Academy Semester-End Party (4)
It had been about three days since Joy learned just what sort of human being the man named Frete—an Apostle of the Art Cult—truly was.
And now, facing him again, her expression was stormy enough for anyone to read at a glance.
That was simply how Joy was. Standing still, she looked angry; even when she smiled, she looked like she was plotting someone's untimely demise.
The genuine disgust etched into her face was so terrifying that it drew a cold sweat even from Frete, an Apostle who had met every manner of person the continent had to offer.
"U-um. Lady Partran?"
"What is it?"
"Your expression is... rather poor."
"...Do you not know why I'm like this?"
At Frete's question, Joy's expression soured even further.
The fact that he had no self-awareness of his own perversion only fed her fury.
A grown man who had lived long and met countless people, leering at a young girl—and unable to even recognize that something was wrong with that?
If he weren't an Apostle of the Art Cult, she would have already leveraged her ducal house's power to bury him in the deepest cell of some dungeon.
"I have some idea. You must have witnessed my reaction to Lady Aln's beauty last time."
"Yes. You remember it well."
"Having seen that, I imagine a misunderstanding would be only natural. Which is why—I was hoping you might grant me a chance to explain myself?"
You showed me that revolting display, and you have something to explain?
Ha. Very well. Let's hear what he has to say.
I am curious, after all, just how repulsive an Apostle of the Art Cult can get.
Joy gave a silent nod, and Frete broke into a bright smile before continuing.
"First of all, I harbor not the smallest sliver of ill intent toward Lady Aln."
...Does this man seriously think that's an acceptable thing to say?
He showed me that display and believes it proves his purity?
Who knew an Apostle of the Art Cult could be this much of an idiot?
I'm telling Father about this later.
"Standing before the living embodiment of beauty acknowledged by the Goddess Herself—how could one possibly harbor a petty, lustful heart?!"
"...I'm sorry, what?"
"Before that noble and exalted countenance, even the smallest dark desire is purified and transformed into pure awe! On my honor as an Apostle, there is nothing impure in the way I look upon her!"
"No, um—"
"And what a fine opportunity this is! Let me explain everything, one piece at a time! We simply must begin with those eyes! Deeper and more radiant than any gemstone—"
Watching his excitement swell from a small spark into outright madness—like a snowball rolling downhill, growing larger with every turn—Joy's face gradually settled into an expression remarkably similar to Lucy's.
Is it really okay to just leave this man alone? Shouldn't someone slap cuffs on him by any means necessary?
"Frete."
Just as Joy, confronted for the first time in her life with madness of this caliber, was beginning to feel genuinely nauseated—
Phoebe spoke up in her place, trading her usual gentle warmth for the stern edge of someone interrogating a criminal.
"And that voice is—wait, what?"
"The Chief God teaches that excess is but a veil for one's own insecurity. Do you believe Lady Aln's nobility requires a hundred thousand words to express, Frete?"
"...My. My sincere apologies. I find myself lacking."
Every time I see this side of her, Phoebe is admirably—almost enviably—mature.
I should strive to be a young lady like that, as befits a ducal house.
"Frete. Shall we return to the matter at hand, then?"
"Yes. Let's begin with the dresses, if you would."
"They're finished already?"
"Not 'already.' It took me days."
...He finished dresses from scratch in a matter of days, without even a design finalized at the start, and he's calling it "days"?
These weren't some commoner's scraps of everyday leather, you know. These are noble dresses.
"This one is for the Saintess, and this one is for Lady Partran."
The moment the dresses were laid on the table, Joy covered her mouth with both hands.
The dresses Frete drew from his sub-space pouch were breathtaking enough that even Joy, who had laid eyes on every gown imaginable, could not suppress her astonishment.
It went far beyond merely luxurious or beautiful.
The black dress presented before her matched her tastes—the tastes she had carefully cultivated to embody everything a ducal heiress should be—down to the last stitch.
It was as though someone had climbed inside her head and pulled her unspoken wishes out into the open air.
So this is what an Apostle of the Art Cult is. Whatever his character may be, his talent is the genuine article.
Nearly a full minute passed before Joy came back to herself, and she stole a glance at Phoebe's reaction.
And she was certain of it. Phoebe's heart was no different from her own.
The smile playing at the corners of her friend's lips spoke of unmistakable happiness.
"Since you seem pleased, allow me to explain. The silk is Barit silk, you see. The commission came rather suddenly, so I had to make do with what was on hand."
Barit silk—the kind woven from cocoons harvested in the middle floors of Barit Dungeon?
Isn't that luxurious to an absurd degree? Even most nobles wouldn't dream of affording the stuff.
"In exchange, I have invoked the Goddess's authority to bless them. I hope you'll forgive the improvisation."
"Blessings, you say?"
"Nothing dramatic. The garments adjust themselves to fit your body perfectly, and they maintain their finest possible condition at all times, without any care required."
That's an insanely big deal, though?
Even clothes blessed by an ordinary church priest skyrocket in value—and these were blessed personally by an Apostle of the Cult itself.
...Am I really allowed to accept this? No matter how I think about it, it's far too much.
"As for the design, it is based on what Lady Aln provided to me."
"Lady Aln?"
"Please don't misunderstand. I didn't make it this way simply because she asked. After careful consideration, I concluded that her requests were correct. It's quite apparent that she observes you two with remarkable attentiveness."
"...I see. So that's how it is, Lady Aln."
Murmuring in a small voice, Joy's hand found the necklace Lucy had once given her.
Lucy ordinarily acted as though she couldn't care less about such things, but the truth was otherwise.
She was always quietly watching over the people around her, quietly making their wishes come true.
After all—wasn't it Lucy who had pulled Joy back onto her feet, when nightmares had her so trapped she couldn't even set foot inside a dungeon?
No doubt an enormous amount of Lucy's silent deliberation was woven into this dress as well.
"Thank you, truly. I will treasure it."
The moment the thought crystallized, Joy bowed her head deeply.
How could I ever refuse a gift this precious?!
Uuugh. I already owe Lady Aln so much, and now the debt just keeps growing.
At this rate, she could call me a scatterbrain to my face and I wouldn't have a leg to stand on.
"The same goes for me. Frete, thank you for making such wonderful clothes for us."
"Haha, save your thanks for Lady Aln. I merely carried out her request."
"Still—"
"If you truly wish to express your gratitude, then would you kindly deliver these to the Third Prince of Soladin and Lady Kent?"
Frete drew fresh garments from his sub-space pouch.
A soft brown suit for a man, and a pale blue dress—both every bit as magnificent as the pieces that had just rested on the table.
"These are...?"
"What Lady Aln gave me in return felt far too generous for anything I could offer her alone, so I made garments for her other two friends as well."
Frete explained that delivering them personally would surely fluster Lucy, so he asked for the favor instead—and Joy blinked rapidly.
"...Just what on earth did Lady Aln give you as payment?"
"She granted me something I would gladly trade my very life for."
An Apostle of the Art Cult, who can obtain anything he desires with a word—and this horrifying pervert was satisfied by it. Don't tell me...
"She permitted me to dress her up with my own two hands!"
Joy, who had been concentrating her mana while lost in a teenage girl's fantasy, froze solid the moment she saw Frete's melting expression.
"Haaah... Just remembering it now, I feel so happy I could die. To think I could add to Lady Aln's beauty with my own hands!"
Did he forget Phoebe's advice from five minutes ago?
Watching Frete describe his bliss in words practically steaming with heat, Joy pressed a hand to her forehead.
"Phoebe. One question, if I may. The people called Apostles of the gods—they're not all like this, are they?"
"Joy! Of course not! An Apostle chosen by a god is—ahem. In any case, this man is simply... no, considerably unusual. Quite considerably."
"Thank goodness for that. I nearly started doubting the character of every Apostle on the continent."
On the morning of the party held to celebrate the end of the semester at Soul Academy, Academy Street was more crowded than it had ever been.
Alongside the entrance ceremony, the semester-end party drew the largest influx of visitors of the entire year—for merchants it was the business opportunity of the season, and for tourists, the site of a festival.
A bustling street at this time of year was hardly unusual, but this year's crowds were on another level entirely.
"The dungeon's even more vicious in the flesh than the articles made it look."
"And students actually cleared that thing? Soul Academy's standards truly are high."
"I hear a student of the Academy designed it, no less. Fitting for one of the finest institutions on the continent."
On top of the usual visitors came those who had traveled to experience the Academy's dungeon for themselves.
It was a Soul Academy dungeon widely rumored to be the finest of the year—and when the gates were thrown open for anyone to attempt it, how could dungeon enthusiasts possibly sit still?
Some came out of admiration. Some out of pure curiosity. Some to have a story to brag about, and some merely to cure their boredom. They all converged on Soul Academy, and Academy Street swelled until it overflowed with people.
But not every corner was so crowded.
Take the area around the fountain at the very center of Academy Street—it was so utterly deserted that one might suspect some archmage had cast a repulsion field over it.
It wasn't for lack of foot traffic.
Just a few meters from the fountain, the crowds were packed so tightly it was hard to find room to set a foot down.
The reason was simple: Lucy Aln was standing before the fountain.
And she was scowling in a manner that made absolutely certain everyone could see it.
Given those two facts, an empty pocket of space around the fountain was all but inevitable.
This was a phenomenon that had arisen naturally as Lucy Aln's notoriety spread far and wide—but there was one difference from the past.
Far from fleeing in fear, the various connoisseurs and high-society gossips had gathered at a distance to observe her, exchanging quiet commentary amongst themselves.
"That girl is Lucy Aln?"
"Remarkable. Worthy of a bard of the Art Cult. Beautiful beyond words."
"...Hah. I nearly forgot her infamous reputation for a moment there."
"Don't go near her unless you've lost your mind. It won't end pleasantly."
"You think I don't know that? Second-from-left—oops. Careful, your mouth's running away with you."
"Wasn't it that girl who designed the Academy's final dungeon?"
"Astonishing. She looks so terribly young, too."
"I hear she holds the top spot at the Academy in both martial prowess and intellect."
"That much is established fact. They say she's never once lost the position of first in her class."
"A shame, truly. If only her temperament were as fine."
"The great Chief God must be fair after all, it seems."
"Come to think of it, there's been this rumor going around—"
Just as the connoisseurs' conversation, which had begun in admiration and awe, began drifting toward something crude and sensational—
a hearty laugh rang out from far down the street.
"Hahaha! My thanks to you all for saying such kind things about my darling daughter! As her father, I hardly know what to do with my joy!"
Benedict Aln.
The man who commanded the respect of every warrior on the continent.
A figure of terror to anyone who remembered the days when he stood upon the battlefield.
A hero of the kingdom whom even the royal family approached with care—and he had just made his appearance.
"Foolish Father, I've told you so many—"
"OOOOH! LUCY! LUCYYYYY!"
Closing the considerable distance in a single leap, Benedict hit the ground and, without missing a beat, swept his daughter up into a crushing embrace with a roar.
"I've told you a dozen times through the crystal orb, but this father could not be prouder of you! Everywhere I turn, I hear people praising our Lucy—do you have any idea how happy that makes me?!"
"Um, Father—"
"And you've grown even more beautiful! When I saw you through the orb I couldn't believe my own eyes, but in person I half suspect an angel has sent me a vision!"
"No, hold on—"
"But it also worries this father, you know! So beautiful, so striking, AND so capable! My heart trembles at the thought of some good-for-nothing scoundrel laying a hand on our Lucy—"
"FOOL! ISH! FA! THER!"
"...Uh-oh. Lucy?"
"Would you PLEASE shut that reeking mouth of yours and get these meaty arms off of me?!♡ I'm starting to hate my foolish Father more and more, you know?!♡"
"NO! I'm sorry! Lucy! Anything but that—take back the part where you hate meeeeee!"
Watching the man cough blood over a single word from his daughter, the connoisseurs licked their lips.
It was, admittedly, a thoroughly entertaining spectacle.
But if they told this story to those who hadn't seen it with their own eyes—would anyone actually believe them?