Beni's Hidden Poverty and the Jockey Priestess
Beni's family was suspiciously wealthy—or so it seemed—but in truth, her humble household was dirt poor, not even worthy of being called a proper "clan." Of course, poverty is relative... but if you didn't call a situation where their assets plunged endlessly into the negative "poor," then that word would become a dead language with nowhere to be used.
She was a healthy nineteen-year-old woman—though her build was a far cry from sturdy—with no illnesses to speak of. If someone like her was voluntarily serving as a battery for a magic train, anyone could guess her family situation was far from normal.
The year she turned sixteen, dark clouds hung over her rural village. An invasion by countless sea beasts. Thanks to the Imperial Army's swift response, there were miraculously no human casualties, but the fields and paddies ended up soaked in saltwater-mixed blood.
The silver lining was that the state bought up the villagers' land. To farmers, salt-tainted soil was just barren wasteland, but from a national perspective—with ample manpower and technology—it was literally a goldmine for harvesting precious salt.
As a result, each villager received a tidy sum. Naturally, it was less than the potential profits from extracting the salt themselves. But there were limits to what villagers could do on their own anyway. In a situation where they might have lost their homes and wandered homeless, this was a godsend. It was enough to relocate to another region and start over.
The next issue was what to do from there... Beni and her family, among others, headed straight for the city. Parents always want their kids to grow up in the big city, no matter what. Normally, it would have stayed a pipe dream, but with relocation forced and a windfall in hand, they decided on this adventurous leap.
Just seeing her barely-adult daughter rolling around as a magic train engine gave a hint of how that adventure turned out. It was a harsh lesson in how terrifying guarantees could be—or so we'll leave it at that.
Beni's mother had stood guarantee for an acquaintance. She'd intended to shoulder it all herself, but family ties aren't severed so cleanly. Beni had no choice but to pitch in repaying the debt. Even if she'd tried to cut ties, the creditors wouldn't have allowed it. They'd have sold off her father or little brother to squeeze out the money somehow.
...And so, her unintended stint as a magic train engine unexpectedly led to the discovery of her magical talent. The world works in mysterious ways.
Having gone through all that, Beni couldn't help but etch into her body—no, her soul—the mindset of earning as much as possible while she could and stashing away spare cash. Life throws curveballs, and there's no guarantee a tall benefactor (in italics) with an academy admission letter will swoop in to pay off her debts every time.
Beni was aware of her obsession to some degree. She knew flaunting her stinginess too much wasn't good. But if knowing meant she could fix it, it wouldn't be a bad habit in the first place.
In the end, she lived on, unable to let go of her attachment to money.
"It was a bet left purely to luck, without any analysis of the horses. Since it was won through the blessings of the goddess, not my own ability, I wish to return it to her."
That's why she couldn't help but be shocked by Second Lieutenant Yura Konstantia's utter lack of attachment to money. Yura spoke those words to the church's head priestess without a hint of hesitation. Anyone unfamiliar with the context might think, from her voice alone, that she was donating pocket change picked up off the street.
Who could imagine that sum—pocket change for some, a lifetime's futile labor for others—was being treated so casually?
Most academy students aimed to become knights, and knights naturally became propaganda heroes. It was the perfect environment for personal fame beyond unit glory. So, most students harbored at least one role model in their hearts. Even a backwater kid like Beni, lacking foundational knowledge, would pick one up after three years of dorm life in a big city.
Of course, Beni had one too. ...As you might have guessed, it was Second Lieutenant Yura Konstantia.
An honest, rule-abiding woman who didn't hesitate to lend a hand. Her strength and competence certainly moved Beni, but the biggest factor was her spirit.
Or maybe Beni had already fallen hard for her upon witnessing her fights—Beni paused there, pondering for three seconds if "fallen hard" sounded too lesbian.
Honestly, what did Beni know to admire her moves? It was just whoosh, smack—something amazing happened. Not because it was an epic battle, but because it was Yura Konstantia's battle.
Anyway, she knew Yura was a paragon of virtue. Who wouldn't be good if they rushed out of a cafe to help a near-stranger?
But she hadn't expected this level. Not just betting a not-insubstantial sum on an absurd 3000-to-1 underdog longshot and winning, but treating the miraculous jackpot like pre-bet principal.
Even if it had stayed at the original stake without multiplying, how many could donate such an amount to society so nonchalantly?
It hit especially hard since it was Beni's own weak spot—clinging so pathetically.
That's why Beni had nodded at Yura's question. Sure, she'd be lying if she said it didn't sting a little, but she didn't want to sabotage that beauty. She just didn't want to smear it with filth. That was all.
And when she expressed that, Yura showed a faint—but clearly satisfied—change in expression. It filled Beni with even greater joy. Recognition. From Second Lieutenant Konstantia, no less. An indescribable ticklish thrill bloomed faintly in her chest.
"Sister. I'm sorry, but we can't accept money earned from horse racing."
Separate from that joy, there were still hurdles to wrapping this up.
× Religious doctrines arise from necessity. Thus, mainstream faiths' teachings align with social order, leaning conservative. Polytheistic myths might have gambling-friendly gods, but monotheistic creators rarely endorse it—unless it's some chaos deity in fantasy dropping direct edicts.
I didn't know if Uja Myurin, worshipped by West Continent churches, truly existed, but she certainly wouldn't preach human ruin.
In short, betting on horse races wasn't viewed positively. They turned a blind eye to the industry—cooperating on horse treatments and such, unable to the continent's superpower next door—but officially, they endorsed only the "races" themselves, not the gambling. They pretended not to see the tickets sold openly. The plight of a powerless faith.
Anyway, I'm no fool. I knew the situation. So, when donating "less-than-honest" gambling winnings, we framed it as penance. I succumbed to temptation but repented late, forsaking the dirty gains for pure faith... Something like that. It usually worked. Church folk were rational calculators. Why refuse donations with a decent excuse?
But people aren't uniform. Some are uncompromisingly rigid. I hadn't expected it from Safel Dulla's—horse racing holy land—head priestess, though.
I cleared my throat lightly and continued. "Priestess. True, it's dirty money, and I feel it to my bones. But that's exactly why I can't use it privately, right?"
So take it. Donating this sum elsewhere would complicate procedures. It'd look perfect for suspicions of buying local influence. I didn't want risks under a lord who'd crushed a rebellion two years ago. Best for the church to take it, then skim some to the palace if it seemed too much. They were pros at laundering.
Please, just take it. Let me get fleeced by high-leg nuns' charms and mull humiliation alone in my room.
"No."
But the head priestess shook her head again. She looked like a gal from an otaku torment manga who starts quwap quwap around page three, yet was absurdly stubborn.
"...It's not because it's gambling money."
Curiously, her expression was more troubled than firm. Less "I can't allow it" and more "I'd like to, but there's a reason I can't."
"Then what's the problem..."
"Eh?"
"......?"
Beni raised her voice at that moment. All eyes turned to her for blurting something designers or programmers shouldn't.
"S-Sorry."
With me, Riley, and even the priestess staring, Beni shrank and apologized.
"What is it?"
"W-Well..."
As I asked for the group, Beni hesitated before continuing.
"Th-The number three horse..."
"......!"
Now it was the blonde gal—not priestess—who flinched. A brief silence fell.
I glanced her way, and she smiled wryly. "How did you know?"
"Um, well, your left middle finger... it seems a bit uncomfortable...?"
"...Impressive observation."
The head priestess clenched her left hand, but her middle finger stuck out awkwardly, not fully fisted.
Come to think of it, she'd responded verbally when I first signed to her. I'd felt a slight oddity but conversed normally... Guess that was why.
"......"
I'd once casually asked Beni why someone with such great memory was such a hopeless direction idiot. Her summarized answer: perception of the world.
Normally, you walk streets, imprint scenery, recognize familiar spots. But Beni's memory was ridiculously detailed—every passerby, maybe even fluttering leaves. They form "one place." Change one element? Shifted shadows over time, or passersby leaving? Instant déjà vu overload.
...And apparently, it applied to people too. Unintentionally, she'd honed distinguishing habits and traits. To confirm if "this person" was the one she knew.
Detective talent? Photographic memory plus insight. Add deduction, and she'd be a master sleuth.
"Um... Instructor. What are those two talking about?"
"Remember what Riley said earlier? The jockey?"
"Of course! Number three!"
"The masked one seems to be this lady."
"What."
Riley's eyes widened. She rummaged in her worn leather satchel, pulling out an unthrown-away ticket.
"Can I get a signature?"
"Ah, of course."
"...You can do that?"
"Half of it is a concept for hiding my identity, so people who know, know."
With a wry smile, the priestess added: How do you hide a finger disability? Other jobs might differ, but churches treated sign language like Latin. As a speaking jockey, hiding it was tough. As she said, insiders knew.
Like the church's feigned ignorance of betting, folks politely ignored her "red pill."
"Um... But is it okay for a priestess to race?"
"You can't fully detach from horse racing living in Safel Dulla. If it makes people warmer to the church, it's worth it. Officially, it's not gambling—just a race entry."
She added with a smile that she personally enjoyed it too.
"But then what's the issue?"
"Remember my result this race?"
"Barely second... Ah."
"If a jockey who barely missed first accepts winnings from that, what would people think?"
Match-fixing rumors, obviously. I nodded unwittingly.
"No way around it? Anonymous donation or something..."
"...Odd for a priestess to say, but do you have to donate?"
"If you're not using it anyway, isn't passing it on rational?"
This was sincere. I wasn't doing this philanthropy just for city walls. Rotting unused cash might as well aid relief. Stashing it felt wasteful—I was a capitalist at heart.
"I've heard rumors, but you're far more ascetic than most priestesses."
No, until lesbian brothels opened in the Empire, there was nowhere to spend. What's suspicious wealth if unused? Just photo cards of past/present emperors. One each sufficed for merch.
...Wait.
A spark hit my brain. What did I just say? Suspiciously wealthy... merch...
I looked up. The ceiling depicted Safel Dulla's horse guardian saint.
Genius brain or divine revelation in a church? Didn't matter. I seized the inspiration.
"Miss Beni. Miss Riley."
I turned to the students.
"The academy's underwater training hall feels a bit rundown, doesn't it? I recall talks of rebuilding."
"Uh... No underwater training in first-year first semester, I think."
A graduate donating for a building? Normal for schools. I wasn't a graduate, but an assistant—close enough. Both start with "J."
"Anyway. While rebuilding, wouldn't busty statues as decor be perfect?"
"Busty...? Fill the hall with lots of statues...?"
A sponsor's "slight" fanservice? Hardly unusual. Of course.