The Tea Party the Evil Woman Hosts -1-

At dawn in the mansion where everyone was asleep, I swung my sword in the empty courtyard of the Desmont estate after beating the whole family at drinking.

Thud—! It wasn't an elegant sword dance. It was crude and monotonous. Even becoming a Sword Master wouldn't let me shake off ingrained habits overnight. To others, it looked utterly pathetic.

Crack. Holding Tyrbing in hand, I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist and flashed a light smile.

"It's different."

It was definitely different. The sensation, the stability of my grip, the mana I felt around me—all sharpened to an incomparable edge compared to before. My whole body felt like a weapon, explosive power surging through me, and I smiled faintly.

"I could even take on an Apostle ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠now."

Not quite the final boss of this world, but enough to handle a mid-tier one. It put my mind at ease; at this level, I wouldn't die screaming. Under ideal matchups, two Apostles. With average compatibility, one. That seemed within my reach.

I shook my head, wiping away the arrogant smile rising from complacency.

"Gotta stay humble."

There was still a long way to go. Even as a Sword Master, the tiers and experience gaps were vast—getting cocky too soon could lead to a pathetic end. Olaf was a favorable matchup, that's why I won; no room for overconfidence. I couldn't just think I could win. Only after winning could I afford to relax.

I settled my shrugging shoulders and exhaled calmly.

"Still."

"I'm a teacher my disciple won't be ashamed of now."

At least I'd caught up enough not to kneel before Rowen. I could afford some pride. By the novel's standards, I'd be treated like a monster now. Probably written something like:

'Knight of the Fallen Villainess.'

"What nonsense."

I let out a hollow chuckle, recalling the upcoming events in my mind.

-Academy Uprising.

-Mihail's Growth.

-Pascal's Appearance.

Pascal. A name from over a year ago. It had been that long since I sent the villain who manipulated bodies and loved twisted art to prison. A fairly significant antagonist in the novel, but thinking of him now, reformed in a cell to fill my empty coffers, brought a wry smile.

-Why only pick on me!

He was a good guy, really. The benefactor who let me pay off my debts—I'd never forget him. Without me, he'd be living large as an Archbishop by now.

I nodded, picturing the praying mantis suffering in prison, and wished him luck.

'If we meet again, I'll put you in a collection jar ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠next time.'

Honestly, Mihail and Yuria still couldn't handle an Archbishop. It was the same in the original story, and even now, their power overwhelmed academy students. Ruin had retired long ago, and the crown prince only powered up in the late novel, leaving real combat strength minimal.

Current power ranking: Mihail, crown prince, Ruin, Yuria. Not lagging. Maybe even stronger than in the original timeline. Without the ordeals, explosive growth was muted, but steady progress kept them competitive. Especially Mihail, who'd surged after the last battle, and Yuria, awakening as a saintess, poised for greater contributions.

With Hanna at the academy too, she could fill Ruin's gap. And if needed, Hans covered the positions. The only snag?

Mihail's sword hadn't broken.

I sighed, recalling his rusty blade. Why cling to that scrap? Stubborn in the weirdest ways.

"Haa..."

Mihail's sword should have shattered by now. It was meant to break against a heretic, forcing him to learn a blade suited to his build and break his stubbornness. He was doing well—for now. But as the novel hit mid-game, enemies grew tougher. His current sword had too many limitations.

Look at the Archbishop of Oblivion right ahead; Mihail became her plaything then.

I knew it. How precious that sword was to him—the first gift from the nun who raised him like parents after the orphanage. But if he didn't break that stubbornness, what would change?

I gave a bitter smile, picturing Mihail.

"..."

No good ideas came. If there were, I'd have acted already. Still, with all the good turns, things might resolve fine. Yuria awakening as saintess, Mihail growing steadily—my job was just to thrive. One worry down. Lucky.

I smiled faintly and called out the familiar name in my mind.

It had been ages since I last opened the status window. Felt like forever. When I first arrived in this world, I'd check it daily to verify my training. But after a certain point, it became a perk of possession I rarely glanced at—a memo of my abilities, like a simple manual or wrong-answer notebook. It helped a lot early on, but now? Not so much.

Couldn't view others' statuses or info. No such concept here, so it fell out of use. I'd blended into this world naturally.

Anyway. This mirror only I could see showed numbers far from my past self. Steep growth in a year, resistances boosted in my absence. Satisfied, I swung my sword again.

To adapt to this unfamiliar power slowly. And to ensure the Young Lady never used black magic again. I swung diligently.

And as morning brightened.

AIR RAID ALERT!!!!

The mansion echoed with a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠booming kiai as always.

*

Tick.

The stopped clock hands began to move. Standing on a chair, Yuria replaced the battery in the broken clock and smiled.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

Satisfied with the finally moving hands, Yuria stepped down. It was 10 p.m. Awakening alone in the hospital, she gently straightened the blanket James had kicked off in sleep and sat carefully.

"Dad."

...

"You asleep?"

Yuria poked her father's cheek with a smile. Despite the early hour, he slept soundly. He couldn't defy his daughter's order to focus on recovery.

Yuria leaned to his ear and whispered softly as he snored.

"Dad, you know."

...

"I like someone now."

-Handsome, right? I know.

"Super handsome."

-Don't cry.

"Incredibly kind."

-Who is it? The one who did this to you.

"Takes such good care of me."

Yuria gripped her father's callused hand—the scars of years raising her alone. She tickled his rough palm and smiled.

"Right?"

Then, chuckling softly.

"I think I really, really like him."

Very much. Yuria's clock had begun to tick.

*

Olivia was writing a letter.

-You're invited.

Darbarb expected Olivia's letter to spark gossip and waves among many.

-I'll hold a ball.

-Yeah.

-At your place.

-No.

-Then at ours.

-Fine.

Desmont stands strong. Olivia is Desmont blood. Hosting a ball in her name to solidify their position—Darbarb's plan.

Sitting at the desk for the first time in ages, I watched the Young Lady pen invitations and asked,

"Young Lady."

"Eek..."

"Young Lady?"

She'd wiped snot on the letter, glanced at me slyly, then beamed.

"Ricardo."

"Yes."

"I got no friends."

Darbarb was sorely mistaken.

"Here! Invitation."

"Oh..."

I smiled wryly at her invitation.

"Shall we do one for Hanna too?"

"Yeah."

"And for the director?"

"Let's."

"And..."

The Young Lady didn't realize she had no friends.