Chapter 404
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 404
Chapter Title: Because We're Siblings!
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‘The Sword Duke has promised his aid.’
The rumor spread like wildfire among the revolutionaries, exhausted from the government’s crackdowns.
They had already revered him as a savior from tales of his legendary feats, so upon hearing the news, they erupted like dry tinder.
Thanks to that, one person naturally found herself swamped.
That person was Elshar.
The white-haired girl who had achieved the impossible—no one else had ever made contact with the Sword Duke and persuaded him.
“How was it meeting the savior in person, Sister Elshar? Was he really a nine-foot-tall paragon of virtue, just like the legends?”
“How could he be at his age? He’s surely a majestic old man with flowing white hair and a splendid beard.”
“Nah, I read in a storybook that the savior was blessed with eternal youth. So he might look like a young boy...”
Those asking about Rimon.
“They say he can slay enemies just by glaring at them—did you witness it?”
“No, I heard he swings his sword once and summons storms and avalanches.”
“What are you talking about? That’s why he’s a Sword Master—a master of strikes faster than light.”
Those pinning their hopes on Rimon’s power.
“So, when did the savior say he’d arrive?”
“Will he just kill the dictator? Or the rest of the Silver Dragon Clan too?”
“Did he say anything else?”
And so on—those curious about the details of the alliance.
People brimming with questions, expectations, and all sorts of emotions about Rimon swarmed the one person who had actually met him.
The only witness: the white-haired girl.
They clamored fervently for even a single story from her.
And Ainsha...
No—Ekateriche, disguised with a mask and glasses as Ainsha, didn’t brush off the revolutionaries.
On the contrary, she answered each one kindly.
“The savior’s a cool guy. The kind you’d fall for at first sight.”
“Ooh!”
“And he’s insanely strong. He could definitely cut a dictator down with one swing, desu.”
“Ooooh!”
“Not right away, but he promised to help for sure once the revolutionaries make their move. So everyone, buck up and let’s revolutionize, desu.”
“Ooooh!”
As Ekateriche raised a fist with her expressionless face, the other revolutionaries thrust both arms skyward, unleashing fervent cheers.
It looked like homage to a hero.
No, it was homage.
The problems were twofold.
One: the object of that homage was the very dictator they were hell-bent on killing.
Two: the great figure they hailed as savior was watching them with narrowed eyes from right behind.
‘What a circus.’
Rimon sighed inwardly.
Even for him, who had lived a long life and weathered every kind of chaos, this farcical situation was a first.
If it had been someone else’s mess, he’d have laughed it off.
But as the man at the center, he couldn’t muster more than a hollow chuckle. It was downright pitiful.
Yet the mastermind behind this circus?
Ekateriche didn’t let up.
She just kept spinning Rimon’s heroic tales with feigned nonchalance, positively thrilled.
Then, midway through.
As Ekateriche chattered on and Rimon watched her intently, their eyes met.
A mischievous spark seemed to flicker in the white-haired girl’s gaze.
Thud-thud-thud!
A girl barreled through the revolutionaries and tackled Rimon in a hug.
“Oppa!”
“...Did you just call me oppa?”
“We’re siblings. I’m the little sister. So you’re oppa.”
As if to say, What’s the issue?
With a sly smile tucked behind her mask of calm, the girl announced loudly enough for all to hear.
“Oppa, say a word to the people too. You know the savior better than I do, desu.”
“What nonsense is that?”
“I know you’ve been a fan of the savior forever, oppa. You know more than most scholars, so answering questions should be easy.”
How many know the man better than the man himself?
As Rimon’s brow twitched at Ekateriche’s grinning face,
the revolutionaries swarmed.
“Is it true you know all about the savior?”
“Tell us his feats!”
“By any chance, what underwear does he prefer...!”
One and all, eyes sparkling as they hurled questions. Rimon held his silence for a moment.
Then, with a sigh, he spoke.
“Sorry, but my little sister’s worn out too, so we need to head out. Mind stepping back for today?”
“I’m not tired...”
Streeetch.
“Good sisters listen to oppa, right?”
“Yeees.”
Even as Rimon yanked her cheeks nearly to the tearing point while beaming sweetly, Ekateriche bobbed her head eagerly.
And so, moments later.
Back in their room, away from the revolutionaries, Rimon tossed the question at Ekateriche after she ditched the glasses and mask.
“What’s going through that head of yours?”
“That my cheeks are all tingly, desu.”
“Besides that. Why are you so gung-ho about riling up the revolutionaries?”
“Riling up? That’s an exaggeration—I just told the truth, desu.”
“I never said I’d help the revolutionaries.”
“But you’re busting your ass right now to stop them from getting crushed. That is helping, desu.”
“Twisting facts to suit yourself is still riling them up.”
“Then just tell them the truth, desu.”
“...”
Caught flat-footed.
Ekateriche flashed a wicked grin, dropping the calm act as she watched Rimon scowl.
“So, how’s it feel to be fawned over as the revolutionaries’ savior?”
He only scowled harder.
Ekateriche’s smile deepened at his silence.
Then, on tiptoes.
She leaned to his ear.
And whispered softly.
“When they realize no one’s coming to save them once the real fight starts... won’t their faces be priceless?”
“...Your tastes run classy.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
Now not bothering to hide it at all.
Rimon tsked at Ekateriche’s outright giggling and let go of the hand gripping her.
But she didn’t pull away.
She just smiled and spoke.
“Hey, oppa. Know what?”
“What?”
“I wanna change clothes right now, desu.”
She’d crashed in the same grimy outfit from yesterday’s wanderings and felt gross.
Rimon scowled at the white-haired girl’s innocent declaration.
“Then change.”
“I want to. But like you know, oppa, ‘I’ can’t dress alone.”
“...”
“So, here.”
Arms wide open.
Ekateriche spread her arms.
And with a beaming grin, said,
“Hurry and dress me, desu.”
The same face as her usual blank white-haired self.
But brimming with mischief and anticipation.
Rimon’s brow twitched a moment.
He pinched his temple with one hand.
Then chuckled.
“Fine. I’ll dress you.”
“You’ll really do it?”
“No point lying over something this trivial.”
Evidently not expecting such ready agreement.
As Ekateriche’s eyes went wide, Rimon extended his arm without pause.
The instant his hand made contact.
Swish.
“...?”
The coat draped over her shoulders vanished.
No effort expended.
Like the skin peeling from a grape rolled in the mouth, the coat slipped off effortlessly. Ekateriche blinked.
But that was merely the opener.
Plop. Plip.
The thick sweater stripped away in an instant.
Bared fully: her slender waist.
Short skirt sliding down.
Cutely quivering: her pert little rear.
Sweat-soaked stockings peeled free.
Radiating warmth: her lithe legs.
In the blink of an eye.
No opening to interfere.
Such deft, relentless hands had, before she knew it, exposed most of her snow-pale skin. Bunny-eyed shock lasted only a moment.
The hands pressed on regardless, so Ekateriche hesitantly spoke.
“Oppa? I didn’t ask you to change my underwear...”
“No need to decline.”
Before she could finish.
Rimon cut in flatly.
Then, lips curling in a cold smirk, he whispered in her ear.
“We do this all the time anyway, fool princess.”
You’ve been dressed by these hands plenty—no fresh reason to balk now.
Rimon sneered.
Ekateriche went quiet.
From the moment she’d donned the Ainsha disguise to infiltrate the revolutionaries and kick off the game, an unspoken rule bound Rimon and her.
Before she crushed the revolutionaries.
He’d track down the Liberation Brigade.
In exchange: no powers from her, and Rimon treated her solely as Ainsha.
Stopping his hands now? Rule break.
Ainsha would yield her body without a second thought.
Sure, it was unspoken—no instant penalty for bending it, excuses could slide...
But she didn’t.
If anything, more thrilled.
Or eager.
Excited smile blooming, she whispered,
“...Pervert oppa.”
“A big girl begging her brother for this? You’re the pervert.”
Whispering back at the girl who didn’t cover up—instead flaunting her glassy-smooth skin—Rimon’s hands resumed.
Just as he peeled away the last black scrap cupping her perky swells.
Rattle.
“Brother Rino, Sister Elshar. Got a word...?”
Bachemenski burst in—and froze solid.
His gaze flicked between the pressed siblings.
The clothes strewn on the floor.
Above all, the girl’s glassy skin peeking past Rimon’s back.
Eyes bulging, he petrified—then flushed crimson, slammed the door, and bolted.
Or tried.
“S-s-s-sorry!”
“Researcher bro, spit it out before you go.”
“Huh? Oh, uh—that is—right now, like this?”
“Come in and talk?”
“N-n-nooo!”
Desperate headshake.
Finally, Bachemenski spun away outside the door and blurted his piece in a rush.
“Th-the factory. Sick leave dragging on’ll cause issues, so... better clock in from tomorrow...”
“That all?”
“Uh, um—and if possible, keep quarters here...”
“Got it. Sis and I’ll commute from here starting tomorrow.”
“Huh? Me too, desu?”
“Duh. It’s your job too, Elshar.”
Workers work—that’s the deal, no?
Mischievously widening her eyes, Rimon added without turning.
“Researcher bro, business done? Beat it.”
“Yessir!”
“Shut the door.”
“Yes—yessir!”
Bang!
Still reeling, apparently.
He slammed it like it might shatter—not enough, fled pell-mell.
Afterward, Bachemenski fought to steady his hammering heart.
But the harder he tried, the sharper the image: stripped Ekateriche pressed to Rimon. Dry swallow.
‘Gulp...’
Mind flashing to before—kneading the girl’s chest.
Back then, their deadpan vibe sold it as disguise check; he’d bought it.
Today? Different.
Faking blankness.
Faint blush on cheeks, thrilled vibe—girl’s face came off weirdly sultry.
And the guy, far from his usual apathy: like a trainer roughing a tiger.
That subtle air between them? Siblings, my ass...
“No way.”
Headshake to banish the suspicion.
He muttered on purpose.
“Sister Elshar can’t dress solo, so he’s helping. Siblings, yeah. Siblings!”
Only child—how would he know?
Bound to be normal sibling stuff.
Muttering to erase the sight, Bachemenski paced in circles forever.