Chapter 120
Chapter 120
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 120
Chapter Title: Humanity Lessons (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Save me..."
"Bl-blood... coming from my body..."
The black mages' cloaks had been tied together in a long line.
The petite girl dragged them along like sausages, prowling through the back alleys.
She clutched a bright red blood potion tightly in one hand.
Slurrrp~~~
The True Ancestor strode forward with majestic poise, sipping the blood deliciously through a straw.
She arrived at the abandoned building where she was supposed to meet Conan.
But...
There was no sign of Conan.
Only a single small note had been left behind.
「Come to the restaurant when you get here. I've already let him know.」
「From your loving mom.」
"These jerks ditched me to go eat something delicious!"
Franka puffed out her cheeks like a pufferfish, her face twisted in a pout.
Grumbling to herself, she cast brainwashing spells on each of the collapsed black mages one by one.
Forget everything you saw today.
"Taking fresh blood from mages really does fill you with power."
Her appearance hadn't reverted to the mature queen form of old.
Even so, with her strength roughly restored, she could now unfurl crimson wings from her back.
She shot up into the sky with all her might.
And swiftly returned toward the distant prison.
"Oof."
She landed lightly by the window of the prison cafeteria.
As she slipped gracefully inside, the place was already packed with people.
Northern Commander Conan, who had played the role of her mother today.
Vice Warden Clea, who always combed her hair for her.
The Red Saintess, Anje.
The Moon Woman, Myoran.
The four captured men, along with Fred and Nix keeping watch over them.
It was impossible to recall the last time the cafeteria had been this lively.
"So... you're saying we should teach the prisoners some humanity and conduct the education together?"
Clea eyed Conan with a sullen look.
Though they were both civil servants, Clea's gaze lingered on the commander's unusually proactive demeanor, so different from her own staunch individualism.
Up close like this, it felt like staring at a blunt fox next to an energetic young colt.
"That's right. I looked into you, and it turns out you shouldered all the incompetence of the previous wardens on your own."
"That was just me earning my keep. This is a whole different story."
Clea pulled a monocle from the pocket of her taut white blouse and slipped it on.
Through the lens, holographic images of Anje and Myoran appeared, arms crossed.
A walking catastrophe who had brainwashed hundreds of residents into her minions.
A Sword Sage who harbored the moon's yin energy and sliced down every enemy that caught her eye.
"They weren't born to be human in the first place."
"What?"
"You're not exactly the humane type yourself."
The white snake bared its fangs. The hefty black cat let out a hiss.
Yet she remained as impassive as a Tibetan fox.
"What choice do we have? They're talents who have to live in this empire eventually. And look, that girl's here now too—let's give it a shot together."
"That thing's no ordinary girl either... Fine, whatever."
Clea racked her brain for how to describe a 200-year-old vampire queen but ultimately gave up.
Truth be told, she couldn't just ship these three off to another country.
At least here, some mental reconditioning might help them adapt to society.
"Wouldn't it be better to leave this to the warden? No need for a busy commander like you to—"
"It's fine. I've used up five of my annual leave days."
Conan flashed five fingers with a confident grin.
"Besides, people are most charming when you think they're villains... only to discover they're actually good at heart. Show the warden that side of them, and their favorability will skyrocket, right?"
"...Hold on. Isn't that basically your story with the warden?"
Conan flinched at the sharp fox's observation.
As expected from someone with an imperial secretary's analytical prowess.
"But wouldn't spilling that make things harder for you, Commander?"
"Harder how?"
Clea smirked and lifted her monocle.
"No need to play coy in front of me. The way you look at the warden has changed from before."
"......"
Conan turned her head for a moment to preserve her dignity.
"Listen, Vice Warden. Camillia is a close friend of mine. With her right there, if I went chasing after the warden..."
"I've heard love makes friends and everything else irrelevant."
Clea gazed leisurely at the commander, still trying to save face.
It was the bold attitude of someone who'd once slapped an imperial cheek.
"Enough. That's my business. So, will you help me with the morale education?"
"Well, I'm not one to fret over rivals anyway."
The blue-haired vice warden stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Conan.
Matching ponytails, yet utterly different vibes.
But they shared one thing in common.
Love aside, they had to get these disaster-class beings under control.
Before the warden warmed up to them, they needed to train them to fit into imperial society.
"When the warden gets back, I'll file paperwork demanding compensation for proxy teaching."
"I'll ask Camillia to put in a good word for me too."
Clea dragged over a mobile blackboard.
Meanwhile, Conan donned her commander jacket properly and picked up a pointer.
"Alright, let's begin."
Anje and Myoran sat side by side.
The True Ancestor plopped down in the empty seat between them, joining in.
"First up, the subject of 'social skills.'"
Social skills.
One of life's most crucial virtues.
Master them, and you can smooth over any blunder or mess-up with ease.
Handle it too well, and you might even win some extra goodwill.
Essential for these three walking time bombs.
Agreed.
The commander and vice warden nodded wordlessly to each other.
"Suppose you all made a huge mistake. How would you clean it up?"
The commander started with the simplest example.
Anje and Myoran smirked and answered in unison.
"I don't make mistakes."
"Obviously. If I had, I'd be dead back on the Eastern Continent."
"The True Ancestor is perfection incarnate."
Conan, who had trained countless subordinates in the military before her promotion.
She marveled at their mindset, which scoffed at mere soldiers she once favored.
"See? Their way of thinking is worlds apart from ours."
"A little disconcerting."
"We should try a more specific example."
"Good idea. Let's switch up the approach."
Conan gripped the chalk and began scrawling on the blackboard.
"Say a nasty prisoner shows up at the prison and starts tormenting the warden and you all. How do you handle it?"
The key here: don't kill the prisoner.
Killing freely would just bring trouble down on Derek, the one responsible—so this was a lesson in consideration.
A textbook answer would prove they had enough social grace.
"Alright, the saintess who raised her hand first—go ahead."
"Brainwash him into breaking out of the prison on his own, make him write a suicide note, then off himself."
The True Ancestor and Myoran nodded approvingly in sync.
"Splendid."
"Secures an alibi with the last words too—flawless."
Why does it always end in 'kill'...?
Conan stared blankly, her face as dumbfounded as a stunned pony with a ponytail.
Yet Clea, along with Fred and Nix watching from a distance, remained utterly serene.
"That's just daily life in prison."
"Yeah. We're the lucky ones."
Conan chalked a massive 'X' on the board.
"Wrong. Killing them just boosts Warden Derek's bad reputation. Everyone will suspect he did it."
The prisoners shot back right away, baffled why that mattered.
"Isn't that a good thing? This country looks down on Derek anyway."
"Exactly. Better to bail from here and build a new stronghold together."
"This body found it quite regrettable too."
Clea shook her head slowly.
She whispered discreetly to the empire's top power broker.
"Their individual power levels are nation-tier from the start. Keeping them in the empire will take a fresh pitch."
"Agreed. To them, the empire must look like a tiny pen."
The path of these colossal disasters hinged on this lesson.
Solemn now, Conan opted for a somewhat risky gamble.
"Whew... Fine, I get it—you're all incredibly strong. But here's the thing."
Conan rested one hand on her slender waist.
She solemnly attempted a high-handed taunt she'd never tried before.
"Men don't feel much attraction to women overwhelmingly better than them. They're too far out of reach."
The commander's finger pointed at the Red Saintess and the Moon Woman.
The 14-year-old-looking True Ancestor... she set aside for now.
"Me? I give off approachable big-sis vibes. The kind you want to lean on and joke around with."
"…………."
Anje and Myoran's relaxed expressions turned icy in an instant.
Even Clea grew subtly impassive.
Fred and Nix alone covered their mouths, gazing at Conan with concern.
"I-is that... okay to say...?"
"Commander's on another level. Willing to bet her life."
Conan undid her bound lavender locks.
A rich, familiar soap scent began to linger in the air.
"So you need some humility too. If you want him to succeed, help him get what he truly wants. Stop projecting your own fantasies."
"How exactly?"
Anje shot back, displeased.
"Sticking to your role is helping. You're prisoners—so act like it."
On the surface, it sounded like a total letdown.
But dig deeper, and it cut to the core of life itself.
Warden Derek had felt relief toward Conan, who stayed true to her soldier's duty and pursued justice alone.
That relief blossomed into comfort, even drawing out silly husband-and-wife banter.
"......"
Anje and Myoran mulled it over, grasping the truth at last.
"But just rotting away as a prisoner sounds so dull."
"No way to appeal more... intellectually?"
A way to spark intellectual attraction...
Conan had no answer for that one.
She didn't even understand her own appeal.
Truthfully, like Camillia, her workaholic life left no room for romance.
This was her first time feeling drawn to a man.
"How about... acting in ways that make you seem like an ordinary woman?"
After some thought, Conan finally gripped the chalk and scribbled vigorously.
"Like cleaning the prison or doing some cooking."
The pinnacle of mind magic, capable of dominating an entire continent.
The goddess of the sword, who could fell three knight commanders solo.
Her radical prescription for them: housewives' 'household chores.'
"You're telling us to do mere housework?"
Anje scoffed and crossed her arms.
She was already scheming on a national scale, positioning herself as Derek's kingmaker.
Cooking and cleaning? Please.
"Don't like it? Tough. Stay burdensome your whole lives then."
Conan slammed the chalk down with bold finality.
Hands clasped behind her back, she struck a leisurely pose, as if to say they'd be welcome to live that way forever.
"......"
Anje and Myoran sank into thought together.
No point in pride here—it gained them nothing.
Come to think of it, neither had ever gripped a ladle over a blade or spell.
"...Might as well hear it out? So what're you gonna teach us?"
"Making bentos for him once he becomes stronghold leader... and for our son and daughter... not a bad idea."
The mood was shifting.
Conan let a faint smile curl her lips and called out.
"We'll start with bentos. For Derek to eat tonight."
"Who's judging?"
To the prisoners' question, Conan slowly turned her head.
Straight toward Fred and Nix—and finally to the True Ancestor, sitting there bright-eyed in the middle.
"Plenty of test subjects right here."
"......?"
The two ex-Holy See members went slack-jawed in unison.
Franka too.
Cold sweat beaded as they foresaw the nightmare ahead.
"W-we're not hungry, though..."
"Th-this body is already full."
Anje and Myoran fixed the trio with icy glares.
Round-eyed like massive snake and cat yokai.
Both were thinking the same thing.
I have to cook better than that young eastern chit.
I have to outdo that brainwashed meat puppet.
But everyone in the cafeteria shared one blind spot.
The lightly kicked-off cooking contest was about to explode into something massive.