Chapter 6: The Maid Arrives.

“It’s about lunchtime, isn’t it? Time to eat!”

Tarte, no longer just a three-year-old, points at the high sun while tugging my sleeve.
Is she trying to cheer me up as I wallow in despair, my soul drained?
Her beaming smile, brimming with joy, urges me to have lunch.
Judging by the sun’s position, it’s indeed around noon, as Tarte says.

I don’t have a drink, but I’ll eat the bread I brought.
Since I came all the way to the forest and the weather’s nice, I might as well shake off the gloom and enjoy a picnic vibe.
I pick a sunny spot, spread the now-useless summoning magic circle as a mat, and sit down.
Since it’s guaranteed to summon [Crimson Thorn], I’ll never use it again.
I need to figure out how to dispose of it discreetly.

“Don’t just sit there—make room for me!”

I doubt Tarte, who stayed spotless after crashing from the sky, needs a mat, but it feels wrong to leave a toddler standing, so I scoot over.
Tarte sits daintily beside me, her head bobbing close by, and I can’t help but stare.
Her slightly wavy, pale blonde hair, reaching her waist, sparkles in the sunlight like spun gemstones, puffing up softly in the breeze like cotton fluff—so tempting to touch.
When I give in and reach out, it’s fine yet supple, light as feathers, making even a non-furry like me want to moff it.

“Mmm~ Stroke it more!”

Despite touching her hair without permission, Tarte doesn’t get mad—she demands more petting.
Like a typical three-year-old, she seems soothed by head pats, squinting happily as I stroke and lightly tap her head.
It reminds me of my little sisters back in the Dwarf Kingdom.
Am I a doting big brother, worrying if they’re lonely without me?
I’m definitely not a siscon, though.

I could get lost in Tarte’s hair and awaken to something dangerous, so I reluctantly let go and pull out my lunch bread from the backpack.
It’s just a simple coppe-pan slathered with butter—after spending my savings on bribes, I can’t afford luxury.
Wishing I’d at least made a hot dog with cabbage and sausage, I shake off the regret and take a big bite.

“Ah…”

What’s that?
Tarte’s eyes go wide, her face screaming “unbelievable.”
Does she want more petting?
What a spoiled little thing.
I munch the coppe-pan with my left hand and pat her head with my right.
That should cheer her up.

“Aaa…”

Something’s wrong… Tarte’s eyes are tearing up.
I hold the bread in my mouth and tickle under her chin with my free left hand.
…No good.
Her eyes well with tears, shoulders trembling.
What happened?

“Why are you eating alone?!”
“—Mmph!”

Tarte, crying, throws tantrum punches at me.
What?!
Spirits aren’t supposed to eat human food!
Was the “no feeding costs” thing a lie?

To calm her, I try to lift her by the armpits, but despite her toddler appearance, she’s strong and overpowers me.
Pushing me down, Tarte smoothly shifts to a mount position, locking my sides with her short legs, preventing me from wriggling free.
She snatches the coppe-pan from my mouth and, sitting on my stomach, starts munching away.

She doesn’t care that I already bit it.
Am I wrong to expect girlish modesty from a three-year-old?
Or, as a different species, does she not see me as a guy?
No, no—it’s not like I want a three-year-old to see me romantically!
I’m not a pervert or a gentleman—just a normal guy who doesn’t mind being liked by a kid.
I swear I’m not a lolicon, please believe me, trust me!

While I make excuses to no one, Tarte finishes the coppe-pan she stole.
I try to brush crumbs off her as she climbs off, but there’s not a speck—some magic must repel all dirt.
I’ve never heard of such a convenient spell, but it’d be handy for me.

“You don’t get dirty at all. Is that magic?”
“It’s not your so-called magic. I simply don’t allow anything to stick to me, so it doesn’t.”

Too bad it’s not magic.
Our magic, in short, is “exchanging magic power for spirits to cause unnatural phenomena.”
Magic alone does nothing—spirits cause the effects, so phenomena from idle or unknown spirits can’t be replicated.
A similar spell might be possible, but it’d likely repel everything indiscriminately, even things you want to touch, or worse, air, making breathing impossible.
Spirits don’t compromise, so spells must precisely define targets and non-targets to avoid accidents.
That’s the first thing drilled into us at the academy.

“More importantly, after lunch comes nap time.”

A phenomenon Tarte can do without magic is trivial to her—napping is more important.

“If you sleep right after eating, you’ll turn into a pig.”
“No problem.”

As a girl, is that okay?
I help Tarte pull up a hood-like thing hidden under her hair.
Tucking her hair in and pulling it over her head, I see small ears, round eyes, and a distinctive nose decoration on the hood.

– I see… she was already a pig…

What I thought was a pink onesie with a white stomach is apparently a ‘piggy pajama.’
The magic circle is too small as a mat, so I spread Tarte’s robe under her feet and remove her shoes and socks.
If she needs a blanket, my jacket will do.
As nap preparations finish, Tarte grabs my arm, saying, “You promised to stay by my side,” begging to cuddle.
Demanding to sleep beside me?
Not bad for a little piggy…

I’m no braggart, but I’m a ten-year veteran at putting kids to sleep.
As Sukumi Tanishi and Moronidas, I was always the eldest brother.
My soothing skills, honed on fussy younger siblings, are no joke.
Even my loli-mom would hand them off to me when overwhelmed.
I know exactly how to make a three-year-old feel safe and cozy.
You’re an open book, Tarte.
Fresh off a meal and in a good mood, I’ll have you asleep in ten minutes!

I fold the robe to keep her bare feet warm and drape my jacket over her shoulders and neck to block drafts.
With no pillow, I slide my arm under her head, supporting near her temples to ease neck strain, then gently pat her back.
Like magic, in just five minutes, Tarte’s consciousness surrenders, and she starts snoring softly.
The demon who tricked and trapped me is now just an adorable three-year-old with a happy sleeping face.
Clinging to me, her warmth seeps through, like cuddling a hot water bottle.
The sun’s nice here, and this warmth is making me sleepy…

…Oops, I dozed off.
The sun’s position suggests it’s not evening yet—maybe two hours in my old world.
Tarte… wow, she’s fast asleep, face all mushy, drooling like a fountain.
Her drool, from her slightly tilted head, drips onto the magic circle… and it’s glowing!?

It’s not me—I feel no magic being drawn.
It must be Tarte.
Is she pouring magic into it from a weird dream?
It’s glowing white, so I hope nothing appears, but unlike my failed summons, it pulses rhythmically, as if saying, “Get out of the way.”

“Tarte, wake up! The magic circle’s activating!”
“…Mmm, want more food…”

No good—she’s completely out of it.
I scoop her up and move her away from the circle.
The moment we’re clear, it flashes blindingly white, and a spirit appears.

– This… this is…!

The spirit is pure white from head to toe, like a snow maiden in a white maid outfit, breathtakingly beautiful.
She looks about twenty in human years, with silvery hair and eyes, snow-white skin, and slender, delicate arms holding a large basket.
Despite her fragile air… her chest is impressive.
Yes… impressive.
I’m no lolicon—I don’t dislike flat chests, but I can’t help admiring an older sister type overflowing with maternal warmth.

Why…?
Why show up now?
You’re too late for me…
If you’d come earlier… I’d have gladly offered my ‘first’!

“Smells delicious!”

Clenching my teeth hard enough to crack them, trying to wash away my grief with tears of blood, Tarte pipes up in my arms, oblivious to the mood.
Greedy little thing.
She wouldn’t wake when I shook her but snaps to at the smell of food.
Indeed, a sweet, toasty aroma, like baked goods, wafts over.

“You’re that Silky, aren’t you? Is that basket full of the promised goods?”
“—”

She knows Tarte.
So this is Silky, the maid spirit of households.
The spirit encyclopedia said she’s beautiful, but this…

“—”
“So that’s how it is. Fine, I permit you to serve me.”

The rustling sound of Silky’s clothes seems to be her speech, and Tarte understands her.
She made Silky a servant without consulting me, but that means… I get to stay near her, right?
Fellow servants, maybe we’ll get close… mufu, mufufu!

“That servant over there giggling creepily is already claimed by [Crimson Thorn], so no touching.”
“—!”

Damn toddler, sticking her nose in…
Am I doomed to never escape that gay spirit…?

“—”
“Oh, you want a name? Very well, leave it to me.
Since you’re a Silky… Juice Princess… I grant you the name Silhime.
And since a title is handy in the heavens, as my caretaker, I bestow upon you the title [Pure White Shrine Maiden].”
“—!?”

Calling it a great name is a stretch, isn’t it?
Silky’s tearing up… wait, she’s nodding happily?
I whisper to Tarte, “Is it that big a deal?” and she declares, “Receiving a title from me is an honor in itself.”
Saying that about yourself—what kind of ego is that?
But a title does sound kind of cool…

“Can I get a cool one too?”
“I already gave you one. Wanting more titles? Your fourteen-year-old disease is getting worse.”

Huh?
Did Tarte give me a title?
I rack my brain, but nothing comes to mind… unless it’s [Servant]?

“I told you when we met—I permit you to call yourself [New Goblin]…”
“No way! I don’t want that title!”

Ignoring my desperate protests, Tarte demands “the goods” from Silhime’s basket.
When Silhime says something, Tarte nods, “Good idea,” and, with her help, puts her robe and shoes back on.
Silhime deftly tidies Tarte, removing the piggy hood and brushing her hair perfectly without a comb.
Her efficiency is impressive—truly a maid spirit.

“With Silhime here, let’s have tea time somewhere she can brew.”

Tea, huh…
Eating coppe-pan and napping without a drink has left me parched.
I don’t have fancy tea sets, so we’d need the campus open café…
If Silhime’s brewing, the tea room’s better, but it’s for students with servants, expensive, and likely booked this time of year.

“Open café okay?”
“Anywhere’s fine, just hurry up and lead the way.”