Reputation Quest (3)
After testing it out several times since then, I'd learned something: Halbae couldn't actually read every one of my inner thoughts.
My voice only reached him when I deliberately reached out to speak to him.
Thanks to that, I could hold conversations with Halbae without ever opening my mouth.
Truly a mercy. If it weren't, the rumors about Lady Lucy would've soon gained a new entry: and she talks to her mace, too.
So this is what they mean by a Blessing's influence?
“Aye. The moment the words leave my lips, out comes that wretched tone of theirs.”
What a bizarre Blessing.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
I did not mention the fact that the person who'd slotted in this mesugaki skill was me.
I could already picture the reaction if he learned I'd chosen such a skill of my own free will.
But I didn't know! I didn't know I'd get isekai'd!
Would I have picked something like the Mesugaki skill if I'd known I was going to be transmigrated? I'd have stuffed the build full of every broken skill in the game and dumped cheat-tier passives on top!
I'm a person who wants to coast through life, thank you very much.
“Though I have served beneath my god since ages past, His will remains a difficult thing to fathom.”
Well, it all worked out in the end.
At least now I had one person who understood my suffering.
The fact that this someone was a petty old man with a rotten personality didn't sit well with me, but a conversation partner free from the mesugaki skill's distortion was a conversation partner nonetheless.
But, you know.
Getting someone to talk to is one thing. Revenge is another.
I picked the mace back up, the one I'd set down just so we could chat.
Lassie? What are you about?
“Engaging in vengeance, Grandfather.”
Were our misunderstandings not already resolved?!
“Misunderstandings? I wouldn't know. All I know is that Grandfather tormented me.”
I beg thy pardon! I am a man of a bygone age, and acted without thinking! I am sorry! I shall bow my head in earnest!
“No need to apologize. I have no intention of stopping anyway.”
Halbae. You, dwelling inside this mace — do you suppose any of your five senses remain?
Touch. Smell. That sort of thing.
Because I am so very curious about that right now.
So I suppose it's time for a little experiment, in the name of curiosity.
What would come out of Halbae's mouth if I jammed the head of this mace into a chamber pot?
Lassie! The years we are to spend together shall be no small thing, and to begin with such a rift between us — how can this stand?!
“You should mind your own words, Grandfather. You were the one who drove this wedge between us in the first place, weren't you?”
I really don't understand why a holy knight once hailed as a hero, who once commanded the awe of an entire continent, has so much to flap his lips about.
Trembling in fear, are we?
Several days had passed since then, and back at the estate, I'd settled into a routine much like the one before I left for the dungeon.
After all, reaching Level 10 inside the dungeon had raised the cap on my stat growth, hadn't it?
My plan was to max out every stat I could at least until the Academy entrance exam, so I kept up my training without a single moment's rest.
Following Iron Wall's guidance, I deflected the blade the swordsman swung at me, held my breath, and tightened my grip on the mace.
Until now, the gap in skill had forced me into nothing but endless defense. But this time was different.
This time, the blade had exposed an opening.
Finally — a chance to land a hit!
Not yet. That gap is offered on purpose. Take one step back.
I'd been ready to press the attack right then and there, but at Halbae's counsel I retreated instead.
At once, the swordsman's brows twitched upward, and he swung his blade again.
Halbae had been right.
What I'd taken for an opening was no opening at all — nothing but a trap laid to lure me in.
He's usually a nagging old fogey, but in moments like these, you could really tell his bones were forged by a hero.
If only he would always show me this cool a side of himself.
Spending these past few days with Halbae had taught me something: this man's way of thinking had simply stopped at the moment of his death.
His heyday as a hero was roughly three hundred years ago, so I hardly need to explain just how hopelessly out of touch an old man frozen in that era could be.
This halbae — holy knight and noble both — found fault with absolutely everything in the world.
The moment I did anything, it was “a young lady must not behave so.”
My gait lacked grace from the very first step.
I must observe proper etiquette at meals, and on and on.
I humored him at first, but after two or three days of this, I simply couldn't take it anymore.
So when I asked him whether he'd like another dunk in the chamber pot, he became somewhat more tame than before.
Even so, this old man remained an insufferable creature.
He just couldn't stop adding a comment to my every action, and it grated on me endlessly.
Believe me, I was tempted to toss this mace — soul and all — straight into the river, but I couldn't afford to.
Because his advice was simply too valuable.
On the art of wielding a mace, Halbae's guidance might well have been the finest in all of history, and it had never once been wrong.
As though he'd flown ahead to peer into the future, he looked several moves down the road and told me exactly how I should move — and every time I followed his counsel, I came to see, quite naturally, that it had indeed been the best choice.
And his usefulness wasn't limited to combat, either.
He helped me build my mace proficiency as well.
His advice on how to swing the weapon more effectively operated on a plane far above anything my own Bludgeon Mastery could tell me.
As I followed his instructions, I could feel my mace proficiency climbing at a far steeper rate than before.
A weapon that helps in both combat and training!
How could anyone possibly give up a weapon that showers you with this kind of overwhelming efficiency?
Even if it meant stress-induced hair loss from the constant nagging, I had to endure it for the sake of the numbers.
A true rotten-water veteran knows when to grit her teeth and bear it!
“My lady!”
I was in the thick of my sparring session with the swordsman when the maid's voice rang out from far across the yard, and I stopped mid-motion.
“It's time, my lady!”
Already?
“Already?”
I was only just warming up, and now I had to stop?
I'd need at least two more hours of moving and sweating to feel properly wrung out.
Disappointing, but it couldn't be helped.
I had somewhere to be today.
The moment I lowered my shield, the swordsman slid his blade back into its sheath at his hip.
“Finishing early today, I see?”
I've got somewhere to be...
“We're going out. Get ready too.”
I'd need to wash off the sweat and change my clothes, after all.
I couldn't very well go outside looking like a wrung-out rag, could I?
Not that I would mind — but Benedict would have a full-blown episode about it.
Some things, you simply have to be considerate about.
“My lady. You are beautiful today as well.”
This half-pint knight is spouting nonsense again. How many times must I tell him to stop with the pretty comments?
The instant I furrowed my brow, a small voice drifted up from the mace I'd shrunk down and tucked into my pocket.
The knight speaks true. Were you to simply keep that mouth shut, you'd pass for a beauty straight out of a masterpiece.
“Grandfather. Shut it.”
Why am I the only one you speak to that way?!
What man alive is supposed to be happy about being called pretty?
Halbae. I may be trussed up in these feminine clothes out of sheer necessity, but I certainly didn't put them on because I wanted to.
And when someone coos sweet nothings at me from the sidelines, I get angry. Is that so hard to understand?
Then ought you not be angry at yon knight as well?!
“I gave up on him.”
He kept spouting that drivel even after I chewed him out several times, so eventually I just gave up on fixing him.
Apparently, his personal image of a knight includes spouting greasy, gross lines like that.
Having zero confidence in my ability to reason with a lunatic who wouldn't listen to a word I said, I decided to simply ignore everything the swordsman uttered.
He only carried on like this at the start anyway; after that, he'd be too busy guarding me to open his mouth.
Hah. Gave up on him, you say. Could it be that you rather enjoy being called beautiful after—
“Grandfather. Shall I dunk you in the chamber pot again?”
I shall hold my tongue.
This old man — some things he simply has no right to say.
It's not like I lost my mind and started wearing skirts of my own free will.
This was, entirely and absolutely, Benedict's decree.
Benedict let me do whatever I wanted in practically every matter of life, but when it came to my wardrobe, there was no room for negotiation.
“Within the estate you may wear whatever you please. But beyond these walls, I would ask you to dress as befits a young noble daughter.”
Not wanting to grant this request, I threw tantrums.
I told Benedict I hated it.
I deployed aegyo.
I tried every dirty trick I could conjure — but Benedict remained stubbornly, maddeningly unmoved.
What could I do?
In the end, I was a girl living under Benedict's care.
If Benedict wouldn't permit it, then I had no choice but to follow his word.
And so, whenever I left the estate, I was forced into the outfit of a typical fantasy noble daughter.
I'd be wearing the Academy uniform soon enough anyway, so I comforted myself with the thought that this was simply early adaptation.
That said, the clothes I wore were not the ones the original Lucy had owned.
Every single garment in her wardrobe was so flamboyant it bordered on deranged.
As much as I was obligated to dress like a noble daughter, I drew a hard line at frills piled upon frills, so I asked Benedict to have new clothes made for me.
New clothes they may have been, but they were still billowing skirts at the end of the day, so the humiliation of putting them on remained unchanged.
I suspected it would take a long, long time before I got used to this thing called a skirt.
From the outside, the outfit suited me well enough — but from the wearer's perspective, shall we say the sense of security was rather different.
Without that snug, clinging feeling of trousers, the emptiness was unbearable.
Humans are creatures of adaptation, and I knew the day would come when it all felt natural...
But honestly? I'm terrified of that day arriving.
By the by, lassie. Where is it we are bound?
“The Church.”
The Church?
“Yes. The Church of the Main God.”
The very place where you're enshrined as a saint, old man.
I do need to report that I lifted Agra's curse, don't I?
I picked up the penalty of Agra's Gaze by breaking that curse, so I might as well collect everything I'm owed on the other side.
If the Church of the Main God officially recognizes that I dispelled Agra's curse, and I can get my hands on one of the Church's symbols, maybe my reputation will improve a little. Maybe.
I don't want to live as a loner!
Now that I've actually set foot in the world of Soul Academy, I want to get close to all the characters I loved!
I know the road there will be long and treacherous, but this much I refuse to give up on!
This is practically the sole driving force of my current life!
Before long, we arrived before the Church of the Main God located within the Alne Estate.
The Alne family itself was a house of considerable scale, and the church here was by no means small either.
Two exquisitely carved statues flanking the entrance. A massive door engraved with intricate sigils. And beyond that, a riot of magnificent stained glass.
It was the kind of church that, back on Earth, would unquestionably have been a tourist attraction, and I caught myself marvelling at it — a fresh reminder of just how enormous an institution the Church of the Main God truly was.
I'd thought it looked impressive even in the game, but seeing it in reality — it was genuinely staggering.
Just how much money had gone into raising this building?
“My apologies — we are still preparing for service. Perhaps come back at a later time.”
The moment we stepped into the chapel's antechamber, a priest waiting near the entrance approached and addressed us.
He was about to turn us away for arriving so early — but then he caught sight of my face, jolted, and stumbled backward.
“...Lady Lucy, of Count Alne's house?”
What now? Why that reaction?
It didn't seem like he was simply recoiling at my infamous reputation.
Don't tell me... Lucy did something to you, didn't she?