Chapter 11: Tears of a Three-Year-Old.

I confess I only prepared dinner for myself, but Tarte insists I take them along, so we head to the first-floor cafeteria.
As we enter, the hungry kids stop eating to stare—mostly at Silhime.
For boys hiding risqué drawings under their beds, a busty, beautiful living Silky is probably too much.
Some, dressed sloppily since it’s the dorm, blush and fidget.

“Over here, Moronidas,” Hernest calls.

With some students away for the break, the cafeteria isn’t too crowded.
I grab a tray of side dishes and join Hernest at a six-person table he secured.
Bread, rice, and tea are self-serve, so I ask Silhime for tea and go get my rice.
Arkan Kingdom’s rice isn’t long and dry—it’s round and sticky, like Japanese rice.
Thank goodness…
Returning with my rice, I see Tarte playing with an eight-legged pink lizard on her lap, almost as long as she is tall.
It’s Hernest’s familiar.

“Rare to see Sakurahime out,” I say.
“Yeah, thought she’d be good company for the little one,” Hernest replies.
“A rare-colored basilisk,” Tarte notes.

The lizard, a Hime Basilisk, is smaller and non-aggressive compared to other basilisks.
It gains resistance to poisons it encounters, and its crown-like horns produce antidotes or neutralizers for those toxins.
Omnivorous, it prefers highly toxic plants, mushrooms, insects, snakes, or fish, making it useful for identifying poisons in food or harvested materials.

Hernest’s Sakurahime, a gift from his fiancée Mujihidane—damn him—was a solid pink but recently developed yellow diamond patterns, a rare “Pink Diamond” variant.
It could fetch a high price, but Hernest won’t sell, fearing [Violence Duke]’s wrath.

Tarte demands fruit from the menu, so I give her strawberries and oranges, which she shares with Sakurahime.
Hernest offers fruit for Silhime to eat.
Tarte, grumbling that a honey spirit would make it tastier, drips a suspicious liquid from nowhere onto a strawberry for Sakurahime.
The basilisk eagerly demands more… isn’t that deadly poison?

“Two spirits? You know standing out in C-class gets you targeted, right?” Hernest says.
“What? The A-class girls already know.”
“A-class is fine—they focus on their own grades. B-class is worse. They’re obsessed with holding their rank and crush anyone climbing. You think Andrea will stay quiet if you pass her?”
“Seriously…?”

Hernest’s words bring to mind Andrea Aray, a B-class girl with glossy, slightly purple-tinged black hair and a brash demeanor—my cousin from my father’s viscount family.
She insists she’s the main branch’s heir and treats me like a lackey, never helping me in a pinch but swooping in later to play boss, claiming, “The branch family caused trouble.”
Thick-skinned and annoying.

In this kingdom, only titleholders are nobles.
Samurai are those registered by nobles in the national samurai ledger, granting upper-class privileges.
Unregistered noble children remain commoners.
Since taxes scale with registered samurai, few nobles register extras.
It’s common for those unregistered by their birth family to serve another noble to gain samurai status.
My father, never a samurai under Viscount Aray, became one under Marquis Hornius, a foreign minister, after graduating from the National Academy, later earning a baronet title with Hornius’s support.
Thus, Baronet Aray isn’t tied to Viscount Aray, letting me join Red Rose Dorm as unaffiliated, avoiding the Eastern faction.

Why Viscount Aray’s family now calls me a branch member is beyond me.
What kind of upbringing produces a daughter like that?
I don’t want to meet her parents—my father warned I’d need to brace for assassination to step into their domain.

“Ugh, I didn’t think that far. Tehe!”
“Not ‘tehe’! You’re in C-class for a year. Unless you hit A-class next year, expect harassment,” Hernest says, exasperated but warning me.

I didn’t know, being in B-class before, but C-class students showing promise face snide remarks, withheld teacher notices, or even stolen assignments.
Some C-class kids stopped a theft with force, sparking brawls with B-class.
I’d heard of these fights—now I know why.
Hernest, always in the thick of such chaos, likely led the charge.
He never shares reasons, just saying, “It pissed me off” or “I didn’t like it.”
I can’t call him out for keeping quiet—small and weak, I’m useless in a fight.

Feeling heavy, I finish dinner and head back.
Hernest, lifting Sakurahime, thanks Tarte for the “food” (poison) but asks what it was.
“Hydra poison,” she says, making his face twitch.
Hydras, nine-headed poison dragons, haven’t been seen here in over 200 years.
If real, it’s insanely rare.
And Sakurahime’s horns, having consumed it…
We’re sworn to secrecy about the hydra poison.
I don’t want [Poison King Dragger] knowing Tarte has it.
We part with Hernest at my room.

Sitting on the bed, I ask Tarte where she hid the hydra poison.
It looked like she slipped it from her robe’s sleeve, but her robe lacks wide cuffs.
A storage artifact?
Those are bigger than stored items, too large for Tarte to conceal.
Maybe a rare relic from ancient ruins, beyond modern magic tech?
That’d be a treasure nobles would kill for.

“Not an ancient relic, right? If people knew, you’d be targeted.”
“No worries. This is my… ability, [Memory’s Junk Box], tied to my god. Even gods can’t take it from me.”

Her ability, not a storage artifact, has no flaws like losing items if broken and can hold nearly unlimited size and quantity.
This toddler’s a cheat.

“Secrets need hiding spots for pranks,” she says, smirking.

Another smug look—I’ve lost count today.
True, a spirit should have abilities, and hiding things fits a prank spirit.
But I’d rather keep it secret.
Being suspected for every lost item would be a hassle, and per Hernest, Andrea would love framing me.
Still, since no spirit is powerless, questions about Tarte’s abilities are inevitable.
I need an excuse.
Rewriting magic circles, like she did with our contract, seems too powerful.
Rewriting any artifact’s circle is cheat-level.

“Can you rewrite any magic circle, like the contract one?”
“Easy.”
“You say that so casually… Do you get how broken that is?”
“Anyone on my level can do it. It’s not cheating.”

Clueless…
She’s annoyed, like I’m nitpicking.
This toddler’s existence breaks all rules.
What spirit matches her?
She was haughty with the honey spirit, Silhime, and [Crimson Thorn], and they accepted it as normal.
Is she on par with Viviana, the kingdom’s guardian water spirit?
That’d be a massive issue.

Viviana, contracted to the kingdom’s founding king 600 years ago, protects Arkan via a pact, revered like a god.
The academy sits by Lake Viviana, her supposed home, and the nearby town of Mou Viviana is steeped in her worship.
Claiming I contracted a spirit her equal is like cheering for the Giants in Tigers’ territory—pure hostility.

“You won’t say you’re Viviana’s equal, right? No fighting her?”
“Why would I fight Viviana? That’s absurd.”

Her exasperated tone reassures me.
Arkan’s monarchy isn’t absolute; local lords have sway.
The king’s descendants hold power through Viviana’s pact.
Challenging her challenges the kingdom’s order.
I want no part in that.

“I wouldn’t fight Viviana—I’d just order her around.”
“Stop! I didn’t want that answer!”

This arrogant toddler!
How high does she think she is?
Treating Viviana like an errand girl will make me a kingdom outcast.
I lecture Tarte on the danger of crossing Viviana.
Don’t give me that annoyed look—understand!
I’m no terrorist plotting to overthrow the state.

“So, I beat Viviana, make her servant king, and people worship me?”
“How does that follow? Are you trying to destroy the kingdom?”
“It’s not destruction if people aren’t wiped out. Exaggeration. Wouldn’t you be thrilled to be king?”
“King? I’d die of stress ulcers!”

Me, a king?
I’ve never even been class rep, let alone student council.
Leading is tough—my past-life baseball captain friend struggled.
I’m bad at giving orders; kingship’s impossible.

“Kings just sit proudly. Your butt might wear out, not your stomach.”
“What happens to the kingdom if the king slacks?”
“Leave work to those who love it. You just order people to worship me.”
“Too selfish! You don’t care what happens to the kingdom?”

I don’t know what worship means to spirits, but Tarte only cares about that, not the process or impact on people.
Spirits may not grasp human society, but why’s this toddler so superior to Viviana?
Some shouldn’t hold power.

“…You really don’t want to be king?”
“I’m a goblin, right? Humans won’t accept a goblin ruler.”
“…I… I…”

Huh?
Tarte’s eyes are teary.
Is she mad?

“If I’m higher… making you king… even a goblin would be happy…”
What?
She’s crying?
For me?

“Humans always… want to be great… so…”

…Right.
Tarte knew events from 2,000 years ago.
I’m not her first human.
People learning her power likely demanded the same thing—obvious what.
Kings are just cogs in society.
I see it as a stressful, lousy job because of my Japanese side, but in this world, dreaming of lordship isn’t odd, especially for academy kids.
She thought making me king would thrill me…

“To surprise… the spirit contractor goblin… make him king…”

I bite my lip.
Was I the selfish one?
Tarte saw my desires clearly and tried to fulfill them.
I wanted a spirit to stun those who mocked me as “goblin.”
Making them kneel as king would exceed that wish.
She aimed to grant it in a way I never imagined, yet I…

“Didn’t think you’d hate it…”
“Sorry… you saw my heart, didn’t you?”

I sit beside the sobbing Tarte, comforting her.
Not noticing her intent to please me, I rejected it as selfish…
Born from my own desires.

– Wanting to make someone happy, ununderstood…

I know that helpless feeling too well.
Sukumi Tanishi made that mistake often.
Regret for hurting someone dear, the loneliness of having no place—my selfishness forced those feelings on Tarte.
Her heavy tears pain me, and I pull her close.

“Your feelings make me happy… but the throne’s too big for me…”

As Tarte calms, clinging and crying, I speak softly.
I thought her an arrogant, reckless toddler, but she’s a kind kid, eager to please, who understood my wishes best.
I can’t let her cry for me anymore.

“If not king… what would make you happy?”
“Just stay with me… Your contract is enough. I’ll achieve my wishes myself…”

I pat her back gently as she sniffles, face down.
Contracting a spirit is a huge status.
I won’t ask more.
Demanding beyond that, I’d burn out.
[Crimson Thorn]’s “you’ll regret it” likely meant this.
I won’t make Tarte cry again.

“If that’s your wish… I’ll stay with you as long as time allows…”

Exhausted from crying, Tarte falls asleep, gripping my shirt.
Silhime lifts her expertly, pulling back the blankets.
She seems to say, sleep as is.
Careful not to wake Tarte, I shift to lay her on the bed, covering her.
Silhime, ever attentive, places a bib by Tarte’s mouth—my underwear, but whatever.

Silhime seems to know the room’s artifacts without explanation, dimming the light with a wave, leaving a faint glow.
She sits to rest.
I feel bad, but I’ll get her a bed tomorrow.
Sleep hits fast in bed.
Tarte’s warmth is like a hot water bottle—cozy.
She can just be my hot water bottle spirit… sounds good…