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Allen sat at his desk, the letter listing the names of those affected by the Great Teleportation spread out before him.
He wasn't looking at the paper, though. His gaze was fixed out the window.
A song thrush perched on the windowsill, its belly white and back black, having arrived under the cover of night.
Allen watched the bird for a while, listening to its melody.
Then, rubbing his temples, he turned back to the paper.
The candlelight flickered.
The handwriting was clear.
Where "Hilda" had once been written, the name was now blacked out.
Now, "Hilda" appeared beneath "Roxy" and "Sylphie."
He had already decided—he would save the woman who was his original self's mother.
But the newly written name wasn't added today.
It had been three months ago.
During a time when his relationship with Eris had deepened, and Sylphie had begun frequently receiving invitations to tea with Hilda alone.
The decision had come naturally.
In his memories of the original story, Hilda had always seemed… thin. Like a sheet of paper. Barely there.
But that wasn't the case.
Hilda was kind. Warm. The kind of person you couldn't help but want to be near.
Once that thought had taken root, he'd written her name down.
And yet.
Notably…
He still couldn't tell if this had anything to do with his Silent Sword Style returning to its peak.
Because three months ago, as he practiced daily, his Silent Sword had already shown signs of recovery.
Adding her name had come after that.
Later, during swordsmanship lessons, he'd even discussed the Silent Sword's stagnation with Ghislaine. Her verdict?
—Allen's accumulated skill had compensated for his lost talent. It had nothing to do with his "desires."
Allen's brow furrowed as he stared at Hilda's name.
'Was my initial judgment wrong? Does saving Hilda have nothing to do with my dulled sword heart? Then is it just… my inability to respond to Sylphie's feelings?'
Words flickered before his eyes like smoke.
[Oh? Is that what you think?]
'Got a problem with it?'
The letters danced.
[Of course not~]
Allen shook his head, ignoring the system panel that always popped up to meddle whenever he pondered these things. He narrowed his eyes.
'Hilda.'
'If what I sensed today is right…'
'She might already know I'm her child.'
'The parts involving noble etiquette—my attempts to cover up were too deliberate. The explanations I hastily came up with before were full of holes.'
'And yet… she didn't call me out on it.'
Allen lowered his gaze to Hilda's name.
After a long silence, he opened the drawer and pulled out another sheet of paper.
Three lines were written on it:
Fulfill Hilda's expectations — (Blank)
Fulfill Sylphie's expectations — (Blank)
Fulfill Ghislaine's expectations — Light Sword
Another endless silence.
Allen sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
The system panel, delighted by this, swirled with smoke, ready to taunt him further—until Allen swiped it away with a flick of his wrist.
He turned toward the door.
It remained still. Quiet.
A moment later…
Allen stuffed all the papers back into the drawer, locked it, and stood.
Crossing the room, he reached the door.
His hand gripped the handle.
With a creak—
It opened.
The hallway outside was empty.
———
One Minute Earlier
Sylphie stood outside Allen's door.
Her hand hovered just centimeters from the wood.
But after a pause, she shook her head silently.
Withdrew her fingers.
Turning away, she glanced down at her bare feet against the hallway carpet, then began pacing slowly back toward her own room.
The events of the evening played in her mind—everyone's expressions, their words, flickering like shadows.
Until they settled on one thing:
Hilda's soft, almost weightless whisper.
"Goodnight, Allen."
Her steps halted.
The floor beneath her was no longer carpet—just cold, hard wood.
Sylphie blinked, then looked to her side.
Instead of her own door…
She was facing a staircase, its steps covered in a thin runner.
She turned, staring down the long, dim hallway behind her.
Somehow, she'd walked all the way to the end of the corridor, where the carpet stopped.
After a brief hesitation, she faced the stairs again.
And climbed.
The lamps along the steps cast a faint glow. The Boreas manor was silent at this hour.
Only Sylphie's footsteps echoed.
Soon, she reached the fourth floor.
A familiar path.
She'd walked it countless times over the past six months.
This was the way to Hilda's room—where she'd been invited for tea so often.
Lost in thought, she turned down the hall.
Ahead was a small bridge. Once she crossed it…
She'd reach the private wing.
Hilda's bedroom was the first door around the corner.
This was the Boreas family's innermost sanctum. Strangely enough, Eris, Sauros, and Philip's rooms weren't even on this floor—each was too large, with adjoining chambers for their beast-girl maids.
There simply wasn't space.
Hilda had once joked about "privacy," but Sylphie hadn't really understood.
Another time, during tea, Hilda mentioned that Sauros often slept in a specially prepared room in the tower, while Philip usually dozed on his study's sofa.
Would Lord Philip be in his bedroom tonight?
The thought made Sylphie pause.
She stood just before the corner.
With a quiet sigh, she shook her head.
What am I doing? Even if Lady Hilda said I could come to her anytime, showing up this late would be too rude…
She turned to leave.
Then—
"Crash."
Sylphie froze.
The sound was distant, but unmistakable—something breaking.
From Hilda's room.
Without thinking, she broke into a sprint, rounding the corner—
And skidded to a stop.
There, standing in the hallway, was Lilia, the cat-eared maid.
Her tail flicked as she turned to face Sylphie.
Sylphie stiffened, already preparing to stammer an excuse and flee—
But before she could speak…
Lilia raised a finger to her lips.
Silence.
A beat passed.
Then—
From beyond the bedroom door, muffled but unmistakable…
A raised voice.
Another crash.
Something else shattering.
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