The Knight Who Always Protects Her -1-

I sat at my desk late into the night, pondering the reasons behind my magic failures, letting out a deep sigh at the nagging mystery that refused to unravel. "The theory's perfect, so what's the problem... Tsk, maybe it's too perfect."

My notebook was filled with my crooked scrawl.

A month's bone-grinding effort had yielded just one fireball—and even that was a dud I couldn't aim worth a damn.

"Ha... fuck."

What the hell was this? Getting stuck on the basics. I'd tried starting from the fundamentals, step by step, but reality hit like a baby who couldn't even crawl yet. Laughable. Today's notes weren't much different from yesterday's... I knew it felt like pointless effort, but seeing even tiny improvements made it impossible to quit. In battle, one little spark could tip the scales. Like in romance—showing up empty-handed versus bringing a single rose for a thousand won ups your odds of forgiveness when you're late. Having something hidden up your sleeve made dealing with anyone a hell of a lot easier.

"Has all the juice been squeezed out...?"

As I stewed in thoughts of the world screwing me over, ready to flip off whatever god might be watching with pious middle fingers—

"What the—."

Even an all-knowing god doesn't like hearing curses, huh? Almost committed blasphemy there. Close call.

"But a quest out of nowhere?"

It had been ages since I'd heard that chime. I'd thought it had abandoned me. The clear ring felt like a greeting from the possessor's perk, still kicking.

New Year's too late for greetings. I smirked awkwardly at the lagging blue window.

"Fuck it."

"Not doing it."

I tried ignoring it, scribbling in my notebook, but the persistent alarms made me slowly look up. It wouldn't shut up until I checked. Back when I was a kid, this thing had woken me up countless times. Trying to sleep through growth spurts? Ding. Naptime? Ding. Blame it for why I topped out at 190cm.

"Sigh..."

What favor was it asking this time? The last one was rescuing Yuria from the dungeon. Tempted by the massive reward "Hand of Rehabilitation," I couldn't refuse. That damn quest wrecked my vow to never help anyone again. Honestly, I wanted to ignore this one too. I didn't want to mess with the protagonists' growth—they needed to handle it themselves now. No more mother bird feeding. Eighty percent of me was set on refusing.

But part of me was excited. The status window always dangled impossible rewards. Penalties were light, payouts generous. As a kid, it offered the cheat trait "Genius Without Talent." Then "Aura," something no child could get. At the academy, favorability with key characters or stat boosts. All unattainable otherwise. I knew muscle strength +1 took wildly different times per person, but going from 100 to 101 was insane. Late novel, stats even out, but that one point could mean heaven-and-earth power gaps. Knowing these little things mattered made the rare quest both welcome and annoying.

Hope it wasn't some story-altering mess. Heart pounding, I slowly raised my head to the quest window.

And.

"Fuck."

I spat a curse.

I stared at the brightly glowing blue quest window, my lips trembling faintly.

"Fuck."

Balls were a staple in fantasy novels. Sub-male leads psyching each other ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out to dance with the heroine first, or villains scheming to bully her. Same in the novel I possessed. The academy ball was ostensibly for youthful fireworks, but pitch-black underneath. Mocking commoners' dresses, trash-talking fallen nobles' attire, dumping wine on disliked ladies' gowns—a legally sanctioned violence zone.

And the quest's ball event made those look like child's play. Heavy stuff.

Fanning myself at the desk, I sank into thought.

"Why this episode, of all things."

So many others. This one tied closely to Ruin. A tiny bit... worrying.

Outside the academy grounds, in a dress shop, a pink-haired girl stood on tiptoes.

"Whoaaa... so pretty."

Yuria gazed longingly at the white dress beyond the glass, eyes misty, murmuring in awe like she'd been enchanted. Three days to the ball. Tired of mockery for her tacky dress, she'd come for a new one but couldn't tear herself away. The pristine white gown held her fast. Exquisitely expensive, the kind you'd charge just to look at. Beyond her poor wallet's reach, but looking was free.

Shaking her head at her unwittingly grinning lips, she turned away with effort.

"Yeah... who needs a dress on my budget."

She envied the other students. The excited backs of academy girls entering shops. If she had money, she'd buy one—but scholarship life meant no such luxury. Hiding her bitterness, she trudged off.

After a long walk, she reached the bustling market, rolled up her sleeves with a deep sigh.

"Right... secondhand's not so bad."

A thrift shop piled with discarded nobles' clothes. Arms rolled, Yuria strode in. Embarrassing to buy used, but she wanted to dodge the taunts this year. Halting at a heap, she plunged her hand deep, pulling out a wrinkled, yellow dress like a dish rag. Creased, musty—but better than her current one.

"Found it...!"

Compared to that pure white vision, it looked pathetic. Regret hit—should've come straight here, skipped the shop. Made her feel even more shabby. Picking clothes here. Joy at a decent find. All pathetic. Head down in gloom for a minute or so.

"Hm..."

A pleasant baritone reached her ear. A man stood beside her, asking softly.

"Planning to buy that?"

"Ah... yes."

"Hmm..."

Yuria didn't look up. Too ashamed. Undeterred, the man dug deep into the pile.

—Rustle.

—Rustle.

"Personally speaking,"

He pulled out a red dress, held it up to her frame, nodded, then spoke to her bowed head in that smooth voice.

"I think this one suits you better."

"Ah... thank you."

"No trouble."

"But who..."

Yuria turned to see her helper. Curious why so kind, and that voice too sweet. The moment she saw his face.

"Uh...?"

A dumb sound escaped her.

"Long time no see, Yuria."

"The handsomest butler in the world."

Ricardo stood before her eyes.