The Patran Family Party (3)
Benedict had never liked it when Lucy was caught up in slander.
This was Benedict, after all — a man whose daughter-foolery was acknowledged by everyone who knew him. How could he possibly take pleasure in hearing his daughter maligned?
The real reason he had hoped Lucy wouldn't attend this party in the first place was this very problem.
Lucy had waved it off, sneering that only a timid fool of a father would fret over such things, but Benedict could not shake the unease.
Today had been no different. From the moment he stepped through the doors, he had endured sheer agony, choking back his fury at the endless torrent of whispers that rained down on him.
And yet he had swallowed every insult — all for his daughter's sake.
He knew that if he stepped in over something born of Lucy's own karmic debts, it would only deepen the resentment toward her.
She, the one at the center of it all, was smiling as she bore every accusation on her shoulders. He could not bring himself to shatter that resolve by intervening.
But this was different. This had nothing to do with Lucy.
Tabol had pointed his finger at Lucy, yes — but the person he truly wanted to humiliate was Benedict Aln himself.
A grudge from the far-distant past, buried back when Benedict was still a reckless youth, now aimed at his daughter.
Where in the world was the reason to tolerate that? Watching Tabol's face as the man looked at him, Benedict slowly clenched his fist.
His plan was to shatter a few of those teeth so the bastard couldn't speak properly for a good long while.
But the plan never came to pass.
The instant he tried to move, a voice rang out inside his head.
Telepathy.
Something every mage of decent skill could ordinarily wield — a spell that conveyed meaning through mana rather than voice.
Tracing the thread of mana directed at him, Benedict turned his head and found Duke Patran standing upon the dais.
'Why, my lord?'
With someone like that man, there would be no need to move one's lips.
Benedict's assumption was correct. The reply came the very moment he formed the question in his mind.
"It would be troublesome if you intervened. The accusations of this moment might be smothered, but the suspicions against your daughter would remain exactly as they are."
'Unfounded suspicions. If I force the truth out of his mouth—'
As he felt his fiery temperament of old stirring back to life, Benedict suddenly found it strange that Duke Patran had been watching this whole scene unfold in silence.
Lucy was the champion of this festival. She was the very person the Duke had personally invited in order to congratulate her.
And now she was being buried under a mountain of slander while the Duke took no action whatsoever.
A single word from that man could end all of this commotion.
'Did you engineer this situation deliberately?'
Come to think of it, the very fact that Tabol was present at all was odd.
It had long been certain that Benedict would attend the party, ever since Lady Patran had invited Lucy.
And yet, upon seeing Benedict, the Duke had also invited Tabol — a man guaranteed to cause trouble? This wasn't some First Prince faction gathering. Tabol wasn't even particularly close to Duke Patran.
"I had to confirm for myself just who it is my daughter trusts and follows so completely."
'Duke Patran.'
The rage of the beast that had once thundered across the continent shifted direction.
From the Duke's standpoint, that was an immensely heavy burden to bear, and his hasty justifications came pouring into Benedict's mind.
"I never intended for matters to grow this far out of hand. I simply never imagined that man would become so emotional."
'And you expect me to trust you for it?'
"Calm yourself. If things grow uglier than this, I will intervene. Naturally, you and your daughter will be duly compensated as well — the justification is there for it."
'I have no need of it.'
Were he to cooperate with the Duke at this very moment, there was a great deal to be gained.
Benedict was not unaware of that fact.
But nothing — absolutely nothing — would ever be enough to repay what Lucy was suffering right now.
Benedict had no intention whatsoever of standing down.
"More to the point, look. Isn't your daughter smiling right now?"
Smiling? Lucy?
Benedict whipped his head around, and there he saw his daughter standing in the very eye of the slanderous storm.
Even beneath the weight of accusations heavier than anything else in the world, Lucy stood with her shoulders squared, and she was smiling — just as the Duke had said.
Not a smile feigned with forced composure. A smile worn because she was, in truth, enjoying this situation.
"She's quite something, isn't she, Benedict. Even more than you."
The very moment Benedict froze at that sight, someone else moved before he could.
Light of divinity bloomed across the ceiling of the banquet hall, which had been saturated with accusations hurled at Lucy.
A light not gaudy in the least, yet so warm that one could not bear to look away once it caught the eye.
As those spewing their condemnations fell captive to the divinity falling about them like snow, one by one their mouths closed, and the hall was steeped in silence.
"...I'd heard they were close, but I didn't think she'd go so far as to act on it."
Not long after the overheated atmosphere had settled, a voice rang out from the center of the hall.
She had not amplified her voice with magic. Nor had she used any other device.
Her voice was purely, entirely her own — and yet it burrowed into the ears of every single person lingering in the hall.
"Everyone."
A voice soft and gentle, yet crystal clear — a voice honed by countless appearances before the public.
"Please, calm yourselves. As of yet, not a single thing has been proven to be true."
No one. Not a single soul standing in that banquet hall could find a word of rebuttal to offer that voice.
Who among them could possibly argue with the words of the Church of the Main God's own Saintess, spoken with an air of sorrow?
Within the Academy, Phoebe was merely one student among many. But outside its walls, the story was entirely different.
After touring region after region performing ceaseless acts of charity, she had become the living face of the Church — and her words carried authority in and of themselves.
"Lady Aln?"
"What is it, loser Saintess?"
Because of that, the words loser Saintess spilling from Lucy's lips drew gasps of shock from the assembled crowd — but Phoebe herself merely let out a light laugh.
"Please, step forward."
Once she had confirmed Lucy cutting her way through the crowd, Phoebe turned her head.
A smile still lingered on her face, yet strangely enough, that smile looked cold.
"And you, Knight-Commander of the Kingdom?"
At the Saintess's summons, Tabol displayed courtesy for the first time.
"Yes, O Saintess of the Church of the Main God."
"Would you care to explain these suspicions precisely?"
"The Patran Festival was—"
"Please confine yourself to the suspicions."
Cleared his throat at that gentle but unyielding voice, Tabol offered an apology and resumed his account.
"First, there is the possibility that artifacts were used."
The stalls of the Patran Festival were designed to eliminate as many entrants as possible.
Even active legends of their respective fields would find success far from guaranteed if they challenged anything outside their own specialty.
But Lucy had been different.
She had claimed victory time and again — even in the very domains where she ought to have been most clumsy.
"Luck-based contests? Perhaps. Events demanding exceptional physical prowess? Everyone is quietly buffing themselves anyway, so let's grant that she overcame them that way. But an Academy first-year winning even in events that demand genuine technical mastery? Is that not strange?"
Since everything took place at festival stalls, victory through sheer physical ability was not impossible in principle.
But the gap between impossible and possible was an enormous one.
Even veterans in active service, men who had encountered countless techniques over their careers, failed by the dozens — and an Academy first-year would dare attempt such feats?
"On what evidence?"
As Tabol raised his voice to press his claims, a voice called out from the back of the hall.
Tabol narrowed his eyes, wondering who would dare interject — but the moment he confirmed the man's face, he had no choice but to force out an awkward smile.
Arthur Soladin.
Distant as he might be from any claim to the throne, he was still a member of the royal family.
One of the precious few people in this hall to whom Tabol owed courtesy.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your evidence that she used an artifact. Did you witness her using one? Or did you inspect the artifact she supposedly carried?"
"..."
"Are you simply raising your voice because she did something a first-year shouldn't be able to do?"
Arthur regarded Tabol with undisguised contempt, cast a brief glance toward Duke Patran, and rose from his seat.
"I may not compare to my elder brother, but I speak as one who has been called something of a genius in his own right. The Lucy Aln I have seen at the Academy is a monster. A monster who showed me the wall of talent itself."
"And yet—"
"Moreover, even Frey Kent — who is already hailed as the pride of the Kingdom to come — has never once claimed victory over Lucy Aln."
At Arthur's words, gazes darted about the hall.
People were searching for Frey Kent, who was indeed present among them.
Amid the taut, escalating situation, Frey had been leisurely enjoying her meal. Noticing the eyes converging on her, she swallowed the mouthful she'd been chewing and gave a nod.
"That's right. Lucy's strong."
At her matter-of-fact tone, murmurs of astonishment rippled through the hall.
Who was Frey Kent?
The monster who had seized championship after championship across countless continental tournaments with overwhelming, unassailable skill.
Frey Kent — hailed as a prodigy certain to claim the title of Sword Saint if she continued to grow — had never managed even a single victory over her!
What had until now been mere rumor hardened into fact with Frey's endorsement, and the divine talent known as Lucy Aln was proven before an official assembly.
And with that, the crowd's eyes began to shift — from could that really be possible? to well... perhaps it could.
Perhaps the blood of House Aln had simply concealed its brilliance for so long that it had finally, at last, bloomed.
"And does she lack anything beyond raw physical ability? Not in the slightest. If she did, Lucy Aln could hardly have claimed first place at the Academy time and time again."
"...Your Highness, Prince Arthur. I confess I do not follow where you intend to go with this."
"Then let me be blunt. I find it displeasing that you would presume to pass judgment on the talent of a genius who will be remembered by history. Because that is exactly how you end up looking like an incompetent — forever crushed beneath Lucy Aln's heel."
Tabol's mouth worked soundlessly at Arthur's words.
It was partly because Arthur had come at him so hard — but also because Tabol had caught the words hidden beneath the surface.
If Lucy Aln's talent was a fraud, then what did that make everyone who had lost to that fraudulent talent — the First Prince, specifically? What would he become?
Did he truly think he could afford to disparage them without a shred of proof?
"But that alone leaves certain matters unverified. One might concede that her talent is exceptional in all other regards — but magic. The domain of magic, never."
"I believe I can speak to that point."
Once again, a voice emerged from somewhere else in the hall.
Joy Partran.
Beftting the lady of House Patran, a young woman of extraordinary magical talent.
She seemed to have rushed over from somewhere in a hurry, still catching her breath.
"Lady Aln, it turns out, possesses profound insight into magic as well."
"...Pardon?"
Joy gathered herself and recounted an anecdote from their time at the Academy.
Lady Aln had once offered her advice on a matter of magic, and ever since, her own skill had improved by leaps and bounds.
"That advice was not something that could have been given without genuine depth of understanding."
"Is that true?"
"Are you truly suggesting you don't believe me?"
All that showed above the fan she had raised to cover her face were her eyes — cold, sharp, and utterly frigid.
Who in Partran territory would dream of disputing the word of a Partran?
Tabol's mouth closed once more, then opened again after a measured pause.
"Very well. Perhaps Lady Aln's talent does indeed transcend the mundane common sense of one such as myself. But the suspicions remain. The finale of the festival — the dungeon conquest. The matter of Lady Aln's duel with His Highness the First Prince."
Tabol pressed on: no matter how one looked at it, the answer Lucy had given was one that could never have been produced unless she had already known the dungeon in advance.
As he raised the accusation, those who had witnessed the duel between the First Prince and Lucy nodded along.
Emboldened by their assent, Tabol's voice rose once more.
"Lady Aln. I ask you directly. Before you visited the stalls — did you have prior knowledge of that dungeon?"
"Of course I did, you bottom-feeding scrub of a knight."
"...Wha?"
"Unlike you — all swollen pride and no talent — I happen to be a genius."
Laughter laced with scorn began to spread through the silence that had settled over the banquet hall.