“You ain’t got nothin’ to say to a fine lady’s greetin’?” Eris narrows her eyes, one hand parked on her hip, chin tipped away as if my presence alone has offended the local laws of decorum. “Dat’s da trouble wit’ folk who don’t know how ta comport demselves ‘round nobility an’ royalty.”

  The accent hits me first. I’ve heard her talk from a distance before but my brain still stalls for half a second trying to parse it. The second hit is worse: she’s younger than me, visibly so, and she’s lecturing me on manners. My ego makes a small, undignified choking sound and dies quietly in the corner.

  More importantly—

  “Apologies, but…” I straighten, slide my left hand—currently twitching like it’s rehearsing for a seizure—into my pocket. “What brings you all the way out here in the outskirts? You’re not following me, are you?”

  Of course she’s following me. Nobleborn girls do not “coincidentally” wander into forests outside the academy at the exact time I do. That’s way too specific. The question isn’t if—it’s why. Whatever the reason, it’s important enough that she sneaks out, tracks me, and confronts me solo.

  I am also praying—very quietly, very sincerely—that she didn’t see the part where I used my Skill to displace myself through the gate. That stays buried. That stays theoretical. The whole point of my current life philosophy is minimal expectations, minimal explosions.

  Eris shifts her weight, finger scratching at her cheek, posture suddenly… less confrontational. Almost sheepish. Almost. “I heard tell you aided Her Highness von Hohenzollern.”

  “I didn’t really do much,” I say, automatically downshifting into damage control. “I just watched over and deployed flares for Genovefa—”

  Her face snaps sour again, faster than a trap trigger.

  “Mind the manner in which you addresses Her Highness!”

  “Y—yesh…!” The sound escapes me before dignity can intercept it.

  “Geez!” She exhales, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug. “Anyway… I’m just here t’say—” The words stall. She looks away. “…thank you.”

  The gratitude lands wrong. After being scolded like a delinquent student, it doesn’t warm me the way it normally would. I’m usually the type to beam if someone younger thanks me—positive reinforcement is a powerful neurotransmitter—but right now irritation prickles instead. Mostly because I was in the middle of something important.

  Extremely important.

  I was about to explore further applications of my Skill. Controlled experiments. Variables isolated. Hypotheses ready. Ever since I got dumped into this world, opportunities like that have been rarer than honest politicians. The stars finally align, the forest is quiet, no witnesses—and then a noble ambushes me and ruins it all!

  A sigh leaks out, more groan than breath. “I told you, I didn’t really do anything—”

  “You think I want t’do this?!”

  Uwah… This is the second time she interrupted me.

  Now she’s pointing at me now, finger sharp, cheeks flushed like she’s embarrassed by her own sincerity. “Thankin’ a below-average guy? Dat be da last thing I’d do, yeah! It’s just—” Her gaze slides away, pout small. “…I heard from Her Highness ’bout what went down durin’ dat chase. How you wanted da reeves t’handle da abduction proper-like, but Her Highness wished us rescued at once… so you cobbled up a plan on da spot.”

  My stomach tightens. That memory resurfaces—running calculations under pressure, choosing between optimal procedure and human fear. I file it under things I’d rather not replay. Two weeks already. Time moves oddly when trauma and routine shake hands.

  “I weren’t plannin’ t’express no gratitude neither,” she continues, quieter now. “Like you said, you barely did aught. If anyone deserves praise, it be dat brave masked vigilante what saved us!”

  “Alright, alright. I know.”

  “Hmph!” She folds her arms, chin lifting. “But I must say dis one thing, yeah… I’m truly grateful you thought on Her Highness’ feelings. You kept her safe, yet still honored her wish t’do somethin’ ’bout dat abduction.”

  My body yet runs. I cannot make it halt.

  Genovefa’s voice echoes up from memory, clear and uninvited, reminding me why I even bothered with all of that trouble in the first place. No. Worse. I’m being confronted by the why now, stripped of adrenaline and excuses.

  I deployed flares. I guarded the barn. I waited for help to arrive. Not because it was optimal—but because I didn’t want Genovefa to drown in guilt for acting before she had time to think. She wanted to do something right. I was the rational one then. She wasn’t. So the least I could do was design a plan that let her leave to find help while I chased the bandits myself.

  That alone should’ve been enough. It would’ve satisfied her need to act. It would’ve balanced responsibility neatly across cause and effect.

  And yet—I didn’t stop there.

  I went further. Slipped into a sudden vigilante act. Pulled Eris and Iustitia out of the dark like some masked morality play. Because I knew—knew with the cold certainty of probability curves—that if I just sat there after launching the flares, waiting in that stretched-out pocket of time, something bad would happen.

  And even if it did—logically—it wouldn’t have been my fault. Not Genovefa’s either. But she wanted them saved as soon as possible—which is why she even moved before thinking in the first place.

  So somewhere in that mess, my subconscious made an executive decision and pushed my Skill into territory I hadn’t tested. A blind application. No simulations. No margins. A move that could’ve easily cost me my life.

  …

  The answer arrives at the exact moment the question finishes forming.

  “I could’ve convinced her harder to stay put. Things would’ve ended differently. While she may grapple with guilt, I could have proffered solace—articulated my comprehension of her dilemma. Emphasized her emancipation from any perceived obligations.” I pause. The words taste wrong. “But to profess kinship through parallel experience reeks of presumptuous hubris. An act fueled either by the speaker’s swollen self-regard or the listener’s vanity. After bearing witness to such visceral unraveling… I don’t think a simple talk would suffice to put her resolve back together.”

  My stomach churns. The realization is nauseating. All of it—illogical, inefficient, emotionally compromised. I got carried away by sentimentality, of all things. And yet—strangely—I’m relieved. Relieved that even then, some core of me still stayed real.

  “That’s why I did what I did. There’s nothing to be grateful for. It was self-indulgence. I acted to satisfy my own sense of what’s right and proper—what’s realistic—for me and her.”

  Her mouth parts, caught halfway between confusion and awe. The flush drains from her cheeks… then creeps back as she looks away. She crosses her arms again, a grin tugging at her lips as she smothers whatever she felt a second ago.

  “Would ya listen to yourself, talkin’ all eloquent-like. Didn’t understand a blasted word of dat.” She tilts her head, eyes sharp again, playful this time. “Outta all da Heroes, you’re da weakest one. What’d ya have left if your talkin’ skills be a bust too, huh?”

  My soul shatters. Why did I even say all that? Of course she will not get it. I just unloaded a full incoherent rant on a prideful noble brat whose emotional range currently oscillates between smug and smug-but-louder. And yet—annoyingly—letting it spill out feels… a little good. Like venting pressure from a sealed container before it explodes.

  I reel my focus back to her. “Is thanking me the only reason you’re out here?”

  “Yah. Got a problem?”

  My eyes narrow. I sigh, long and deliberate, like I’m deflating myself from whatever weird emotional altitude I climbed earlier. Fine. Whatever. I’ll just shoo her back to the academy and return to what I’m supposed to be doing—

  …Huh.

  Only now do I actually look at her properly. She’s been standing half in the shade, so I didn’t notice earlier, but her clothes—those aren’t noble leisure wear. That cut, that fabric—

  An Acshe uniform.

  She’s a student.

  That’s… unexpected. I guess she might be a prodigy of some sort, probably skipped half the curriculum. Still, what really sets off alarm bells—

  I look past her.

  Empty.

  “…All by yourself again?” slips out of me, irritation bleeding straight into my voice.

  “Yah. Got a problem?”

  Using the same response is a crazy play right there. She must be a psychopath.

  This time, I point at her. “The last time you wandered around without escorts, it didn’t end well. And now you tailed me out here without one again?!”

  A vein twitches at her temple as she bristles. “Shuddup! Why ya talkin’ like my parents?!” She jabs back, indignant. “I ain’t had time t’call for an escort—I already saw you dart off beyond da gates!”

  Then, just like that, the irritation melts into a smug little smirk. Her posture loosens. “Well,” she says sweetly, “guess you’ll just have t’escort me back, den.”

  YOU BITCHHHHHHH!

  I was this close. Finally poised to indulge in proper experimentation. And chaos, in its infinite malice, engineers a scenario where I am left with exactly one viable choice. Because it’s not like I can actually refuse her. If I let her walk back alone—which, strictly speaking, would be morally permissible since she’s not my responsibility—there’s a nonzero chance something bad happens again. And annoyingly, inconveniently, a part of me would not be okay with that—some stubborn, inconvenient part of me would lodge the blame right where logic insists it doesn’t belong.

  This is the curse of trying to be a realist while also being pragmatic—the moment morality enters the equation, pragmatism quietly packs its bags and leaves you alone with consequences.

  Sighhhhhhhh.

  So much for the perfect opportunity. I’ll have to be realistic at the moment.

  I walk past her, taking the lead. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

  A few steps in, I stop. No footsteps behind me. I turn. She’s still there, staring like I just violated her expectations of reality.

  “What?”

  “Oh—just…” She blinks, then recoils. “Didn’t expect ya to actually take it serious-like.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  I click my tongue, not bothering to mask my reluctance. “If Her Highness found out you met me out here and I let you walk back alone, she’d kill me.”

  I resume walking. This time, she falls in beside me, light-footed, amused, smug in that effortless way only troublemakers manage.

  “Oh my,” she teases. “What a gentleman ya be.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m a real gentleman. So much so that girls flock around me.”

  “Dat jest’s kinda sad.”

  We leave the woods behind and step into the open breath of the farmlands. The air smells of cut grass and warm oil. Farmers bustle about, stacking hay while a diesel-powered tractor clatters its way across the field, engine knocking loud and unapologetic. The silhouette is unmistakable—boxy, utilitarian, almost reverent in its ugliness. It looks suspiciously like a New Holland Eighteen-Ninety self-propelled forage harvester. On the far end of the field, a slower rhythm persists—buffalo-drawn ploughs carving the soil the old way for the next sowing.

  Eris watches the workers for a moment, something softer settling in her eyes. Respect, unfiltered. “Workin’ hard as always,” she murmurs. Then she points toward the tractor. “Dem contraptions… I heard from tales of da previous Heroes dat such things be common in your world.”

  “Well, yeah.” I squint at it, mentally disassembling the machine. “Though that one’s at least thirteen decades behind what we’d call modern.”

  Her head snaps toward me. “You serious?”

  “Very. Very serious.”

  For all the strange, half-modern inventions creeping their way into this world, I still feel a pang of homesickness. Earth had its problems, but familiarity is its own kind of luxury.

  “Then your world’s farmers got it easy, aye?”

  I sigh, a short laugh escaping despite myself. “Not even close. Honestly? I think they might have it worse than the farmers here.”

  And then the conversation dies. Just—flatlines. No segue. No natural rebound. The silence stretches, awkward as hell. This isn’t like talking with Genovefa. Even at our first meeting—clashing personalities and all—we managed something resembling rhythm. We found common ground in our shared nonchalance, in the way we could disagree without grinding gears. Our differences made the exchange feel… refreshing.

  But Eris is different. My first impression of her was pride, but not Genovefa’s polished vanity. This is something sharper. Egocentrism. She also feels… guarded. Like her outward behavior is a costume she doesn’t quite believe in, which contrasts painfully with Genovefa’s blunt honesty—especially toward people she doesn’t care about. Me included. To the point she’s perfectly fine changing clothes in the same room.

  “…Why did I have to run into a tsundere archetype of all things.”

  “What’d ya say?!” Eris snaps.

  “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  “Hmph!” She flicks her chin up. “Can’t even start a new topic. I wager, contrary t’that sad jest, you be dreadful with women. I bet ladies avoid ya like a plague.”

  I wince. “That’s… harsh. I’m not gross. I’m objectively high-spec, ignoring looks. But yeah, you’re not entirely wrong about the first part.”

  “Ew.” She recoils with theatrical disgust. “Da fact ya can say dat with confidence is vile. Truly vile.”

  Fantastic. Of all the things this reincarnated life could offer me, being verbally eviscerated by a noble brat is the least I want to happen.

  We walked for few kilometers. I expected she’d complain and all and demand we ride but she just stayed silent the entire time. The greenery of the fields and towns finally thins out, replaced by concrete, stone, and lumber as we cross into the capital proper. Smoke curls through the streets from food stalls—oil, spice, grilled dough—familiar enough to tug at something nostalgic. The silence between us doesn’t improve. If anything, it ferments. The kind of quiet that grows teeth.

  We pass the city square, then the reeve’s station, and finally reach the academy gates. A guard steps forward, posture stiff, clearly about to ask why two students are wandering outside academy grounds without proper leave. Before he can speak, Eris narrows her eyes at him. Just a look—sharp, noble, final. The implication is clear: I was with a Hero; therefore, I was not unescorted.

  The guard hesitates, then steps aside, reluctance written all over his face. I guess having our Skills awakened at such a low level technically qualifies us as walking deterrents. Which is still absurd. I’m still learning. The others are too. We’re young, untested, and absolutely not people you’d trust with noble safety.

  Still. She has the final say. I almost feel bad for the guard who has to back down. Dude’s just doing his job and gets steamrolled by hierarchy.

  “Oh—Shin?”

  The voice reaches me like a soft chime—silver-bell clear, informal, familiar in a way that bypasses defenses.

  We turn to see Genovefa stands a short distance behind us, Leyni at her side as an escort. Both are in casual wear—chemise beneath a laced, sleeveless bodice. I’ve only ever seen Leyni in full knight armor or academy uniform, so this is… disarming… in a good way—

  Aaaaaand nevermind. She’s glaring at me again.

  “You really look at me like I’m garbage.”

  “You really look at me like I’m garbage.”

  Genovefa glances at Leyni, then back to me, lips curving into a small, amused smile. “I agree—you do not deserve such regard. However,” she continues smoothly, “your demeanor, disregard for etiquette, and overall conduct do little to aid your case.” She gestures lightly with one hand, that lingering smile almost cruel in its composure. “First impressions are everything, they say. And you made a particularly strong one on Leyni. Regrettably, not a favorable one.”

  “Absolutely!” Eris cuts in, arms crossed. “I cannot believe dis man!”

  Leyni’s hand twitches—muscle memory reaching for a sword that isn’t there. She grips empty air, eyes sharp. “You brought discomfort to Lady Dekeyser as well?!”

  I raise both hands immediately. “WAIT. WAIT. Time out. Why is this suddenly a tribunal?!” I pivot toward Eris, incredulous. “You brat—I literally escorted you back safely and this is how you repay me?!”

  “HAAAAH?!” She jabs my hip, sharp and unapologetic. “Watch ya mouth! Who ya callin’ a brat?!” She plants her hands on her hips. “Don’t go slappin’ da blame on me, ya dingus! You’re da one who relented an’ volunteered t’be my escort!”

  Genovefa’s smile drains away, quick and clean. “Eris… do not tell me you—”

  Ahh, the cat’s out of the bag.

  “I get it, I get it, Your Higness. I know I deserve some scoldin’ but—”

  Genovefa raises one hand. Silence snaps into place like a spell. Even Eris freezes. Then Genovefa turns to Leyni, whose glare at me finally loosens, the tension in her shoulders easing by a fraction.

  “Leyni,” Genovefa says calmly, “would you assist Eris? Duke Dekeyser has summoned her, has he not?”

  Leyni swallows—pride, duty, and relief all tangling in her throat. “By your will, Your Highness.” She extends a hand.

  Eris takes it, then looks back at me once more. “See ya.”

  “Oh. Yeah…”

  I watch them leave—Leyni hailing a coach, both of them mounting it. The wheels roll away, carrying the chaos with them, until they vanish into the city’s arteries.

  Then—

  “Why were you two together?”

  Genovefa’s question is abrupt, sharper than her tone usually allows.

  “She just… thanked me,” I answer. “You know. For the whole abduction fiasco.”

  “Hm…”

  She walks past me, clearly headed for our room. Which means my window for sneaking out again is officially dead. No experiments. No tests. No reclaiming the perfect conditions I had earlier. My free time is already bleeding out, and I really don’t want Genovefa to get suspicious of me.

  Damn these cursed chains of coincidence.

  I fall into step beside her. “What’s with the hum?”

  “Oh—nothing,” she says lightly. “It’s just… how do I put this? I did not expect Eris to thank you.”

  That’s fair. Eris does seem dishonest. Genovefa knows her better than I ever will. What she doesn’t know, though—

  “She thanked me for considering your feelings. Back when you suddenly ran off to give chase.”

  Genovefa stops. Her eyes widen just a fraction before softening, a quiet smile blooming—as though a loose thread in her thoughts has finally been tied. “I see…” Then the smile tilts, teasing now. “I’ve already remarked how you’re a curiosity for others in all the wrong reasons. But I didn’t expect you’d also attract Eris’ attention of all people.”

  “Huh?” The thought genuinely catches me off guard. “Does it really look like that to you?”

  We turn a corner. Her pace quickens just enough that I fall a step behind before matching it. Then she spins around mid-walk, hands clasped behind her back, strolling backward with practiced grace.

  “Expressing gratitude toward a man is not something she is known to do,” she says. “That she bothered to thank you at all is… noteworthy, would you not agree?”

  I roll my eyes. “Doesn’t make sense.” I shrug, forcefully sweeping away the faintly uncomfortable idea forming at the back of my mind. “She’s just a brat who can’t come to terms with her own feelings. Excessive pride, zero self-awareness.”

  Genovefa laughs—open, unguarded—covering her mouth with a delicate hand. “That is rather cruel, yet not particularly inaccurate.” She turns forward again. “However, you truly should cease addressing her as a brat. Your lack of adherence to etiquette is already… remarkable.”

  What’s wrong with that, exactly? I know she’s nobility. I’m not blind. But they summoned Heroes from another world—one with different norms, different power structures. They can’t seriously expect us to contort ourselves into their customs when they’re the ones who need us. Besides—

  “She is a brat,” I say, counting off mentally. “Spoiled. Prideful. Sharp-tongued. A kid that causes trouble for others because of her selfishness.” I tap my chin. “Like a nepo baby.”

  Genovefa frowns, glancing back at me—clearly missing the last reference—but she still chuckles. “That is… not entirely false. Still, calling a senior a brat is quite something.”

  …

  I stop.

  She stops too.

  “What is it—”

  “She’s a what now?”

  Bored stiff, I gaze out the coach window, watchin’ the city roll by in shades of stone and smoke. My thoughts drift—unbidden—back to dat Hero Shin. Strange man. Stranger aura. There be somethin’ about how he speaks to folk who barely matter to him, how he addresses everyone just as he pleases, fearless or foolish, I can’t rightly tell.

  Mayhap it be cultural. I’ve heard tell that in the worlds Heroes hail from, royalty and nobility hold little sway—folk choosin’ their leaders, runnin’ things by vote and voice. Like the Republic of Gallionne, only louder, I reckon.

  “Hey,” I say at last, glancing toward Leyni. “Is Father vexed or somethin’?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Your father merely wishes to dine with you and speak on matters of your safety.”

  That again.

  So tight-laced I could scream. I groan, sinking deeper into the seat.

  “I see,” I mutter, watchin’ the road stretch on ahead—wonderin’, against my will, why that ridiculous Hero’s words still linger like dust I can’t quite brush away.

  Silence settles inside the coach. It stretches, elastic and heavy, and my mind—traitor that it is—replays that walk with Shin. Letting a noble lady walk on foot and not even suggestin’ a carriage… Well, there ain’t much public conveyance ‘round the outskirts, true enough, but once we entered the capital proper, he could’ve at least offered. And yet—despite that—our walk stays with me. Quiet. Awkward. Circlin’ back ‘round to somethin’ almost… pleasant.

  Realizin’ that makes me want to throw myself out the coach window.

  Leyni clears her throat, draggin’ my attention to her steady gaze. “That man,” she says carefully. “Did you truly need to thank him? He is not the one who saved you and Lady Asbj?rn.”

  I don’t wish to speak of him. Nor of why I tailed him alone, nor why I thanked him—not for the abduction, but for somethin’ far more stupid. Yet sayin’ nothin’ would only invite more misunderstandin’. So I smile, polite and practiced.

  “I hear tell you do not get along with him. But fear not—he be no villain. He did nothin’ that warrants such hostility.”

  “But he shows no respect. Gratitude from your grace is not warranted for him!” Leyni snaps. “A man such as that must be put in his place—”

  “Of course he does,” I interrupt, wavin’ a dismissive hand. “Yet I do not believe we be the ones to do it.” My voice softens. “We tore them from their world to serve ours. We cast them into a fight they did not choose, where battlin’ for us be their only road home. The least we can do is bear with them.”

  Leyni’s mouth opens, then stills. No rebuttal comes. Instead, her brows lift, curiosity peeking through duty. “You seem… fond of him.”

  Heat floods my cheeks, traitorous and sudden. Saints preserve me—this is exactly why I wished to keep silent.

  “L—like hell I am!” I sputter, clap a hand over my mouth as if that might undo the disgrace. I turn away, force my breath steady. “He’s despicable.” A pause. “It’s just… you know Her Highness is close to him, yes? That is… unusual.”

  Leyni’s rigid posture eases. “True. I was worried at first, when I learned he would be roomed with Sir Shin. Yet they appear… normal together.” She exhales, as though lettin’ her earlier hostility drain away. “Did you ever wonder why?”

  Aye. I suppose I did.

  I thanked Shin on behalf of Her Highness—the same Her Highness who felt compelled to act, to prove her worth, to shoulder responsibility for an incident that happened because I cast aside my own safety. Guilt gnaws at me for all the trouble I caused her. But more than that—

  Shin. That unremarkable-lookin’ man did somethin’ for her.

  He weren’t the masked vigilante who saved us. But he saved Her Highness from drownin’ in guilt, all while keepin’ her out of harm’s way. The fact he could think on her feelings at all…

  I stare out the window again, watchin’ the world slide past.

  …He may not be remarkable—nor Hero-like in the way stories like to scream—but perhaps he is kinder than he lets on.

  “To profess kinship through parallel experience reeks of presumptuous hubris,” I murmur, my voice barely louder than the rattle of the wheels. “An act fueled either by the speaker’s swollen self-regard or the listener’s vanity.”

  His words. I remember them too clearly.

  He did not talk Her Highness out of her resolve. He did somethin’ stranger—somethin’ harder. He paired action with reason. A compromise forged under pressure. Had he not done so, she—no, we—might have been left with a kind of regret that rots quietly, the sort that never quite loosens its grip.

  I lower my gaze to my palm, study it as though it belongs to someone else. This, too, I will examine from now on—my choices, my recklessness, the ease with which I endanger others. I will not allow such a thing to happen again. Especially not when it burdens Her Highness.

  I tighten my fingers, jaw setting.

  I refuse to be the cause of that again.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Leyni’s voice pulls me back, gentle but sharp enough to cut through my thoughts. I turn to her, offer a weak, noncommittal smile, then look back out the window.

  “Who can say?” I reply lightly. “I do not understand a damn thing of it myself.”

  “…Yet your smile suggests otherwise.”

  “I—I am not smiling!”