Chapter 23: Entrustment.

Morning sunlight filtered through the leaves of the White Rose District, scattering mottled spots of light across the breakfast table.

Hill sat at the table, somewhat idly watching as Phyllis arranged her long silver hair.

Today, Phyllis seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood.

She hummed an unfamiliar sacred hymn, her fingers deftly weaving Hill’s hair into an intricate side braid with an unmistakably aristocratic flair, finally securing it with a single sapphire hairpin.

“There. All done.”

Phyllis picked up a hand mirror and held it for Hill to see.

“Today’s Hill looks exactly like a princess on her way to a tea party.”

“I’m going to the guild to pick up a quest, not to drink tea.”

Hill looked at her overly refined reflection in the mirror and tugged helplessly at the corner of her mouth.

“Won’t this hairstyle make wearing a helmet really inconvenient?”

“Elisa is the one who wears a helmet and takes hits.”

Phyllis stated the obvious, casually reaching over to straighten Hill’s collar.

“Hill only needs to focus on swinging your sword with elegance. Besides… this style exposes the line of your neck. I like it very much.”

On that slender neck still lingered a faint red mark left by Phyllis “accidentally” the night before.

The braid cleverly covered half of it—yet in that half-revealed, half-concealed way, it only looked more suggestive.

“Let’s go. The guild said there’s a designated client who specifically wants to meet us today.”

Phyllis linked her arm through Hill’s, her face wearing a smile completely free of shadow.

…

Ten o’clock in the morning, Adventurers’ Guild VIP reception room.

This room was normally closed to ordinary adventurers; it was only opened for high-value commissions or important personages.

Thick carpet covered the floor; the air carried the expensive scent of incense.

Waiting on the sofa was a gentleman who appeared to be around fifty.

He wore a meticulously tailored dark-gray scholar’s robe, a silver pocket watch hanging from his chest, and a gold-rimmed monocle perched on the bridge of his nose.

His hair was combed without a single strand out of place; his entire bearing radiated intellect and refined breeding.

When Hill and Phyllis pushed the door open, the gentleman set down his red tea, rose to his feet.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hill—the Silver Waltz—and…”

His gaze passed over Hill and settled on Phyllis.

Behind the flash of the monocle, his eyes sharpened for the briefest instant before softening again into gentleness.

“…the rumored Saintess, Sister Phyllis. I am Marius, a scholar with a modest interest in ancient ruins.”

“Hello, Mr. Marius.”

Hill stepped forward, instinctively preparing to offer the adventurer’s salute.

But Phyllis was faster.

She didn’t speak over Hill; instead she retreated half a step with perfect timing, folded her hands before her, and dipped into a curtsey of impeccable ecclesiastical grace.

The posture was elegant, holy—more textbook-perfect than any textbook.

“May the Goddess’s radiance shine upon you, honored scholar.”

Phyllis’s voice was soft and impeccably proper.

“To be personally requested by a man of such erudition is an honor for the Iron Sword party.”

Marius watched Phyllis; the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes eased slightly.

“Oh? I never expected to witness such impeccable sacred etiquette in a border city like this. Have you perhaps studied at the Central Cathedral in the capital, Sister?”

A probe.

The roster of Central Cathedral clergy was a matter of public record.

If Phyllis answered yes and her name wasn’t listed, that would be a crack.

Hill, too, looked curiously at Phyllis.

She had never heard Phyllis mention anything about her past.

Phyllis’s smile remained utterly unchanged.

She did not answer directly. Instead she lowered her head shyly, like a young girl embarrassed by praise.

“You flatter me. I was simply raised in a remote rural convent. That was where the old abbess taught me. She always said: even in the wilderness, faith in one’s heart must never slacken for a moment.”

A perfect response.

It explained the origin of her manners while severing any path of verification—rural convents were countless, and most kept no records.

“I see.”

Marius nodded, seemingly accepting the explanation.

“With such sincere devotion, no wonder you can perform such astonishing high-tier healing magic.”

The three sat down.

Marius got to the point.

“This commission is, in truth, an escort mission. I have discovered an ancient ruin deep within the Mist Swamp. I require a strong party to escort me inside for investigation. The reward is… one hundred gold coins.”

“One hundred?!”

Hill’s eyes widened in surprise.

That was already A-rank commission pay.

“Because the place is very dangerous.”

Marius adjusted his monocle; his gaze locked tightly on Hill.

“Not only are there magical beasts—rumor has it there are also… remnants of certain heretical curses. Ordinary priests cannot purify them, which is why I specifically requested a party that includes someone known as a Saintess.”

When he spoke the word “heretical,” Marius’s eyes flicked—seemingly casually—toward Phyllis.

Phyllis was pouring tea for Hill.

Her hand was perfectly steady; the tea traced a graceful arc through the air and settled into the cup without spilling a single drop.

“Heretics truly are frightening.”

Phyllis agreed softly.

“As a believer in the Goddess, purifying defilement is my duty. As long as it protects Hill and yourself, sir, I will spare no effort.”

Her expression was utterly sincere, her eyes crystal clear.

Even the most seasoned inquisitor would struggle to find the slightest shadow on that face.

Marius was silent for a moment, then showed a satisfied smile.

“Excellent. Then let us look forward to a fruitful collaboration.”

He stood and extended his right hand toward Hill.

“Captain Hill, I hope the sword in your hand will cut through the thorns on our expedition.”

It was the most ordinary handshake etiquette.

As captain, Hill should naturally respond.

She rose, extended her right hand to meet the gloved one.

Just one second before their hands would have touched—

“Ah, right.”

Phyllis suddenly let out a small exclamation.

In her hand was a spotlessly white hot towel; she swiftly yet completely naturally laid it over Hill’s extended right hand.

“Hill, you touched the doorknob outside earlier and haven’t wiped your hands yet.”

Phyllis wore an expression of pure concern—“I’m doing this for your own good”—and wrapped both hands around Hill’s, meticulously wiping through the hot towel.

“Mr. Marius is a refined gentleman. It would be terribly rude to shake his hand with dusty fingers.”

The entire sequence flowed like water, neatly intercepting Hill’s hand.

Marius’s outstretched hand hung awkwardly in midair.

“My deepest apologies, Mr. Marius.”

While Phyllis bowed her head and earnestly cleaned each of Hill’s fingers, she lifted her gaze just enough to show an utterly apologetic smile.

“My captain can be a little careless at times, but as vice-captain, I must always pay attention to hygiene and etiquette. Especially with the recent flu outbreak… for your health, and for Hill’s health, it’s better to avoid direct skin contact.”

“…The vice-captain is… remarkably thoughtful.”

Marius slowly withdrew his hand.

He watched Phyllis play the role of a fastidious, germ-obsessed housekeeper to perfection; the suspicion in his eyes deepened a fraction, yet a trace of appreciation appeared alongside it.

A simple handshake would have allowed him—through magical contact—to probe whether forbidden magic traces existed in Hill’s body, or even to extract certain information through a concealed tool.

But this nun… had blocked him flawlessly.

“In that case, let us dispense with formalities.”

Marius produced a parchment scroll.

“Here is the contract. We depart in three days—acceptable?”

“No problem.”

Hill nodded.

Though Phyllis’s interruption had been abrupt, Hill was already accustomed to these occasional outbreaks of Phyllis’s “cleanliness fixation.”

Moreover, Phyllis’s stated reasons were always about protecting the party’s image; Hill couldn’t really object.

“Then we shall meet in three days.”

…

After seeing Marius off.

Hill and Phyllis walked home together.

“Phyllis, that scholar…”

Hill frowned slightly.

“He felt a little strange. Very polite, but his gaze somehow made me uncomfortable.”

Hill’s intuition remained sharp.

“Really?”

Phyllis linked arms with Hill, resting her head on Hill’s shoulder, voice light and breezy.

“Perhaps it’s an occupational habit of scholars—always observing people. But…”

She stopped walking and gently fixed the wind-tousled strands on Hill’s forehead.

“One hundred gold coins. With that money, we can finally buy you that Flowing Wind sword you’ve had your eye on for so long. We can even replace the dormitory mattresses with softer velvet ones.”

“You and your mattresses again.”

Hill laughed helplessly.

“Because I want Hill to sleep as comfortably as possible.”

Phyllis’s smile curved her eyes like crescents, the picture of a carefree young girl.

Yet in the angle Hill couldn’t see—

—the hand Phyllis had linked with Hill’s tightened subtly; her fingernails dug deep crescent marks into her own palm.

Marius…

I didn’t see the badge, but I smelled it…

The distinctive decayed incense exclusive to the Church’s Heresy Inquisition Bureau.

Is he here for me?

Or has he noticed something unusual about Hill’s soul?

In that moment, Phyllis’s gaze turned deep and frigid.

That handshake earlier…

That old bastard’s finger wore a lie-detection ring.

If Hill had touched it, she might have been compelled to say things better left unsaid.

Fortunately, she had blocked him.

To dare extend such filthy instruments toward my Hill.

“Hill.”

Phyllis suddenly spoke, voice still sweetly gentle.

“This trip to the ruins is quite far. I’ll prepare some special anti-demon sachets. I’ll make some for Elisa and Nia too.”

“Sure, you always think of everything.”

“Mm. After all, it’s heretical curses we’re dealing with.”

Phyllis buried her face in Hill’s sleeve, taking a deep breath of Hill’s scent to suppress the surging murderous intent within.

Since you’ve delivered yourself to my door, Lord Inquisitor.

Don’t blame me if that ruin becomes your tomb.

Before you die, you will understand…

just how grave a sin it is to try to touch my deity.

“We’ll always be together, Hill.”

“No one can separate us. Not even a god.”

Hill didn’t seem to sense the weight behind those words; she took them as her partner’s usual dramatic exaggeration.

She simply reached back, clasped Phyllis’s hand, felt that familiar warmth, and smiled in reply:

“Of course. We’re partners, after all.”

In the sunlight, their silhouettes stood close and intimate.

And in the shadow trailing behind them,

a hunt had quietly begun.