Chapter 7: A broken dinner fork.

Ordis Adventurers’ Guild, eight o’clock in the evening.

This was the rowdiest hour of the day.

The massive oak doors kept swinging open. Adventurers fresh from quests poured into the hall, bringing with them the stench of sweat and earth.

Clinking tankards, coarse swearing, the off-key strumming of a bard’s lute…

All of it blended into a hot, roaring wave that seemed ready to blow the roof off.

To an ordinary girl, this place would be hell.

But to Hill, it was a long-missed taste of humanity.

“Haa…”

Hill sat at a round table in the corner, taking a deep breath of the filthy air. A nostalgic expression crossed her face.

Memories from her previous life stirred in her blood, making her want to prop her feet on the table and bellow, “Boss! Bring me a barrel of the strongest ale!”

Of course, she held back.

Especially when she looked at the person sitting across from her.

Phyllis sat primly on a chair covered in grease stains.

Naturally, she had already spread three layers of handkerchief beneath herself before sitting.

She still wore that blindingly pure white nun’s habit. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her face bore that signature, flawless smile.

Yet in this noisy chaos, she was quiet as a misplaced sacred painting.

“The food here…”

Phyllis gazed at the greasy pile of roasted sausage on the plate before her. Her blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“It certainly has a… wild character.”

“That’s the true flavor of adventuring.”

Hill picked up her fork without hesitation and speared a chunk of meat.

“If you can’t stomach it, don’t force yourself.”

“No. Since it’s something Hill likes, I want to try it too.”

Phyllis elegantly sliced off a tiny piece and brought it to her mouth.

She chewed very slowly. With every bite, her brows gave the tiniest twitch.

Just then—

“Bang!”

A massive hand slammed down onto Hill’s shoulder, nearly knocking the fork from her grasp.

“Hey! Isn’t this the silver-haired rising star everyone’s been talking about lately?!”

Hill turned in surprise.

A wild mane of short red hair filled her vision, along with a broad, hearty laughing face.

The newcomer was a woman—tall and powerfully built, wearing half-plate light armor that exposed firm wheat-colored abs. On her back was a two-handed greataxe even taller than she was.

“You’re…”

Hill felt she had seen her somewhere before.

“I’m Vera! Vice-captain of the B-rank mercenary band Crimson Fang!”

The red-haired woman dragged over a chair without ceremony and forcibly squeezed herself between Hill and Phyllis.

Or more precisely—she shoved aside the hand Phyllis had resting on the table.

“I heard the two of you took down a whole pack of horned rabbits in the Silent Forest the day before yesterday without a scratch? And even chopped up that mutated Horned Rabbit King on top of it?”

Vera’s booming voice instantly drew the attention of everyone nearby.

“Damn impressive, little sister! Looking at those skinny arms and legs, who’d guess your swordplay is so vicious!”

That overly familiar tone.

That sweaty, close-quarters energy—it instantly awakened the warrior DNA from Hill’s previous life.

This was one of her kind.

The kind of comrade you could entrust your back to.

“Just got lucky.”

Hill replied modestly, though the corners of her mouth curved upward unconsciously.

“The Rabbit King’s directional changes were fast, but its left hind leg had an old injury. I exploited that opening.”

“Hah! A real pro!”

Vera’s eyes lit up. She threw an arm around Hill’s neck with even greater enthusiasm, practically draping herself over her.

“Anyone who can spot a detail like that isn’t some decorative flower! How about it—wanna drink? Big sis is buying!”

Hill was squeezed so tightly by Vera’s muscular arm that she could barely breathe, yet this rough affection made her feel strangely relaxed.

This was how men—no, how warriors really talked to each other.

“Sure, then let’s—”

“…That won’t do.”

A soft voice—so gentle it seemed it could be swallowed by the din at any moment—cut abruptly between them.

Vera froze. She turned her head.

Phyllis was still seated in the same spot, still wearing that impeccable saintly smile.

She held a silver dinner knife and was slowly, steadily slicing the last piece of sausage on her plate.

The motion was deliberate. Calm.

“Miss Hill is still underage, and her stomach is quite delicate. She can’t handle the stimulation of low-quality alcohol.”

Phyllis set the knife down.

The blade tapped the edge of the porcelain plate with a crisp ding.

The sound wasn’t loud, yet in that instant it strangely pierced through the surrounding clamor and drilled into the ears of everyone present.

Vera looked at the beautiful nun. Unconsciously, she loosened the arm around Hill’s neck.

For some reason, the back of her neck felt cold.

“Ah… you’re that healer partner, right?”

Vera scratched her head.

“Sorry, sorry! I’m used to being rough. Then let’s do juice! Boss! Best fruit juice you’ve got!”

Hill let out a breath of relief and gave Phyllis a grateful glance.

Though she wanted to drink, this body had never touched alcohol before. If she passed out after one cup, it would be mortifying.

The atmosphere seemed to ease.

Vera was a chatterbox. She launched into a nonstop tale of subjugating an icefield bear in the northern tundra.

Hill listened with rapt attention, occasionally inserting sharp, professional comments. The two grew more and more in sync.

Throughout it all, Phyllis did not say a single word.

She simply sat quietly to the side like a dutiful listener.

She picked up the water pitcher and refilled Hill’s cup.

The stream was steady. Not a single drop spilled.

When Vera reached an exciting part of the story, she habitually reached out to slap Hill’s thigh:

“You wouldn’t believe it—that bear was this close! When that paw came down…”

The callused hand was about to land on Hill’s thigh, clad in white over-the-knee stockings.

“Splash!”

The water cup beside Phyllis suddenly tipped over “by accident.”

Hot water poured out—precisely toward Vera’s outstretched hand and the table between them.

“Ow!”

Vera jerked her hand back like she’d been shocked. Though she wasn’t scalded, her sleeve was soaked.

“Ah, I’m terribly sorry.”

Phyllis immediately stood up, her face filled with panic and remorse.

She quickly drew out her handkerchief—not to wipe the table, but to seize the very hand that had nearly touched Hill.

“It didn’t get on your hand, did it? I’m truly so sorry. I’m so clumsy.”

While apologizing, Phyllis vigorously wiped the back of Vera’s hand with the handkerchief.

Vera, being straightforward and careless, thought nothing of it.

“It’s fine, it’s fine! Just a bit of water! I’ll wipe it myself!”

She tried to pull her hand back.

It didn’t move.

The seemingly delicate nun’s fingers clamped around her wrist like iron tongs.

Phyllis kept her head lowered, still earnestly scrubbing—as though Vera’s hand had been contaminated with some invisible poison.

“Um… Sister?”

Vera began to feel something was wrong. A dull ache started in her wrist joints.

Phyllis finally raised her head.

Her smile remained radiant. Her blue eyes curved into lovely crescent moons.

“All clean now. After all… this place is very dirty. So many germs.”

She released her grip.

For some reason, Vera broke out in goosebumps.

She looked down at the back of her hand. The skin there had been rubbed bright red—and it stung with a burning sensation.

“Um, Hill.”

Phyllis no longer spared Vera a glance. Instead she turned to Hill and gently tugged her sleeve.

“It’s getting late, and I’m a little tired. Could we… go back now?”

Her voice carried a slight nasal tremble. The corners of her eyes drooped. She looked pitiful—like a small flower on the verge of wilting.

Hill had been enjoying the conversation. Though she felt reluctant to stop, seeing Phyllis like this melted her heart instantly.

Phyllis was a refined young lady who hated uncleanliness. Sitting this long in such a noisy, greasy place must have been her limit.

“Alright. Let’s go back.”

Hill stood up and gave Vera an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, Sister Vera. We’ll have to cut it here today. Next time I’ll listen to more of your northern stories.”

“Oh… sure, sure.”

Vera watched the two of them in a daze.

“Let’s go.”

Phyllis linked her arm through Hill’s.

This time she held on very tightly—almost half-clinging to her.

They walked toward the door.

Just as they were about to step outside, Hill felt someone staring at her back. She instinctively wanted to turn and wave to Vera one last time.

“Don’t look back.”

Phyllis suddenly spoke—her voice so quiet only Hill could hear.

“Hm? What’s wrong?”

“…There’s a draft.”

Phyllis reached up and naturally pulled Hill’s hood over her head, blocking her line of sight.

“You’ll catch cold.”

Hill didn’t see.

In the split second before the hood covered her vision, Phyllis slightly turned her head and glanced backward.

There was no expression on that beautiful face.

No anger. No jealousy. Vera wasn’t even worth registering in her eyes.

It was only a cold, hollow gaze.

Her eyes lingered for one second on Vera’s right hand—the one that had just tried to touch Hill’s thigh.

Then the corner of her mouth lifted the tiniest fraction.

The walk back to the dormitory was very quiet.

Moonlight stretched their shadows long.

Phyllis said nothing the entire way. She simply clung tightly to Hill’s arm.

“Phyllis? Are you still upset about earlier?”

Hill asked tentatively.

“Sister Vera seems like a nice person—just a bit overly enthusiastic.”

“No, I’m not upset.”

Phyllis’s voice drifted strangely in the night air.

“How could I be angry? I’m happy Hill made a friend.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Phyllis stopped walking. She turned and gently straightened Hill’s collar.

“It’s just… Hill’s clothes picked up a strange smell.”

The tavern’s smoky odor, cheap perfume, and Vera’s sweat.

“We need to take a good bath when we get back.”

Phyllis’s fingers brushed across Hill’s collarbone. Her fingertips were icy.

“A very long bath… very long… until every trace of that smell is washed away.”

Hill shivered inexplicably.

“Phyllis, your hand is cold.”

“Is it?”

Phyllis smiled and rubbed her cheek against the back of Hill’s hand.

“Then Hill can warm me up.”

“After all… only Hill is warm.”

Meanwhile, back at the Adventurers’ Guild.

Vera was still drinking when she suddenly felt a stinging pain on the back of her hand.

She looked down. The spot the nun had scrubbed was now covered in a fine layer of red rash.

“Weird… I’m not allergic to anything, am I?”

Vera scratched her head. An inexplicable irritation rose in her chest.

For some reason, that final glance from the nun made her instinctively want to reach for the axe on her back.

“Whatever. Not thinking about it!”

She raised her tankard.

“Next time I’ll chat with that silver-haired kid again. That girl really suits my taste!”

She didn’t notice.

At the leg of her chair, a faint scratch had appeared at some point—like something razor-sharp had carved it.

A small black cross.

In the Church’s secret code, it meant… expulsion.