shake, just a little, the heart of that pitifully delicate girl.
“Hah!”
My sword flew toward her shoulder. Of course it never touched her.
Thwack!
A dull, light sound. Ravne gently deflected my blade with her own wooden sword. Almost no shock traveled up the wood. It was a tender refusal, as if saying, “Come any closer and you’ll only get hurt.”
“Ugh…!”
I staggered back two steps as if the impact had been real, then stole a glance at her face. Not a single expression had cracked.
Still not enough. A little more… wretchedly.
I charged again. This time more desperately, swinging my sword wildly as though I had lost all composure. Horizontal cuts, vertical cuts, thrusts—none of them threatening, only the thrashing of someone cornered.
Ravne simply extended her blade with calm precision and let every one of my attacks slide away.
Thwack!
“Hah… hah…”
After our swords had clashed maybe ten times, I deliberately gasped for breath and planted a hand on my knee. I performed the act of a drained body and painted my face with frustration and injustice.
Open disappointment erupted from the stands.
“What the heck, it’s completely one-sided.”
“She’s not even a match…”
Good. The atmosphere was set. Time to add the final drop.
At last Ravne’s eyes wavered slightly. Guilt and pity. In the end she lowered her sword a fraction and spoke.
“It would be best if you stopped now… Any more will only strain your body.”
Even the voice that worried for her opponent mid-spar was gentle. But I could not let the chance slip.
The instant her words ended I pretended to gather every last scrap of strength and kicked off the floor once more.
Ravne’s eyes widened a little. She clearly had not expected me to refuse to give up and attack again so quickly. Unlike before, she brought her wooden sword down on my head with real force behind it.
Thud—!
A dull impact spun my vision.
I rolled three or four times across the sparring floor before my back slammed into the cold wall and my body finally stopped.
“Winner, Ravne!”
Even at the instructor’s shout I staggered as if trying to rise. Then, pretending my legs had given out, I sank back to the floor. The hard worker who lost but never surrendered—that was the picture I had aimed for.
“A-are you all right?!”
With an urgent voice Ravne ran straight to me. Genuine remorse filled her face.
“Was I… was I too harsh?”
“Uuuugh…”
I managed a faintly miserable smile.
Got her.
Just as planned, she looked completely undone. Without hesitation she knelt in front of me and began examining my injuries.
“Please don’t move. I’ll heal you right away.”
From her hands flowed a warm, gentle light—the high-tier holy magic Healing Touch. An event that only appeared once affection reached a certain level. The moment her hands touched me, the pain in my head and the scrapes melted away like snow.
Warmth seeped beneath my skin wherever Ravne’s fingers rested. The little scrapes from rolling, even the heavy blow to my skull, vanished without a trace.
The problem was that closing the distance had placed an unavoidable landscape right in front of my eyes.
Very large,
and seemingly filled to overflowing with faith…
a pair of faith pockets.
Because I was lying down to receive treatment, those things swayed right before my face, and my brain felt like it was melting into mush.
“Uuu, doo-dya doo-dya…”
“Pardon? A-are you all right? Did you hit your head too hard earlier…?! W-wait just a moment! I’ll heal you right away!”
Ravne’s truly pure, worried voice snapped me back to my senses.
Uh… what did I just say?
In any case, while receiving her merciful care I savored the success of my plan.
Then, suddenly, a chilling sense of wrongness crawled up my spine.
A single gaze fixed on me.
Every nerve in my body screamed a warning about who owned that stare. I slowly turned my head. Near the spectator entrance, standing in the darkest shadow, was one person. Soft golden hair, ash-gray eyes.
Ricotta.
She had been watching everything from there.
My wretched beginning, the one-sided defeat, and now the sight of me leaning against someone else’s knees while receiving healing.
For an instant my mind went pure white. Cold sweat slid down my back.
Just moments ago I had deliberately provoked Ricotta under the banner of push-and-pull. I had stabbed deep into her core, made her care, then walked away.
And immediately afterward I had rolled around pitifully in front of everyone else to earn sympathy.
Worse, I was now receiving the high-tier healing magic she herself could never provide, while her hands were held so tenderly.
…From Ricotta’s perspective, how exactly had this situation looked?
This wasn’t push-and-pull.
I had simply pushed.
Myself.
Straight off the cliff.