"Wear this for now."
Back at the estate, Roy retrieved a set of clothes from one of the side rooms—a shirt and trousers—and handed them to Kasumigaoka Utaha. Seeing her rubbing her arms from the cold, he added a padded down jacket as well.
"There aren't any clothes here suited for someone your age. Tomorrow I'll take you to buy some. Just make do with these today."
Utaha accepted the bundle and went into the adjoining room to change out of her dust-stained school uniform. She slipped off her torn stockings and put on the clothing Roy had given her—simple, office-style wear.
It looked a little outdated, but at least it fit her body well enough. Around the chest, though, it was a bit loose, as though it had once been stretched by someone else.
"What should I do now?"
When she returned to the living room, she asked Roy directly.
"Cleaning, laundry… that sort of thing."
Roy sat at the kotatsu in the center of the room, the warmth radiating around him. He looked utterly at ease, documents spread out across the low table before him. Without looking up, he answered her.
"This estate is rather large, and I live alone. Keeping it tidy is always a hassle. I was planning to find an attendant from the refugee shelter, but since you're here, you'll take care of the housework. That shouldn't be too difficult, right?"
"I understand."
Nodding obediently, Utaha found the cleaning tools under Roy's instruction and walked out into the courtyard to begin.
"…Don't bother with the grass. Just sweep the open ground."
Utaha paused, then moved to the clearing directly across from the main gate. She raised her broom and began sweeping the fallen leaves and dust scattered across the stone pavement.
"…No need to collect all the leaves in a pan. Just sweep them off to the lawn."
Utaha froze slightly, embarrassed. She brushed her hair behind her ear and did as he said, sweeping the leaves neatly to the sides of the pathway.
If one looked closely, her grip on the broom wasn't quite right, and before long, her breathing grew heavier.
Forget it, Roy thought. She'll learn on her own.
He shifted his gaze back down to the papers in front of him.
"Guard assignments… exorcising curses in farmland… The guard work is riskier—it requires leaving the city. The curse removal is safer, but more exhausting…"
After some thought, Roy signed his name under the guard assignment.
Meanwhile, Utaha had finished the courtyard and moved on to the entryway and living room. Once the dust was cleared, she filled a bucket with water and began scrubbing the wooden floors of the hallway, working with the stubborn rhythm of an ox plowing a field.
The sky outside had already turned a sickly yellow, casting a poisonous glow over the ruined heavens.
Utaha finally collapsed onto the tatami, panting heavily. Sweat beaded along her forehead, rolled down her cheeks, and disappeared into the hollow of her collarbone. At some point, her shirt had been soaked through, faintly revealing the dark silhouette beneath.
She looked around the estate, and a wave of helplessness washed over her.
After two or three hours, she had managed to clean only the front courtyard and the living room. She hadn't even touched the bedrooms, kitchen, or warehouse yet. Surely, she thought, she wouldn't be expected to finish everything in a single day?
Cautiously, she glanced toward the kotatsu—only to find it empty. Instead, from the kitchen came the clang of ladle against pan, along with the faint, enticing aroma of food.
Her stomach growled loudly. Flustered, she clutched it with both hands. But her body betrayed her—she couldn't stop swallowing back saliva.
After being thrown into this strange world, dragged back to the city by the patrol, and then pushed into hours of labor she wasn't used to, she was both starving and exhausted.
"Let's eat first."
Roy emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray of dishes. He beckoned her over.
Utaha, too tired to protest with needless politeness, walked straight to the dining table. The sight of the food waiting there made her blink in surprise.
"Chinese cuisine?"
"The authentic kind. A personal favorite of mine."
On the table were braised pork ribs, stir-fried tomatoes with eggs, a classic trio of vegetables, and a kelp-and-egg soup. Three dishes and one soup—not extravagant, but each one fragrant and enticing.
A short while later, Utaha leaned back limply in her chair, hands over her swollen stomach. Her composure had vanished.
It was authentic, no question.
"Tired?"
Roy glanced at her half-sprawled form and didn't urge her back to work. Instead, he carried the empty plates back into the kitchen.
"I'm just… not used to it yet," Utaha murmured, trying to defend herself.
"Mm. This estate is big, but don't force yourself. It's only me here. Standards don't need to be that high."
His voice floated warmly from beyond the wall, gentle and understanding.
"I'm a youngest-rank magus. That means I can only choose one attendant per month. This month, that's you. Next month, I'll find someone to help you."
A helper? That really would be a blessing.
Utaha didn't reply, but her heart felt lighter.
Still, curiosity tugged at her.
"The youngest rank… does that mean it's… very low?"
"The lowest. Out of seven ranks, I'm at the bottom—Crown, Color, Rite, Canon, Opening, Eldest, and finally, Youngest. I'm the last one."
He said it so matter-of-factly, with no hint of shame. Unlike others who might bristle at such a question, Roy's tone carried no defensiveness at all.
"Are the ranks based on strength? Do magi themselves have levels like that?"
The words had slipped too far. Realizing it, Utaha quickly added, "If that's something you can't talk about, just forget I asked."
"In the past, I wouldn't have been able to answer. But things are different now."
Roy's voice was as calm as ever.
"Back then, magi were more like researchers. Ranks were based on scholarly achievement, the study of magecraft. Think of it as undergrad, graduate, doctoral degrees—purely academic. And secrecy was absolute. If ordinary people discovered magecraft's existence, special organizations would even move to silence them permanently. But after the Cataclysm ten years ago, half of that secrecy was discarded. Magi were pushed onto the stage. Ranks now also take combat strength into account."
He paused.
Half discarded, because the principle wasn't fully abandoned.
In the eyes of most citizens, magecraft remained no more than an urban legend.
After all, in the Nasuverse, the strength of magecraft was inversely tied to its recognition. Mystery was finite—the more people knew of it, the weaker it became. Thus, the fewer who knew, the greater the power in the hands of those who wielded it.
But historically, in times when humanity's numbers were small, magecraft had been widely known. The reason was simple: magecraft was the manipulation of concepts. If all of humanity were to forget magecraft, the very concept itself would vanish, and with it, magecraft as a practice.
To preserve it, enough humans needed to know of it, to pass on the concept through time.
And now, with Earth's population less than a hundred million, the age of strict secrecy was long past.