Dahlia bit her lip hard.

‘What is this?’

Mashitabuva’s younger brother’s gaze wavered—he looked utterly at a loss. Dahlia reached out in desperation but dared not grasp him, clenching her fist instead... as though meeting him for the first time.

Erilot’s expression was cold and detached.

“The Veil seems to know no courtesy. I presume they informed you the door would remain closed.”

“Mes—!”

The younger Mashitabuva tried to shout, but his brother cut him off.

“They are not a name to be summoned from outside.”

“...”

The younger brother fixed Erilot with a grim stare.

“I wish to hear it from your own mouth. Are you truly the One...?”

Erilot’s voice was icy.

“Well now.”

“Lady Erilot!”

The Guardians grew anxious. Paviel stepped forward.

“Please, tell us! We have waited so long. Our fathers—and their fathers before them—awaited the One...!”

“And if I say no, will you attack me again?”

“...!”

“Attempt to slay the soldiers I raised, trample my domain underfoot?”

Even the boisterous Urgula faltered.

“We believed you the Mes—no, the One.”

“And so you attacked me—stole from me, plotted my family’s ruin.”

“...”

“...”

The Guardians’ faces clouded. Hera spoke up.

“All was Grimie’s doing. He took all that should have been yours and gave it to Dahlia.”

Mashitabuva’s brother added in agreement.

“He possessed a fragment of your soul.”

“A fragment of my soul?”

“Yes. Even young Guardians sensed it at once. The light they felt when Dahlia first appeared—it was yours.”

“...”

“How could we, Guardians who long awaited the One, ignore Dahlia?”

Other Guardians murmured assent.

“Indeed!”

“So—”

As they buzzed, Erilot let out a low, humorless laugh.

“Therefore.”

“Lady Erilot, we—”

Paviel began, but Erilot cut across them with a piercing gaze.

“You expect I must understand everything you did, just because of your circumstances?”

“...”

“When I was ten, Girtav here tried to kill me.”

Girtav, utterly dismayed, stammered,

“Th-That was on or—orders to...!”

“Both Mashitabuva brothers tried to slay me and my soldiers.”

“...”

“...”

“And countless times you sought to harm me and mine.”

The Guardians fell silent. Erilot smiled faintly and looked around.

“I have a question.”

“Ask anything.”

“When I was born, my blessing was sealed. My family utterly «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» shunned me, and I lived each day on thin ice.”

“...”

“Yet no trace of such a seal exists. In hindsight, I suspect it was someone’s blessing.”

“...”

“Is there any among you who could wield such a blessing?”

All eyes turned to one figure—a man in his late thirties who bowed his head: Guanna, a Guardian wielding the Curse ward.

“I- I apologize....”

His face went pale as he avoided Erilot’s gaze.

“How dreadful.”

Erilot glared at the Guardians and turned away, as if refusing any further discourse.

The younger Mashitabuva caught her sleeve in desperation.

“It was love.”

He clung to her, eyes brimming with tears.

“All Guardians are born with the One engraved upon their souls.”

“Will you not release me?”

“As children, we love as a mother; in youth, as first love; in age, as children.”

“Huh....”

“If the One, the sum of all things, so desired, a Guardian would upend the world to fulfill them.”

“And?”

“We believed Dahlia to be the One, so we obeyed even the cruelest commands...!”

Erilot laughed in disbelief, then let dawn’s pale light fracture against her translucent skin. Her crimson eyes curved lazily. The young Guardians gazed at her as if entranced.

“How fickle your love is.”

“What....”

“You loved Dahlia believing her the One—then, believing me now, you’ll love me instead?”

“I... we....”

“I have no use for such shallow love.”

The Guardians’ faces collapsed with despair.

Then—

“That’s enough!”

Dahlia burst forward, arms outstretched between Erilot and the Guardians, tears in her voice.

“How can you say such things? It was a mistake! I’m apologizing—how can you speak so heartlessly? Don’t you know what ‘understanding’ means?!”

“You tried to kill me again and again—how is that a mistake?!”

“You....”

“Do you know how I’ve lived? Did you ever care?!”

Erilot cried out. Her composed veneer shattered, replaced by grief and rage.

“I’ve never had a single day’s peace since birth—!”

“...”

“A child who could barely walk, trembling every moment, fearing abandonment—!”

“...”

“No one acknowledged me; I lived scorned and shunned!”

“...”

“I fought to get here! And now you threaten to destroy all I’ve built, tried to kill me countless times!”

“...”

“How can I forgive you? How could I—!!”

The Guardians were too pale to meet her eyes. Dahlia’s face contorted, and she shot Erilot a furious glare.

“I know your stinginess well. But watch your words—do not wound my Guardians further.”

“What did you say?”

“If you’ll hurt them that way, I’ll protect them myself! I am their Messiah! Now go away!”

Erilot stared at Dahlia, fatigued. She sighed and brushed her hair back.

“Very well. Fine by me.”

With that, Erilot turned and addressed the guards.

“Do not report if they come seeking me again. If they try to breach the door, quash them with the Royal Guard and my personal troops.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Yes, Mistress!”

The guards barred the door firmly. The Guardians called out in desperation.

“Lady Erilot!”

“Please, give us a chance to speak!”

“Lady Erilot—!”

But the door did not open again.

Dahlia, sobbing, held the younger Mashitabuva.

“That’s enough now. Please stop—.”

Pressing her face against his back, she whispered in a trembling voice,

“I will be your Messiah... I won’t hurt you like that... I promise...”

Maza cheered from within his ward.

[Well done, Dahlia!]

If she comforted them so tenderly, the Guardians would surely relent. A loving Messiah is far preferred to a cruel one. Dahlia sighed, relieved.

‘Good thing Yoo Hye-min’s temper flared and stirred things up.’

Now the Guardians must compare her to Erilot—and find her worthy.

Yet why so silent?

‘They probably crave more of the Messiah’s power too.’

“Um... Father said if I bloom a second or third time, I’d be as strong as the true Messiah... ugh!”

Mashitabuva’s brother gripped Dahlia’s throat.

“When did you know you were a fake?”

“Ma-Mashita—ugh!”

“From the very start, you deceived us?”

“I, I...!”

“You watched for chances to kill us, knowing Erilot was the One?”

“Ma—Mashita—ugh!”

“I’m asking—!!”

Then:

Sshik!

An arrow sliced the air, grazing Mashitabuva’s wrist and burying itself in the iron gate.

“Protect Lady Dahlia!”

Ayla and Grimie’s retainers had arrived. They pounced like jaguars, claws and teeth tearing at Mashitabuva’s arm.

“...!”

As Mashitabuva’s brother released Dahlia, Ayla seized the moment to cast her ward—Telekinesis, gifted by Grimie. Dahlia floated helplessly through the air toward Ayla.

“Lady Dahlia!”

“Ugh... huff...!”

Dahlia clutched her throat, moaning, then stared in disbelief at Mashitabuva’s brother.

“Why... why would you do this to me...?”

“You are not the One—!”

Dragged by Grimie’s men, he shouted even as he was bound.

“We will not forgive you or your father, who deceived us and commanded us to harm the One...!”

A fierce aura blazed from both brothers. Paviel barked orders to Urgula and Hera.

“Stop them! We cannot make a scene before the Lady’s manor!”

All public attention remained fixed on the palace. The Emperor, felled by Grimie’s attack, lay unconscious. Weakened by plague and tainted magic, his collapse was broadcast empire-wide.

Now was the perfect moment for another strike—the regent would soon be declared, likely Salvatore, and nobles from every realm were gathered in the central tower.

‘But by morning, all eyes will turn again to Lady Erilot.’

The Saint who summoned the gods—every action of hers would become the focus. If fighting broke out outside her manor, covetous nobles would spin the tale wildly.

“They must detain her at the palace for her protection,” they’d say.

‘And if the Emperor never awakens, Prince Salvatore’s regency becomes all the more certain...’

Paviel said sharply,

“We withdraw now.”

“But—!”

“Move!”

As the Guardians rallied, Absinthe, whose ward was Teleport, whisked them all away.

Only then did Dahlia collapse to the ground, murmuring,

“A lie... this can’t be... it can’t be...”

Nonsense. Maza flailed in confusion.

[Why do you side with Erilot at every turn? Why!]

‘What could Erilot have done?’

[Oh—she must have special power as the Messiah.]

Thick tears rolled down Dahlia’s cheeks. She shot Astra Manor’s gates a fierce glare.

‘I will never forget this shame...!’

Five days after the No-Moon Rite, the manor’s gates swarmed with petitioners. Heidi and Betty sighed.

“They’re clamoring to see the Saint.”

“Since yesterday, they’ve even brought requests to heal His Majesty.”

Outside was chaos.

“Saint!”

“Let us see our Saint!”

“Saint, show us your face! Reveal your divinity and bless us!”

Citizens from across the empire had descended. And more...

“Miss, Lady Gonalong came calling at the back gate begging for a meeting....”

“A summons from the Kingdom of Shueliz arrived, inviting you...!”

“And—Miss, it’s cattle. The Queen of Palasa sent a herd of bulls...!”

I snapped my book shut and stood. The staff watched me with sad eyes.

“We can barely move in here for all the gifts....”

I surveyed the room. Gifts overflowed from storage into every corridor—jewel-encrusted boxes and local specialties spilling from each crate.

‘Why did Seiron have to manifest too!’

A gentle knock at the door. I waved them off.

“I won’t accept any. Return them all politely.”

Betty, who was carrying parchment, jumped.

“More refusal letters, milady?”

She and Jeanne had spent nights composing apology letters, heartbreak etched on their faces. Jeanne’s cheeks were sunken with fatigue, yet she smiled wanly.

“Betty, fetch another hundred ninety sheets of parchment.”

“...Jeanne, are you all right?”

“Tiring? Ha ha ha, not at all.”

“Shall I summon Conrad and Michelan?”

“They’ve been drafting letters too—for three days now.”

Jeanne tapped her pen toward the doorway. Maids scampered past, laden with more parchment into the hall.

“What? More staff? How many... what?! Ninety more?!”

“Wait, I need eye drops.”

Conrad gaped; Michelan hiccupped.

‘Gifts pouring in even from other continents....’

These refusal letters must be as courteous as possible: elaborate salutations, praise of the sender’s lineage, regret at being unable to accept, assurances of gratitude, and so on—each letter spanning several pages.

‘I’ll need the clerks’ help.’

Just then—

“Argh!”

Balzac stumbled in, brow furrowed.

“Despite refusing, the gifts keep coming.”

“Brother, will you help write the letters...?”

I lifted parchment and pen, dejected. Joshua and Richmond chuckled behind me.

“Balzac’s hopeless at writing; I’ll help.”

“I’ll help too, Erilot.”

“Thank you... but what’s wrong?”

Balzac nudged a gift box with his toe.

“You’ve been summoned to the palace.”

“...Summoned?”

“They decided on a regency since His Majesty still sleeps.”

“But why summon me?”

My three brothers’ faces turned ice-cold.

‘What could this be about?’