The World of Otome Game
is a Second Chance for Broken Swords
Story Starts
-=&
Chapter 7.2 -
The Storm
"It hasn't even been a full day, and already we're dealing with this absolute circus." Leon crossed his arms firmly over his chest, his heterochromatic eyes sweeping across what should have been his peaceful sanctuary. The sight that greeted him was enough to make anyone despair—academy students scattered across his living room floor like discarded puppets, unconscious bodies sprawled in ungainly heaps, pools of drool and vomit gathering beneath their slack faces.
Luxion, who had apparently rendered himself invisible during whatever madness had unfolded in Leon's absence, rematerialised with his characteristic soft hum. The AI drifted downward until it hovered at eye level with its master. His built-in projector flickered to life, casting a short video clip against the air between them.
"Whilst you were occupied elsewhere, several students attempted to vandalise the premises," Luxion explained, his mechanical voice carrying an undercurrent of what might have been satisfaction in a more organic being. "The culprits originate from your usual social circle, though I should note that their ringleaders represent a considerably higher tier of the academy's social hierarchy."
Leon leaned forward slightly, studying the footage with curiosity. In the recording, he could clearly identify a group of wealthy boys—the sort who wore their family names like armour—ordering about others with less social cachet. The expendable brigade included familiar faces: Daniel and Raymond, both looking dejected, their guilt openly displayed, their shoulders slumped as they nodded at the orders of their 'betters.'
Despite the apparent coercion, seeing them raise weapons against his property still stung more than he'd expected. His mind drifted to his friend from another lifetime, Issei Ryuudou, for the first time in years, thinking that even with the social pressure, he probably wouldn't participate in something like this.
As the video continued, the would-be vandals began raising their hands, each gripping either wooden bats or some manner of crude melee weapon. Leon's jaw tightened. But then, before any real damage could be done, the scene shifted dramatically. Everyone began collapsing—first to their knees, then to all fours, before some sprawled out completely prone. Daniel, in a moment that would have been hilarious if it weren't so pathetic, looked as though he'd suddenly decided that yoga was a matter of life and death, desperately slumping into child's pose. His face had gone the colour of curdled milk.
Then, almost in unison, everyone began retching violently before losing consciousness entirely.
"So those two were coerced into this little scheme as well," Leon observed flatly, gesturing toward where his two supposed friends still lay passed out on his floor, their bodies slick with cold sweat, congealing puddles of sick beside them. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
"That particular alliance didn't maintain its integrity for very long, did it?" Luxion pointed out, and if an AI could sound gleeful, he managed it admirably. "The bounded field that Miss Olivia established proved remarkably effective." The mechanical orb's tone carried distinct notes of excitement as he praised Olivia for her thoroughly ruthless approach to putting these entitled academy students in their proper place.
The bounded field in question was, according to Olivia's technical explanation, a relatively simple ward that assessed hostile intent and responded with proportionate countermeasures—though 'proportionate' was very much subject to Olivia's own rather unforgiving standards. Leon had at least managed to persuade her to whitelist his sister, Jenna, as he absolutely refused to be held responsible for her suffering consequences whenever she needed to enter his dormitory for any reason.
However, Olivia had confessed—with barely concealed amusement—that the bounded field still affected Jenna to some minor degree. Just some mild digestive distress the following day, nothing too serious.
'Which explains quite a lot, actually,' Leon realised with some amusement and a bit of irritation. That was probably precisely why the last time Jenna had visited, she hadn't touched a single morsel of the food he'd offered, nor taken even a sip of the tea he'd carefully prepared. She likely believed he was intentionally lacing everything he served her with laxatives as some form of petty revenge, when in reality it was simply her own persistently negative thoughts about him triggering the ward's defensive response.
Olivia had cheerfully called it a form of associative conditioning. Though Luxion had noted with his usual clinical detachment that the training would have proven far more effective if the consequences had manifested immediately following each hostile thought, rather than being delayed until the following morning.
Leon couldn't suppress the sigh that escaped him as he turned his attention toward Melt.
"Melt, my apologies for the imposition," Leon began, and Meltryllis immediately perked up—as she invariably did whenever Leon used her preferred nickname. He made a mental note that he really did need to start consistently calling Olivia by 'Livia' as well, considering he'd endured yet another lengthy lecture about that particular failing just a few days prior.
"Yes, Master?" Her eyes lit up with unmistakable eagerness as she gazed up at him, waiting for his instruction with barely contained anticipation.
"Would you be able to use your magic to clean everything thoroughly and deposit all of our uninvited guests outside the dormitory's boundaries? I'd rather not have them cluttering up the space any longer than absolutely necessary."
"My, my, Master," Luxion interjected, his tone still carrying that edge of gleeful satisfaction, employing the formal title he rarely bothered with during private conversations. "I must confess, I rather expected you to arrange for their transport to the infirmary, or at a minimum, provide some relief for their symptoms. How unexpectedly cold-hearted of you."
"Hmm," Leon responded noncommittally.
Melt was already beginning her elegant dance as Luxion helpfully activated some classical music to accompany her performance. With every precise pirouette, each graceful arabesque, every controlled plié, and flowing allegro movement, waves of crystalline water began flowing throughout the entire dormitory. The aquatic magic washed over absolutely everything, methodically collecting every particle of dust, every smear of dirt, all traces of grime, the pools of vomit, the sweat stains, and indeed every unconscious body currently littering the dormitory's floor.
The water moved with impossible grace, not even dampening the surfaces it passed through. It flowed straight through his couches as though they were mere illusions, waves crashing magnificently against walls before rushing back in perfect reverse.
Leon stood carefully positioned a few steps away, occupying a perfectly circular space, somehow unaffected by Melt's extensive magic. Though he did shift a few additional steps to the left when he noticed the single spot where he'd been standing would be the only location left uncleaned—he refused to have that one patch grate on his conscience for hours until he inevitably took it upon himself to scrub it to match its surroundings.
Leon tilted his head back, gazing upward at his dormitory's impressively high ceiling, where an enormous sphere of water now floated suspended in mid-air. The ball gathered everything that Melt's flowing magic had collected, with unconscious bodies and various debris bouncing around inside like grotesque ornaments in some nightmarish snow globe.
And then, with one final, decisive pirouette from Melt, the waves surged forward and flung the doors open wide. The collected water crashed outward into the dormitory hallway in a controlled deluge, the massive floating sphere directing its contents with perfect precision. It deposited each of the boys who had been planning to ransack his quarters in an unceremonious heap in the corridor outside. Their bodies and the surrounding floor were left completely dry, whilst all the dust, vomit, and other unpleasant substances were efficiently directed toward the nearest bathroom facilities and flushed down the toilet with finality.
Leon watched Melt complete her performance with a small smile tugging at his lips, genuinely impressed despite himself. Luxion provided an applause track—perfectly timed, naturally—and Leon joined in with a few measured claps as Melt performed an elegant curtsey, water droplets cascading from her form like glittering diamonds before dissipating into mist. With one last splash of the waves, a final flourish that sent a satisfying spray against the doorframe, the doors slammed shut with decisive finality.
"Conclusion: you're not very popular."
Leon snorted at Luxion's dry summary of the evening's events as he made his way to the living room couch, dropping onto it with perhaps less grace than he'd intended. The fabric felt surprisingly cool beneath him, the chill seeping through his formal attire and making him shift slightly before settling.
He spread his arms along the couch's backrest in a posture that was half-relaxation, half-resignation, and let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire term. "This academy is exhausting."
And it truly was. The endless social calculations, the expectations that seemed to multiply daily, the stark imbalance in power between the different noble ranks, the even more pronounced imbalance between genders in their particular bracket of nobility—everything conspired to drain what little patience he had left. He'd come here hoping to keep his head down, to coast through without incident. That plan had lasted all of a fortnight before circumstances had dragged him into the spotlight yet again, though admittedly this was a situation of his own making—after all, he had volunteered.
But seeing Angelica at that vulnerable moment, remembering her eventual fate if the game's events followed their course—she didn't deserve any of it. Whether forced into an unwanted marriage or driven to suicide as absolution for crimes she hadn't committed, it was a tragedy he couldn't stand aside and watch. Even with his current jaded view of heroism, some things demanded intervention.
"You know, master, you are currently in a negative sum game," Luxion offered, his tone carrying that particular inflexion that suggested he was about to deliver unwelcome truths wrapped in economic theory. "A lose-lose situation where you're damned if you win and equally damned if you don't."
Leon just looked at the AI, raising one eyebrow as he gestured with a lazy wave of his hand for him to continue. He had a feeling he knew where this was going, but Luxion rarely disappointed when it came to pointing out the absurdity of Leon's situation.
"Your barony currently has expected and assured returns of double conservatively, and maybe even up to four times by the end of this term," Luxion continued. "Given your inevitable involvement in this spectacle, why not tip the conclusion a little more to your favour? Profit from the chaos you've been forced into, as it were."
Leon considered this for a moment, his fingers drumming absently against the couch's armrest as he weighed the practicality against his instinctive reluctance to profit from what was essentially a farce. Then again, if he was going to be dragged into this mess regardless, he might as well extract some value from it.
"Argh, fine," he conceded, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Set up betting arrangements and send the details to Olivia. And can you discreetly note to both Daniel and Raymond that they should probably bet on our side if they want to make some profits? They deserve something for putting up with the fallout from associating with me."
The thought had barely finished forming when—like clockwork, because of course nothing could be simple—his dormitory room's door slammed open with enough force to rattle the frame.
And in came Margot Fou Bellefleur, her expression serious and determined, flanked by her guardian spirits whose presence filled the room with an otherworldly chill, having to bend down to get through the double doors as her two attendants flanked them.
"LEON FOU BARTFORT!"
'Here we go,' Leon thought wearily, not even bothering to stand. Whatever this was about, he had a feeling it would be exhausting.
-=&
Olivia stood at the academy's branch of the bookies, her posture deceptively casual despite the enormity of what she was about to do. A large sack was on the floor right beside her. She'd never really thought about how peculiar it was that this establishment operated openly within the academy's cafeteria—though perhaps that said more about the nobility's appetite for gambling than anything else. An institution of learning housing what was essentially a betting parlour, and nobody seemed to find that the least bit odd.
Behind her stood all four of her guardian spirits, their imposing forms flanking four heavy carts laden with bars of precious metal. The weight of precious metals represented there would have been unthinkable to her just years ago, back when she'd been scraping by on the support of the orphanage. Now here she was, about to wager a fortune that could buy a small territory on what everyone else seemed convinced was a foregone conclusion.
The atmosphere in the cafeteria had shifted the moment she'd entered, conversations dying mid-sentence as heads turned. She could feel the weight of dozens of stares boring into her back, assessing, judging. The vassal knight who had recently run her mouth against the crown prince and his entire retinue—that's what she was to them now.
The upstart commoner who didn't know her place, who'd somehow bewitched Baron Bartfort into championing a losing cause—never mind that Leon had been the first to step forward and volunteer. Facts didn't matter when you had a convenient narrative.
Let them stare. She had work to do.
She'd only just returned from Leon's territory—currently positioned a few kilometres outside the capital's walls. The past week had been a blur of frantic preparation, long nights spent collaborating with one of Luxion's auxiliary terminals. They'd combined her increasingly sophisticated knowledge of magic with Luxion's incomprehensible technological prowess, the AI's ancient knowledge filling gaps in her understanding whilst her magecraft provided practical applications for theoretical concepts. The results had been... interesting. Promising, even. Whether 'promising' would translate to 'sufficient' remained to be seen.
The entire format of this confrontation had spiralled far beyond anyone's initial expectations. Instead of the straightforward tournament-style duel that Jilk had originally suggested—probably expecting some dramatic one-on-one combat with theatrical speeches—they were doing a proper military skirmish. A team deathmatch, without the actual death, though as Leon had grimly pointed out, accidents could still happen when you had that many guardian spirits, power armours, and combat-ready nobles in close proximity.
'I may have got slightly carried away,' Olivia admitted to herself, wincing internally. She'd even goaded them—in a moment of perhaps ill-advised boldness fuelled by righteous indignation on Angelica's behalf—to allow guardian spirits and attendants to join the skirmish as well.
Leon had later taken her aside and very patiently chastised her about it, his tone that particular blend of exasperation and begrudging fondness that meant he wasn't truly angry. Making it more complicated, he'd said. Drawing more attention. They were supposed to be keeping a low profile, he'd reminded her, though the words had lacked any real heat.
If it had been just the simple one-on-one duel format from the game's version of events, they would have been fairly confident in their victory. But due to her goading, she'd managed to raise the stakes considerably higher—more variables, more combatants, more things that could go catastrophically wrong.
When she'd pointed out—perhaps a touch defensively—that he was the one who'd stepped forward first and offered to serve as Angelica's representative in single combat, thereby throwing any pretence of 'low profile' directly out of the window, he'd had the grace to look sheepish about it.
Leon could only wince and smile in that particular self-deprecating way of his, acquiescing to her point without argument.
But what had truly surprised her was his sudden turnaround around midday. She'd received a message—terse, pragmatic, very Leon—instructing her to bet at least half of his current liquid assets on their victory. His reasoning had been coldly practical: if they won, they'd need capital to grease wheels, to smooth over the social and political complications that would inevitably follow. Winning the duel wasn't enough; they'd need resources to manage the aftermath, to navigate the fallout of publicly humiliating the crown prince.
When she'd asked what would happen if they lost, Luxion had calmly suggested his initial offer—the AI would simply produce platinum in whatever quantities necessary. Leon had adamantly rejected that approach when they'd first started developing the barony. He'd wanted to build something sustainable, something organic. Besides, as he'd pointed out with characteristic paranoia, people would ask uncomfortable questions if an inordinate amount of precious metals suddenly started flowing from his humble barony. Suspicion was the last thing they needed.
Luxion, of course, had also offered that if they preferred, he could rain ordnance after ordnance on the capital until the city's surface melted and turned to glass.
Which was, naturally, followed by Leon's immediate and emphatic rejection.
'Either way, we won't have much choice if we lose,' she thought. But both she and Leon truly felt that what they were doing was right.
Still, she'd ordered Luxion to start producing platinum reserves anyway, just in case. Better to have options, even unpalatable ones, than to have none at all.
"What are we going to do?" A voice drifted from behind the counter, carrying clearly in the sudden quiet of the cafeteria. "We finally get a proper duel, but the betting's a complete wash if no one puts their money on the other side."
"Well, it's technically not a duel, is it?" another voice replied, this one younger, less certain. "More like a military skirmish. But yeah, everyone and their grandmother knows the prince and his friends are going to win. It's not even a question."
"I honestly can't believe that Baron Bartfort would let his vassal run her mouth like that," a third voice chimed in, contemptuous and certain. "Does she not know about the guardian spirit inherited by the crown prince? The one that's practically legendary? This is going to be a massacre."
Olivia stood by the booth, her expression settling into something predatory as she listened to the employees' discussion. Their voices were coming through the slightly ajar door of the office room behind the counter, the speakers apparently unconcerned about being overheard. Or perhaps they simply assumed no one of consequence was listening.
'Oh, this is going to be satisfying,' she thought, her grin widening.
"If only they could scrape together more people," the first voice continued, frustrated now. "I heard everyone's participating—both the Redgrave girl and the Lafan daughter are in on it. How many are on the Bartfort team again?"
Olivia could hear a pause, the rustle of papers being shuffled, before a new voice—older, more authoritative—replied with the weariness of someone who'd been over these numbers too many times already. "Both Baron Bartfort and his vassal have contracted four guardian spirits each, whilst the Redgrave daughter has one. That's nine combatants, plus the three humans, makes twelve total."
"Four each?" The younger voice sounded genuinely shocked. "That's... that's almost unheard of for someone at their age unless they were inherited. And for a commoner to match a baron—"
"Doesn't matter," the contemptuous voice cut in. "The prince recently contracted an additional guardian spirit as well. In fact, everyone on his side contracted at least one guardian spirit during that raid on Bartfort's cosmic dungeon. They're all stronger than they were a month ago."
"So what's that, total?"
A moment of calculation. "That's... seventeen combatants from guardian spirits and attendants, plus the six nobles themselves. Twenty-three total versus twelve. And that's not even accounting for the fact that the prince's side all have access to customised power armour—proper military-grade equipment, not the standard academy issue. This isn't going to be a fight; it's going to be a slaughter. An execution, really."
"Wait, hang on—maybe we could change the betting structure a little?" The younger voice again, eager now, thinking he'd found a solution. "Have people bet on how many of the heirs, guardian spirits, and attendants they'll manage to take down before they're completely overwhelmed? Or maybe how long they last? That way the morons—"
"Hey! Quiet, you fool!" The authoritative voice snapped, sharp with sudden alarm. "You're talking badly about a baron and the chosen representative of a duke's daughter. Do you want to end up in the stocks for insulting the nobility?"
Olivia could just make out grumbling in response, sullen and resentful, before blessed silence fell.
She reached out with deliberate slowness and tapped the call bell on the counter, the clear chime cutting through the quiet like a blade.
The effect was immediate and deeply gratifying. The office door swung open properly, and a man emerged—middle-aged, balding, the one with the authoritative voice. His eyes met hers, and Olivia watched with no small amount of satisfaction as recognition dawned, followed immediately by stark, sweating panic.
She let her smile sharpen into something absolutely feral, all teeth and dark promise.
"Ah, uh..." The man swallowed audibly, his face draining of colour. "How—how could I help you, my lady?"
'Oh, this is going to be fun.'
"Gentlemen and Lady," Olivia began, nodding with deliberate courtesy towards the sole female member of the staff. She let the silence stretch just long enough to ensure she had everyone's absolute attention, savouring the tension crackling through the room.
'Perfect. Let them squirm a little longer.'
"Baron Bartfort would like to apologise for how he's making your job difficult," Olivia started, pitching her voice to carry—magnanimous, gracious, every inch the noble retainer speaking on behalf of her lord. She was intentionally performing for the entire cafeteria now, making certain her words would reach every corner of the room where students and staff alike had fallen silent to watch.
"The Baron would rather keep things simple; either our team wins, or we lose. And whilst we're at it—" Olivia gestured with theatrical precision towards the four carts arranged behind her like a display of conquest, each one laden with wealth that caught the light and threw it back in dazzling arrays. Two were filled with bars of gold, stacked neatly and gleaming. One held a precise stack of platinum bars, their weight evident in the cart's wheels settling into the floor. And finally, the last had a large woven basket filled to overflowing with precious gems—rubies, sapphires, emeralds, each one catching the light and throwing rainbow refractions across the walls. "This is Baron Bartfort's bet on our group winning. Several months' worth of our territory's profits."
She had, of course, left about ten per cent aside for the territory's operational costs—which was still a large number.
She bent down, feeling the familiar rush of Od as she channelled it through her body, reinforcing muscle and bone with magical energy. Even with the enhancement, the weight was substantial—deliberately so. With a controlled motion that spoke of both strength and utter confidence, she deposited a large sack filled with platinum coins onto the counter with a resonant thud that echoed through the suddenly silent cafeteria.
"This is my personal bet as well on our win."
Olivia straightened, meeting the pale-faced clerk's eyes directly, her smile bright and utterly merciless. "You'll have no problems getting other people to bet now, right?"
'No skin off our backs, either way,' she reasoned, working through the calculations even as she maintained her pleasant, confident expression. 'The territory would continue to function even if we lose—though planned expansions might be tabled for a few months. Leon's been careful about that, making sure the essential infrastructure is already in place.'
Besides, everyone knew the odds weren't in their favour—or at least that's how it was perceived. Once people realised they could bet against them and potentially make a fortune, plenty of fools would eagerly dip into their savings or even go into debt to participate. Greed was a remarkably predictable motivator.
'Hell, they could even open this up to the whole king... dom... wait.' The thought struck her mid-triumph, and Olivia felt a sudden flutter of panic in her chest. 'That's a lot of potential enemies if we win. Oh no. Oh no, no, no—'
Her spiralling thoughts were interrupted by a new voice, the sound sharp enough to make her jump slightly.
"I, too, would like to bet on Miss Redgrave and her team," came the melodious aristocratic voice of Mégane Fou Bellefleur, each word perfectly enunciated with the kind of polish that spoke of years of elocution training and aristocratic breeding.
'Oh, for fuck's sake—not her.'
"Oh, I didn't see you down there," Mégane said mockingly, her tone sweet as poisoned honey. She swept past Olivia without even tilting her head to look at her shorter rival, maintaining that infuriating position of casual superiority that made Olivia's teeth clench.
Mégane was openly examining both their sacks with an expression of studied assessment, and Olivia could see—because, of course, she could—that Mégane's contribution was clearly larger than hers, easily twice as significant. The message was blatant: 'I can match you and exceed you without even trying.'
'Insufferable, preening peacock of a—' Olivia forced her expression to remain pleasantly neutral, channelling every lesson in noble deportment she'd ever absorbed.
"Ah, secondary vassal, on behalf of Baron Bartfort, I would like to offer our thanks for your support," Olivia said, her tone bright yet mocking, matching Mégane's false sweetness with her own razor-edged courtesy. "It's a shame that our secondary vassal wouldn't be able to participate in the support of her liege."
The barb landed—Olivia could see it in the minute tightening around Mégane's eyes, the slight compression of her lips. 'That's right, you can throw money at the problem, but you can't actually fight alongside us, can you?'
"Anyway," Olivia continued, turning towards the staff with renewed determination. She could feel the competitive fire burning in her chest now, fierce and bright and utterly reckless. Leon would definitely kill her for this, but in for a penny, in for a pound. "I would like to open a line of credit, and I shall offer my ownership of sixty per cent of Bartfort's Lunar Dungeon as collateral, placing that as an additional bet towards our win as well."
The staff's eyes widened at the sudden escalation, their gazes bouncing between the two women like spectators at a particularly vicious tennis match.
"Oh, how generous. Then I, too, would like to offer my sixty per cent ownership of two of my recently discovered dungeons—the ones I offered to the Bartfort Barony—as collateral, and place that as an additional bet towards the Redgrave daughter's win," Mégane countered smoothly, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.
The staff were practically scrambling over themselves at the enormous opportunity unfolding before them, rushing to bring out official documents that required signing, their earlier disdain completely forgotten in the face of potential commission from handling such massive wagers.
Another thud, and Olivia's attention snapped to the new arrival—a silver-haired guardian spirit about her own height placing another sack of coins onto the counter, this one also double the size of Olivia's initial contribution. The girl possessed that otherworldly beauty which immediately marked her as a guardian spirit, that indefinable quality that set them apart from humans. Beside her stood Clarice Fia Atlee, the marquess's blonde daughter, composed and quietly confident.
'Right, the marquess's daughter,' Olivia recalled, mentally shuffling through the complex web of academy social connections. Whilst Olivia had had several productive talks with the Roseblade daughter—Deirdre, who seemed to be studiously avoiding them recently—she hadn't yet found the time to speak with the Atlee daughter properly. This was someone Leon had also saved during that terrible incident with the second-floor cosmic dungeon boss.
"I would like to place all of this on Baron Bartfort's win," Clarice told the staff clearly, her voice carrying quiet confidence.
Their eyes widened yet again at the sudden expansion of the betting pool, all of this enormous wealth flooding in within mere minutes of each other.
The blonde third-year exchanged nods with Olivia. One of the staff processed her bet with noticeably quicker efficiency than they'd shown earlier, clearly motivated by the sheer volume of money changing hands, and handed her a blue chit showing proof of the wager. The marquess's daughter gave one final nod of acknowledgement as she turned gracefully towards the exit, but not before pausing mid-step. She leant in close enough that her whisper wouldn't carry, her expression carefully neutral.
"Miss Roseblade would like to extend her apologies. She currently can't be seen associated with the Baron until this blows over."
Olivia's eyes followed the Atlee daughter as she walked towards the exit in measured steps, but she didn't get far before stopping midway, her posture suddenly tense. She'd locked into an intense glaring match with Angelica, who had just entered through the cafeteria doors, her expression thunderous.
The tension between them was palpable—two women Leon had saved, both bearing their own complicated feelings about the situation, neither willing to give ground.
But the duke's daughter simply flipped her distinctive blonde hair with a gesture of dismissive arrogance. She beelined towards Olivia with single-minded purpose, parting the watching crowd through sheer force of aristocratic presence. Clarice, after a moment's hesitation, continued her exit.
When Angelica reached her, Olivia's breath caught slightly. Her friend—her actual friend, one of the few genuine ones she'd made in this hostile academy—had this resigned and profoundly sad expression etched across her features, so different from her usual confident bearing that it made Olivia's chest tighten with worry. This wasn't the composed duke's daughter who'd faced down the prince. This was someone carrying a terrible weight.
"Olivia, I need to talk to you and Baron Bartfort," Angelica said quietly, her voice barely audible beneath the cafeteria's resumed murmuring.
Something in her tone made all of Olivia's competitive triumph drain away, replaced by cold concern.
-=&
Olivia guided Angelica towards an empty classroom down the corridor, her four guardian spirits taking up positions outside the door like silent sentinels. She should have felt assured, but instead, Olivia felt a sharp stab of irritation at the Bellefleur daughter trailing along behind them like an unwanted shadow. Couldn't Mégane have found somewhere else to be right now? The thought was uncharitable, but Olivia couldn't quite suppress it. This conversation needed delicacy and privacy—neither of which was easily achieved with an audience.
The door clicked shut behind them with a finality that made the small room suddenly feel claustrophobic.
"Before we head to Leon," Olivia began carefully, studying Angelica's face with growing concern, "could you tell me what the problem is first?" The worry in her voice was genuine, unmistakable. She'd never seen the normally composed duke's daughter look quite so... fragile.
Mégane positioned herself beside Olivia, arms crossed defensively, hands gripping her elbows, her presence felt like an anchor—unwanted perhaps, but steady.
"I—I need you and Bartfort to withdraw from this skirmish." The words tumbled out of Angelica in a rushed confession, as though she'd been holding them back with considerable effort. Her face had grown gaunt since the last time they'd spoken properly, the skin stretched tight over aristocratic bones, heavy with exhaustion that went deeper than mere sleeplessness. Dark circles shadowed her eyes like bruises.
"Backing out this late would only reflect even more badly on Baron Bartfort," Mégane said, her frown deepening as she processed the implications. "The nobles would view it as cowardice. Or worse—an admission of weakness. Either interpretation would destroy what little standing he's managed to build here."
Angelica gave a dry, empty laugh that held no humour whatsoever. The sound made Olivia's chest tighten uncomfortably. "The repercussions of this whole affair have already hit you, haven't they?" Angelica continued, her voice hollow. "They tried making a complete mess of your room earlier today, and they're probably planning on escalating their little campaign of harassment until the day of the actual duel arrives."
They. The word hung in the air between them, pregnant with implications.
Apparently, 'they'—whoever was orchestrating this campaign of intimidation—were going to do their absolute best to ensure their little group didn't stand even a shadow of a chance at winning.
Prince Julius and his privileged friends were, in Olivia's estimation, blissfully unaware of these machinations occurring in their names. Their flunkies and sycophants were probably carrying all this nastiness out on their behalf, acting as loyal attack dogs without explicit orders. Just like what had happened to Angelica herself—people taking it upon themselves to harass the Lafan daughter, believing they were serving their betters' interests.
Olivia couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips despite the gravity of the situation. "Try, being the operative word there," she said with quiet satisfaction. "You do know that their attempts were largely unsuccessful, don't you? My intent wards made quite sure of that." Resisting the urge to use magecraft terms.
"I don't have any power. Not anymore." Angelica's confession came out barely above a whisper, each word seeming to cost her something. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt, the kind of nervous gesture she'd never have allowed herself a week ago—when she'd still had the luxury of perfect composure. "Whatever you're expecting from me, whatever assistance you think I can provide—there is nothing I can actually do for you. I'm worse than useless now."
Olivia sighed, the sound heavy with understanding she wished she didn't possess. "Let me guess," she said gently. "Your family had some rather harsh words for you about all this, didn't they?"
Angelica wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing tightly as though trying to physically hold herself together. "They called me reckless for demanding a duel in such a public fashion. Irresponsible. Short-sighted." Her voice cracked slightly. "But I... I had to do something! Anything! I didn't care what it was or what the consequences might be. All I could think about was getting that woman away from the prince, making him see sense somehow."
"My mind went completely blank with rage and hurt. When I told my family exactly that, they ordered me to stay put and keep quiet until this all blows over. They said it's all over for me." She laughed bitterly. "If I'm lucky, I'll be sent off to stay under house arrest in one of our family's holdings in the border regions, far from court and society. If I'm unlucky—"
The implication hung heavy in the air, unspoken but crystal clear.
'She'd be forced to take her own life. Suicide as repentance and to preserve family honour.' Olivia felt cold fury rise in her chest at the mere thought. 'Not that I'm going to let it come anywhere close to that.'
From her knowledge of the game's plot, Angelica's fate had only two paths: marriage to a frontier noble in his mid-fifties, or suicide as atonement for disgracing her family. Both outcomes were unacceptable. Both had to be prevented.
Olivia hesitated for just a moment, uncertainty flickering across her features, but then she reached out decisively, placing a comforting hand on Angelica's trembling shoulder. The physical contact seemed to anchor them both.
"You seem to have completely the wrong idea about why we're involved in this," Olivia said quietly, her voice steady despite the emotion churning inside her. "We backed you up—Leon and I—not because you're from a duke's household or because we expected some kind of political favour in return."
Angelica jerked her head up sharply, her red-rimmed eyes locking with Olivia's in surprise and confusion.
"Leon and I stepped up to support you because we are comrades," Olivia continued, her tone gaining strength and conviction. "We've already gone on an adventure together, faced danger side by side in that cosmic dungeon. And more importantly—" She gave Angelica an encouraging smile that reached her eyes. "We both think that the prince and his retinue's entire approach to this situation was fundamentally wrong."
They could have just as easily had that Lafan girl as a mistress if they were so infatuated. Plenty of nobles maintain such arrangements. But to publicly humiliate you multiple times, to parade their disrespect before the entire academy—that was just cruel and wrong."
Olivia's expression shifted, taking on an almost enigmatic quality as her smile turned slightly mischievous. "Plus, honestly? Who actually cares about all the political implications? Leon doesn't give a damn about status or honour in the traditional sense, and neither do I. We're doing this simply because we think it's the right thing to do. That's reason enough."
Angelica couldn't help the tears that began streaming down her face, her composure finally cracking completely. "Are you guys complete idiots?" she asked, but beneath the exasperation, there was something almost fond, warmth breaking through despair. "You and the baron are probably—" She laughed, but it was entirely without genuine humour, breaking on a sob. "Whether we win or lose this duel, our lives are already effectively over. Finished. Our opponents are the future king himself and other high lords. Do you understand what that means?"
Olivia hesitated only briefly—physical comfort had never been her forte, hugs always felt awkward and constraining—but Angelica needed this. She gathered the duke's daughter into a firm embrace, holding her close as Angelica finally allowed herself to fall apart, sniffling and crying softly into Olivia's shoulder for several long minutes.
"One more thing," Angelica finally said when she'd regained some measure of control, her voice still muffled against Olivia's now-damp shoulder. "What on earth were you thinking, betting all that money on yourself to win? That's insane!"
Olivia carefully released Angelica from the embrace, but kept her hands on the other girl's shoulders, holding her at arm's length so she could see her face. Her expression shifted into something decidedly sinister—a grin that promised schemes and complications, the kind of look that usually preceded Olivia doing something spectacularly inadvisable.
She caught the quick, telltale flicker of Angelica's gaze darting towards the classroom's exit, as though contemplating escape, and Olivia's grin only grew wider and more predatory.
"We still need to prepare properly for the post-fight situation," Olivia declared with the air of someone unveiling a master plan. "There are arrangements to be made."
Mégane suddenly stepped forward, her entire demeanour shifting from observer to active participant. "Correct, Miss Olivia," she said with surprising enthusiasm, then turned her attention fully to Angelica with an intensity that suggested she'd been waiting for precisely this moment.
"Tell me, Miss Redgrave..."
The two vassals were, for perhaps the first time since meeting, completely in sync and united in purpose. Whatever rivalry had existed between them moments ago evaporated in the face of a shared opportunity. Their voices harmonised perfectly as they asked in stereo:
"How much savings do you currently have available?"
-=&
Angelica exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the moment settle over her as they finally exited the cafeteria once more. This time, clutched in her gloved hand, was a blue betting chit—small, innocuous, and yet somehow representing the complete unraveling of everything she'd been raised to be. She glanced down at it, then up at Olivia and Mégane, who were walking ahead of her, each holding an identical blue chit of their own.
The two were already arguing again, their voices carrying down the corridor despite that singular, miraculous moment just minutes ago when they'd actually united for something. Angelica felt distinctly as if someone had pulled a rug out from underneath her feet, leaving her stumbling in the aftermath. One moment, they'd been asking whether she had any savings set aside.
The very concept had been utterly foreign to her. Instead of personal savings carefully accumulated over time, she had access to a substantial fund provided directly by the Redgrave family, one that replenished itself like clockwork at the beginning of every month. She'd never needed to think about money in the way common people did, never needed to budget or save or worry about tomorrow's expenses.
Then, in what felt like the space of a single breath, she'd found herself leveraging the full amount of that very fund—every last coin available to her this month—into a wager.
Typically, under any normal circumstances, she would have scoffed at the very notion of gambling. Such things were beneath someone of her station, crass and vulgar pursuits that her family would never condone. Her family provided everything she could possibly need or want; there had never been any reason to risk anything in such an undignified manner.
And yet she'd caved to their suggestion almost immediately, barely putting up any resistance at all.
Olivia had explained, with that practical directness that seemed to characterise everything she did, that they were gathering funds specifically for managing the inevitable backlash that would follow when—she'd said when, with such casual confidence—they actually won this absurd duel.
And when Angelica had asked, with what she'd thought was reasonable concern, what would happen if they lost instead, both Olivia and Mégane had simply shrugged in perfect synchronisation and said, with the sort of resigned honesty she wasn't accustomed to hearing, "Then we're fucked."
The crude language had made her flinch internally, but before she could form a proper objection, they'd continued explaining. If there wasn't substantial money available to grease the right palms and smooth things over after they won—because winning would create its own problems, perhaps even worse ones than losing—then they'd still be utterly fucked regardless of the outcome.
Of course, she understood all of this perfectly well, being the daughter of a duke. What actually surprised her was that they had thought this far ahead, that they understood the political aftermath would require as much management as the duel itself.
Angelica found herself frowning at the crass language even now, remembering it. She had never been the type to tolerate such vulgarity, not in all her years of careful noble upbringing, not during her years of dedicated service as the queen's personal attendant, not through all those endless years of rigorous study and preparation to become the queen this kingdom truly deserved.
And now look at her—clutching a betting chit, gambling her family's money, allied with a commoner-turned-knight and a baron who barely understood proper court etiquette.
The point of no return hadn't actually occurred when she'd thrown down her glove in formal challenge. No, the true point of no return had started much earlier—during that very first argument in the academy courtyard, when the prince and the others had publicly rejected her accusations without any apparent thought for how such a thing looked. For the social implications. For the future relations between the great families of this kingdom. For the damage to her reputation.
Now she was simply here to prove that they were wrong about her. To show them that she wasn't some pampered noble who couldn't understand real stakes or real consequences. With how the prince and his so-called friends had been acting, with how thoroughly immature and politically naive they'd proven themselves to be, she suspected that even if they somehow won this duel, they probably wouldn't honor the spirit of their wager anyway. They'd find some loophole, some technicality to exploit.
She was just here to prove they were wrong about her character, about her resolve.
Certainly, she could acknowledge that fighting a duel didn't actually address the logical merits of anyone's argument, didn't prove who was morally right or wrong about the fundamental issues at stake. But she had nothing else left to her now.
After this duel concluded, regardless of its outcome, she would face one of several equally unpleasant fates: either she'd be formally disowned by her family, exiled from the kingdom entirely, quietly encouraged to commit suicide to preserve family honour, or married off to someone politically essential but personally abhorrent.
None of these options left room for the life she'd been promised, the future she'd trained for. Queen. She'd been preparing to be queen. And now... all she had left were these allies who'd backed her up not because of whatever political clout she possessed. Even her allies at school had already distanced themselves from her. But these people who'd just gone on one adventure with her hadn't left.
They were nearing Leon's dormitory building now, and she already knew about the failed attempt at vandalizing his room—the whole academy was buzzing with rumors about it. Several hours had passed since those incidents, but she could still count approximately four bodies sprawled unconscious in the hallway ahead, testaments to whatever defensive measures had been employed.
The others who'd attempted the vandalism had presumably either been collected by sympathetic friends or had possessed better constitutions and managed to stumble away under their own power.
Olivia, in absolutely typical fashion that somehow no longer surprised Angelica in the slightest, kicked open the door to Leon's room with unnecessary force, the wood slamming against the interior wall with a resounding bang. She was already shouting before she'd even fully entered, waving her blue betting chit around like a victory banner.
"Hey, Leon! I've secured everything we need, all the funds are in place—now all we have to do is beat them sense—"
She stopped mid-sentence, her triumphant energy draining away as she took in the scene before them.
Leon was kneeling in the centre of the room, arms raised above his head in the classical punishment posture, the kind usually reserved for misbehaving children caught in serious transgressions. His expression was carefully neutral, but Angelica could see the tension in his shoulders and the slight tremor in his raised arms from holding the pose.
Seated cross-legged before him was Margot Fou Bellefleur, perched on the knee of her enormous guardian spirit who sat in a relaxed seated position. The contrast between the lounging countess and the kneeling baron would have been comical under other circumstances.
Then Margot's gaze locked onto the blue chits clutched in each of their hands—Olivia's, Mégane's, and Angelica's own. Her eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously.
"You didn't," Margot said, her voice dropping to a dangerously quiet register that somehow felt more threatening than shouting.
-=&
The day after the party, Marie found herself perched on her bed with her knees pulled tightly up to her chest, worrying her thumbnail between her teeth. The nervous habit did nothing to calm the storm of frustration building inside her. With a sound somewhere between a shriek and a growl, she threw herself backwards, rolling around the bed in a display of pure, unadulterated exasperation.
"Who the hell is that background character? Why is he ruining my perfect plan?!"
The words echoed in her room, accusatory and bewildered in equal measure. She bit into her blanket, pulling at it in frustration.
It was supposed to be simple—brilliantly simple, in fact—especially given that Olivia, the original heroine, didn't seem to be following the game's script in the slightest. That should have made things easier, not more complicated. Marie had prepared for the standard routes, the predictable patterns, the well-worn paths she could navigate blindfolded. With Olivia not pursuing the capture targets, the field had been wide open.
She already had everything memorised by heart. Of course she did—how could she not?
Ever since Shirou's death, where his final act before never waking up was to achieve a full one hundred percent completion of the game she'd failed to complete even once... well, that was before that terrible time. The memory still ached, a dull throb beneath her ribs.
After Illya's death, which followed a few days later—another loss that had carved something irreparable from her soul—she'd taken it upon herself to play and complete it herself. Several times over, in fact, each playthrough a meditation, a memorial, a way of keeping them close.
She'd saved the original file that came from Shirou, of course, keeping it safe in memory of the boy she'd always considered her little brother, even backing it up to a microSD card she always kept in her wallet. But every time his death anniversary came around, she rebooted that very game and completed another full one-hundred per cent run in his memory.
With her prior knowledge firmly in place, she was able to speedrun the harem route with an efficiency that would have impressed even the most dedicated completionist. After all, she already knew absolutely everything about the love interests—what their likes and dislikes were, their endearing quirks, their hidden insecurities, the precise words that would make their hearts flutter. She'd caught their interest easily, effortlessly even, just a few weeks after the start of the academy term. It had almost felt too simple, like playing through a tutorial stage she'd mastered years ago.
Of course, she didn't really put on an act at all times; that carefully cultivated performance was reserved for public consumption, for maintaining the image expected of the saintess candidate. But thankfully—blessedly—she could just be herself in front of them when they were in private, away from prying eyes and gossiping tongues. She rather thought they even loved her more for it, for those glimpses of the real Marie beneath the polished facade, the woman who could be sharp and playful and utterly herself without restraint.
To be honest, she actually felt somewhat guilty about Angelica's current predicament, a gnawing discomfort that occasionally surfaced in the quiet moments. It would have been so much easier if Angelica were truly like the villainess the game had portrayed her to be—cruel, shallow, easily dismissed. But she wasn't, and Marie knew it.
Still, for once, Marie was going to chase her own happiness, seize it with both hands and refuse to let go. She'd earned this, hadn't she? After everything?
Her past life as Taiga had been somewhat dull and profoundly unfulfilling after Shirou's death, a grey existence where she merely coasted by without direction or purpose, not even finding love despite the occasional half-hearted attempts. It had been just an endless, monotonous cycle of work and home, plus the occasional games whenever she felt like it, when the silence grew too oppressive.
Until, one day, she'd simply woken up in this world, blinking in confusion at unfamiliar ceiling rafters and the weight of golden hair tumbling across her shoulders.
She never really knew what had happened; had she passed away peacefully in her sleep, or had she been transported, yanked across dimensions like those popular isekai tropes from her home country? There'd been no truck-kun, no dramatic moment of heroic sacrifice, just... nothing. A sleep and a waking, and everything had changed.
But this was her second life, hard-won and precious, and she owed this to herself. Once she became the saint or the queen—whichever path opened before her first—she'd make it up to Angelica somehow. She'd make absolutely certain that none of what happens in the game's darker routes would befall the other girl. It was the least she could do, wasn't it? A small penance for stealing her prescribed happiness.
Someone knocked firmly on her door, and before she could even open her mouth to respond, Kyle stepped inside with his usual presumption.
"Mou—Kyle, at least wait for me to call you in! What if I was naked?" Marie complained theatrically as she threw herself at her elf attendant, wrapping her arms around him in an exaggerated embrace that made him stiffen in surprise.
Kyle snorted, his eyes twitching in that particular way they did when she was being deliberately troublesome, as Marie mashed and played with his cheeks like he was some sort of particularly endearing stress toy.
"Fine, I'll be more careful next time," he conceded with poor grace, clearly humouring her.
From the outside, Kyle looked every inch the perfect servant; he moved briskly and efficiently as he prepared her breakfast, setting out dishes with practised precision. The problem—if one could call it that—was his slightly twisted personality, the sharp edges that most nobles would find utterly intolerable.
He was a leftover at the attendant market, no one else wanting him, passed over time and again. According to his backstory in the game, his foul attitude had ensured that purchasers always returned him within days, sometimes hours. No one wanted a servant who talked back.
"I packed today's breakfast absolutely full of vegetables," he announced with the air of someone delivering wonderful news.
"I want more meat!" Marie protested immediately, eyeing the suspiciously green array before her.
"Next time, please finish this for now. You sound pitiful, whining like that, mistress," he replied coolly, not remotely moved by her complaint.
The way Kyle spoke to Marie, people would hardly believe he was the servant and she the mistress. In the game, he'd always done his job properly and seemed like an adorable little-brother-type character, even though he could be cold and prickly when the mood struck him. But Marie only grinned lasciviously as she pinched his arse without warning, delighting in his startled jump—she didn't really mind his attitude in the slightest, finding it refreshingly honest. She rather thought it was cute, actually.
The two had only been together for a couple of weeks, but Marie genuinely appreciated how much he looked after her, fussing in his own acerbic way. She felt a sharp twinge in her chest as she remembered the good times when she'd shamelessly mooched off Sakura and Shirou early in the morning before she rushed to school, stumbling in bleary-eyed and demanding breakfast. Those mornings felt like another lifetime now—because they were.
"How are things progressing with the scheduled battle?" she asked, forcing her thoughts back to the present.
Kyle poured her drink with careful attention and slid the cup smoothly over to her. "It seems His Highness and the others won't have any trouble borrowing the special island for the event. The academy was initially reluctant to agree, citing various regulations, but Mister Jilk and Mister Brad worked absolutely tirelessly to persuade them, calling in favours and making compelling arguments."
He paused, setting down the teapot. "Judging by what I heard from the other servants during my rounds, Leon's grades are barely scraping in at the bottom of the top tier. Everyone says it won't even be a competition, that it'll be over in minutes. Though the servants of the upperclassmen were a little more cagey with their opinions."
He added thoughtfully, "Though the scholarship student is consistently dominating the top rankings."
She herself took her studies seriously, maintaining her position carefully—her grades were either number two or three in their year, with her most consistent rival being Angelica, their scores always trading places in an unspoken competition.
"Oh yeah?" Marie's shoulders slumped visibly in relief, tension she hadn't realised she'd been carrying finally releasing, and she dug into her breakfast with renewed appetite.
"You could stand to praise me just a little bit more, you know," Kyle scowled, though there was something almost playful in his expression. "It was quite a lot of work for me to go around collecting all that information from all the other servants, piecing together gossip and facts."
"Right. Thanks," Marie offered, deliberately casual.
For some reason she couldn't quite fathom, Kyle genuinely enjoyed doing favours she hadn't even asked for, then demanding her gratitude afterwards like he was collecting payment.
"Oh, how cute! Does Kyley-wiley want his Marie to praise him properly?" Marie grinned wickedly, cupping his lower cheek and pinching gently, watching his ears flush pink.
After the skirmish concluded, all that remained before the academy recessed for the summer holidays was to make thorough preparations for the long break stretching ahead. Marie would spend some productive time in the capital's dungeon collecting rare items and materials, grinding through levels she'd memorised. She'd go off on her carefully planned journey and collect the last crucial pieces she needed for her plan to proceed.
These 'last pieces' were equipment originally intended for the protagonist in the game's proper timeline, of course—legendary items that had been hidden away in obscure locations. They featured heavily in the game's story, moving forward, powerful artefacts that could turn the tide of battles and unlock new routes.
After eating a leisurely lunch, the pair walked their way through the academy's elegant corridors towards the prince's quarters, her attendant stepping forward deferentially as he opened the lavish double doors of His Highness's rooms with a practised flourish.
And what greeted her sight was a scene she absolutely hadn't anticipated—all her lovers, every single one of them, doing what she could only describe as sitting in seiza position with their hands held high above their heads like schoolchildren being punished. Professor Lucas stood to one side looking deeply disappointed, whilst Chris's father—the legendary Sword Saint himself—stood imposingly in front of them like a disapproving wall of martial excellence, their intense eyes swivelling to meet hers the moment she appeared in the doorway.
She tried backing out immediately, feet already moving in retreat, but—
"Ms Lafan—join them!" Professor Lucas's voice cracked out like a whip, brooking absolutely no argument.
-=&
End