Patran Family Party (1)
No matter how desperately I prayed for a builder, reality refused to budge.
The Duke Patran's request was, in the end, nothing more than a personal favor. It wasn't a quest, so what chance did I have of a skip button?
Having clawed my way out of my panic, I signaled the Duke that I wanted to decline. No matter how many times I turned it over in my head, nothing good was going to come of this. But the Duke did not accept my refusal.
"You defeated the First Prince, my lady. If someone of your standing showed not even a passing impression, what would the others think?"
He warned me, voice stern, that one careless word could be taken as a brazen insult to the First Prince himself.
This was the same man who'd laughed off the nickname Careless Duke, and now he was being this unmovable—because I was a friend of Joy's, and he was worried about her.
Once I understood that, I reluctantly nodded, and Duke Patran broke into a smile straight out of a thriller film.
...That's a smile that means "good thinking," right? Right?
My head was going to hurt, but with a final word of thanks, the Duke swept away, and I frantically called out to Grandpa.
Because with my humble little brain, I could see no way out of this situation.
<...Give me a moment to think. My head aches.>
But even Grandpa didn't have a magical solution to this mess.
As long as my actions were constrained by the skill, no matter how sharp Grandpa's political instincts were, there were limits.
<First, the fundamental principle: do not speak at length. There's no telling which direction this might veer.>
'Right, exactly.'
<And after that, what we must consider is...>
To summarize Grandpa's rambling: minimize the damage.
As long as the Mesugaki skill existed, there was no preventing the explosion—so let's at least make the blast radius smaller.
Hearing that, I couldn't help but sigh.
If I'd known this was coming, I should've just lost to the First Prince and put on the dress...
No. That's not it either.
But spewing loser and scrub in front of all these powerful nobles is its own kind of disaster, isn't it?
As I chewed that over, I inevitably arrived at a cruel truth.
Whichever path I chose, what waited at the end was a road straight to hell.
I thought I'd crushed the schemes of that loser Chief God, but I hadn't. The moment he issued that quest, I was fated to fall into the abyss regardless.
What kind of god traps his own apostle like this?! You pathetic, garbage, good-for-nothing son of a—!
There was no end to the people who wished to attend the party hosted by House Patran.
The prestige of being one of the few ducal houses in the kingdom.
The renown built from the countless feats House Patran had accumulated over generations.
The honor born from their decades of devoted service to the realm.
House Patran held all three at once.
Was it any surprise that so many people yearned to be connected to the people here, by whatever thread they could find?
And so a Patran party had always drawn far more people wishing to attend than the guest list could ever hold.
Given all that, the names of those actually in attendance were anything but light.
Two princes of the Soladin Kingdom.
Heirs of the ducal bloodlines sent by every ducal house except Burrow.
House Kent, famed for the sword. House Rumley, whose vast fortune was built on fertile lands. House Vulcan of the Blue Magic Tower, and all the other great noble families who formed the backbone of the kingdom.
The Saintess of the Church of the Main God. The commander of the Claw Mercenary Group, who led the vanguard of every dungeon raid on the continent. The Apostle who served the God of Art. The next successor of the Yongteureum Trading Company, whose caravans bound the nations of the continent together.
Their stations varied, but not a single one of them carried a light name.
That was true—but even among the remarkable, degrees of remarkable existed.
Every jewel in the world casts a beautiful light, yet each jewel's worth is its own.
So it was with the guests at this party.
Some fidgeted and preened, desperate for anyone to strike up conversation with them; others hovered at the edges, belonging nowhere, watching everyone else's face.
And at this very moment.
The family waiting beyond the party hall's door for it to open was, without question, the former.
The attendant guarding the door received something through a magic tool, then drew a deep, sharp breath.
"Lord Benedict Aln of the Count Aln family and Lady Lucy Aln have arrived!"
At the voice that rang through the entire hall, every gaze snapped to the entrance. The great doors swung open, and a noblewoman and a girl stepped inside.
To describe the pair in a single phrase: a monster, and the fairy ensnared by him.
A hulking frame that could dwarf grown men into children, muscles so rugged they looked ready to burst free of his straining suit.
A fearsome face.
The imposing aura born of a man's raw strength.
The awe born of the legendary anecdotes he had authored himself.
Benedict Aln.
Once called the Fang of the Kingdom, a name still invoked whenever the continent's strongest were debated, though he had long since withdrawn to his own territory.
The looks directed at him were admiration, gratitude, awe, and respect.
A name that had guarded the kingdom through countless hardships deserved nothing less.
And at his side stood a girl so small she might as well hang from Benedict's belt.
Her attire was perfectly plain and modest.
A dress in white with touches of gold woven through as accents, and nothing more.
Had some nameless noble daughter worn it, whispers of country bumpkin would have followed her out the door.
Yet not a soul present could say such a thing about the girl.
Because she was far, far too beautiful for the word bumpkin.
Snow-white skin. A serene smile. Confident crimson eyes, a blend of innocence and mischief. Twin tails that swayed as if rippling on the air itself.
The very image of an angel sculpted with the Creator's utmost devotion.
Her beauty alone had rewritten the verdict on her dress.
The plainness became purity. It became confidence. It became crispness. It became elegant restraint.
Anyone who laid eyes on her would gasp and fall captive on the spot—yet the gazes fixed on the girl were anything but lovely.
Because those who had long moved through high society knew exactly what lurked beneath that angel's face.
Lucy Aln.
The child whose reputation had been forged from countless acts of tyranny.
The one who would have long since been thrown to the demons had her name not been Benedict Aln.
The little wretch believed to have been forsaken by God, because every last drop of light had gone to Benedict.
Rumors had circulated lately that Lucy Aln had changed since entering the Academy—but almost no one believed them.
Even if her hidden talent had blossomed, her nature would remain what it had always been. The venom she had bared amid all that hatred would never simply change.
That was the verdict of everyone who had faced Lucy Aln and been wounded by her spite.
Given all this, the looks directed at her were far from warm.
"Why is that woman here..."
Some wore their hatred openly.
"Leeching off the Young Lady Patran's kindness, no less..."
"It's laughable, how she defied His Highness the First Prince with no idea of her place."
Some wore their jealousy just as plainly.
"She must have made a contract with an evil god or something."
"Right? That piece of trash growing stronger out of nowhere—ridiculous."
And some hurled outright slander without a shred of shame.
For a girl named Lucy Aln, this room was a place of punishment.
A punishment of wandering through a field of needles made of everyone else's malice.
Any ordinary person would have staggered under the pain. Lucy Aln was different.
Without a single waver, she stood before the Duke and Duchess.
Watching her, Duke Patran's brows drew into a fine line.
"Thank you for inviting us, Duke and Duchess Patran."
"Thank you for inviting us, Careless Duke. Frail Duchess."
The entrance of House Aln's pair had filled the hall with a buzz of murmurs—but every last sound died the instant Lucy Aln spoke her greeting.
A breach of etiquette.
A catastrophically serious one.
To the hosts of the party—no, not to some middling noble house, but to the Duke and Duchess of House Patran—to spew such nonsense right to their faces!
Everyone held their breath, watching nervously lest a careless word of their own draw the sparks, when the Duke and Duchess of Patran burst out laughing.
"BWAHAHAHA! My lady! Did you hear that?"
"I did. Who would have imagined she'd call us that even here, of all places."
"That's conviction for you. Truly Benedict's daughter."
Hearing that laughter from just beside him, Benedict spoke in a halting, stammering voice.
"I... I apologize. Both of you. Our daughter is—"
"What nonsense is that, Benedict? I rather like the nickname. Until now, the only thing I could hear in front of children was my own crying—Careless Duke! If only the others would be so friendly with me as well."
"Same for me. The only nicknames I've ever earned were things like demon or witch—Frail Duchess, of all things."
Both of them patted Benedict's shoulder with warm smiles, but Benedict—and not a single other soul in the hall—took those words at face value.
They merely assumed that because Lucy was a friend of their daughter's, and the child of the great hero Benedict, her rudeness had been gracefully forgiven.
And how could they not? The ones who had spoken those words were the very center of every last terrifying rumor about House Patran.
Should anyone mistake that courtesy-soaked chatter for truth and commit the same discourtesy, their life would end that very day.
"Oh dear. It seems I've held you far too long. This is the first party I've attended in ages—I mean to enjoy it. Do go on."
At the Duke Patran's terrifying smile, the people in the hall forced their voices back to life.
No one could believe that the Duke's command to enjoy the party was meant only for House Aln's pair.
Perhaps because it had been so long since he'd left his estate, Benedict was utterly swarmed with people wanting to greet him.
So many wished to exchange a word with him that a circle was practically forming around him.
Watching that spectacle, I quietly slipped away from Benedict's side and made for a corner of the hall. Unlike Benedict, the looks aimed at me were anything but kind.
<Their hostility is remarkably direct.>
'Tell me about it.'
Back at the Academy, most people didn't dislike me so much as fear me.
Here, it was different. The people in this room didn't bother hiding their hostility toward me at all.
I'd felt suffocated just standing up there a moment ago—how on earth did Lucy endure all of that?
I was beginning to feel genuine respect. Honestly.
<Just how much karma did you rack up in the past, child? And even with the Duke showing you favor, it's still this bad.>
Grandpa sounded utterly dumbfounded, but I didn't answer him.
Perhaps he hadn't expected an answer anyway, because he quickly changed the subject.
<Still, it's a mercy that not everyone here seethes with hostility.>
Just as Grandpa said, not everyone was watching me with narrowed eyes.
The people unaccustomed to high society—those who seemed to stand at a distance from noble rank—were looking at me with nothing but curiosity.
Was that part of the reward that loser Chief God handed down?
I still couldn't really feel it, honestly.
Arriving at a discreet corner, I quietly scanned the party hall, searching for familiar faces.
Joy and Phoebe stood at the very center of the party. Surrounded by a crush of people on all sides, the two of them looked like they'd never escape.
Frey was holed up in a corner, wholly absorbed in stuffing her face. And Arthur—had he not arrived yet?
Oh. There's Avery.
When our eyes met, I gave her a slight frown.
Hey. The thing at the auction house. Say a word and you know what happens, right?
Avery nodded her head frantically, as if her life depended on it.
Whatever her character flaws, her instincts were sharp as a blade.
I was resting my chin on my hand, musing over all this, when I spotted Jeff walking toward me from across the room.
The young lord of House Patran—the very center of this party—coming all the way to this forgotten corner. There could only be one reason.
"Lady Aln. Are you ready to deliver your impressions?"
No. No, I am not.
I got ready, sure, but that doesn't mean I want to actually do it.
Can't I pass? Please?
You just saw it, didn't you? The moment I stand on that stage, a disaster is one hundred percent guaranteed.
It would be a massacre. At a party. Do you really want that on your conscience?
That was what I grumbled inside—but the words that left my mouth said the exact opposite.
'Yes. All ready.'
"Of course. Young Lord Wicked Schemer."
I was not brave enough to desert my post in a situation like this.
Well then. Time to go drag my reputation through the mud.
...
I really, really don't want to go...