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Translator: penny
Chapter: 33
Chapter Title: Useless High Elf
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After performing the surgery, roughly twenty hours had passed.
Of course, there was no clock in this room.
But from countless operating rooms in his past life, he had an ingrained sense for time.
If he had to put a name to it, it was like a navel alarm.
'Around now... that makes twenty hours.'
He paused his hands, caught his breath, and took stock of himself.
'If I'd specialized in dentistry or ophthalmology, I might've finished a bit faster.'
The thought flickered through his mind for a moment before he shook his head.
'...No. Finishing this quickly is fortunate enough.'
As he made minute adjustments to the growing molars, the surgery was nearing its end.
Only then did he have the leisure to look around.
In one corner of the room.
Piel sat slumped on the floor, clutching a basin full of water, already deep in sleep with her head bowed.
On the other side—
Honestly, someone with no reason to help this far.
Despite being only eleven years old, Evelyn had maintained the anesthesia spell without once losing focus for nearly a full day.
Her eyes blinked slowly from the onslaught of drowsiness, but the hand gripping her magic wand never dropped.
The flow of mana at her fingertips hadn't wavered even once.
"Princess?"
"Mmm..."
"Princess."
"...Yeah?"
"Princess!"
"Wha, Mom?! Anesthesia?!"
"No. The surgery's wrapping up. Just letting you know."
From her state, it seemed less like she'd consciously kept casting upon hearing him—
More like she'd reflexively maintained the anesthesia spell even half-asleep whenever someone spoke to her.
Thanks to that, even when he approached right in front of her and shook her, Evelyn showed no sign of realizing a full day had passed.
At that moment, it wasn't just Evelyn who reacted to his voice.
"Wha, wh-what?! Master?! Wh-what do you need?!"
Piel, asleep on the floor, hastily wiped the drool from her mouth and shot to her feet.
"Yeah. Think I need a soft bed and pillow."
"Pardon?"
"Surgery's done. Wanna rest now."
"...Ah."
Only then did the reality sink in for both of them that it was all over.
They exchanged a glance and shared a quiet smile.
They probably knew they needed rest right away but wanted to check on the first patient they'd protected.
Piel and Evelyn rushed past him to the bed.
Aira slept peacefully, her eyes no longer protruding.
Her chest rose and fell regularly with steady breaths.
And her teeth meshed neatly in a precise dental arch.
The elf, Aira, simply slumbered in silence.
Emotions spread across their faces simultaneously as they looked at each other.
It had gone well.
Truly.
"Yesss—!"
Just as she started to cheer.
"Shh."
Evelyn quickly pressed a finger to her lips.
Piel clamped both hands over her mouth in surprise, and like that, the two stifled giggles as their eyes met.
Across the vast continent of this world, the race occupying the resource-richest east.
The elves.
They were the polar opposite of humans.
Unlike humans, who endlessly progressed, invented new technologies, and sought to explore and conquer the world, elves were an extremely insular and conservative race.
They chose tradition over technological advancement.
Preservation and maintenance over expansion.
They rarely ventured beyond their territory, living in the same way for thousands of years in what was called the elves' forest in the east.
So humans couldn't understand.
Why they sat on such abundant resources yet seemed unable to utilize them properly.
Why a stagnant civilization remained the east's rulers for so long.
That mystery led to countless invasions.
Numerous human nations and organizations sent armies toward the east, dubbed the "elves' forest."
They claimed it was a waste to leave resources their civilizations couldn't even fully use.
But the results were always the same.
The elves remained the east's overlords.
The reason was simple.
They didn't need to advance—they were overwhelmingly stronger than humans.
Soldiers who returned alive from the elves' forest always spoke the same words.
Elves don't fight alone.
They fight alongside the "forest."
From the massive trees tangled like swamps, endless magic and arrows slaughtered the invaders.
Eventually, countless continental nations deemed the sacrifices greater than the gains and abandoned invasions of the east.
Starting with the mighty Abellan Empire, they began accepting eastern resources through trade and exchange rather than plunder.
Thus, the "elf kingdom" was recognized as the untouchable rulers of the east by all.
But the elves knew.
This recognition stemmed solely from their strength.
And the moment that power faded, they—boasting nothing but their forest—would face immediate ruin.
So elves never changed.
They upheld traditions, adhered to doctrines, and above all, never ceased honing their own power.
The eastern land itself embodied elven value, and the strength to defend it was their entirety.
Thus, among myriad virtues, elves prized strength above all.
And even among such elves, certain beings were deemed innately the most powerful.
Born not just of ordinary elf blood but blended with the blood of spirits said to have shaped the world in legends.
The elf royalty: high elves.
High elves were the face and symbol of the elf race.
The forest's greatest miracle.
A form that had to be perfect.
But as always, even the greatest bloodlines harbored "exceptions."
The talent for bows and magic that every elf supposedly possessed from birth.
A child born utterly devoid of both.
The youngest princess, treated like baggage: Aira.
"Why... why did such a child have to be born to me...!"
A voice laced with fury and despair.
"M-Mother..."
"Aira... are you truly my daughter? Were you switched with some other child...?"
Aira didn't understand those words.
She was simply afraid.
The high elf's mother was the queen, and the queen symbolized the forest.
To her, Aira wasn't a daughter to love but proof of her own failure.
From the moment memories began at birth, the first scene etched in Aira's mind was always the same.
A room shut off from the king's gaze after he'd turned away.
And her mother approaching in tears, strangling the child's neck before snapping back to sanity and sobbing apologies.
Each time, Aira gasped for air and repeated the same words.
"M-Mother... I'll... I'll do my best. I'll try hard... so...!"
Clutching her mother's hem with tiny hands.
"Just... just wait a little longer... please!"
She could only plead through tears.
That was all a child could do.
A promise to strive.
A vow to one day become useful.
But—
A month passed, then half a year, seasons changed several times, yet Aira never changed.
The child said to carry spirit blood still couldn't wield bow or magic.
And with time, her mother changed bit by bit.
Laughter vanished from the queen's face, and avoiding glances multiplied in the palace.
Whispers arose.
That child was the cause. That woman's sin. Before long, even in the kingdom, the queen was treated like a criminal.
Aira merely watched her mother lose words, often sitting alone in tears.
Then.
That day came.
Aira's "birthday."
The room brimmed with the flower scent Aira loved.
On the bed lay a dress tidied far more neatly than usual.
A small, modest cake sat on the table.
Aira smiled for the first time in ages at the sight.
'Today... at least today!'
A day to celebrate her, a day her mother had called her for.
So she was happy.
So she entered without suspicion.
Until the shadow from the noose dangling from the ceiling blocked her view.
"Mother...?"
No reply.
Aira cautiously looked up.
A motionless body.
A silhouette swaying faintly in the breeze.
Only then did she sense something wrong in the room's air.
Her gaze drifted to the table.
The small, dainty cake.
Cream lettering atop it, seemingly handwritten.
Clumsy, trembling script.
Proving her mind hadn't been sound to the end, the letters smeared crookedly.
But the message was all too clear.
Aira stared, unable to comprehend at first.
How her mother could leave such words for her daughter.
I've always gotten screwed only by you.
Now, for once, I'll screw you first.
"...Huh?"
What "screw" meant, what she'd "gotten screwed" by—Aira couldn't grasp.
The child loved her mother.
Adored her.
To earn praise, she'd gripped bowstrings that wouldn't budge day after day, clutched a wand that yielded nothing, striving to cultivate elven talent.
And this was the result.
In her mother's eyes, Aira's efforts weren't diligence but deception.
Her very existence a endless source of mockery for other queens, evidence contrived to humiliate her.
On that day meant to be blessed, Aira learned for the first time.
The "screw you" her mother spoke of wasn't laughter or jest.
It was an unforgettable wound for life.
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