Chapter 21: She doesn’t seem very happy

“You disturbed my sister.”

The voice was soft, almost drifting.

Yet, it froze the entire arena’s clamor in an instant.

“She seems… unhappy.”

Avira’s gaze slid away from Sylvia’s pale, bloodless face and landed on Viscount Victor, who was holding his poem aloft in the arena.

Viscount Victor’s body stiffened.

The ecstatic joy on his face hadn’t fully bloomed before it froze into shock.

What does this mean?

The Second Princess is unhappy?

Why?

I won!

I proved my loyalty with blood and a severed arm!

Avira stood up.

She didn’t step down the stairs but simply extended her hand downward.

“Bring it here.”

Victor was momentarily stunned, then realized what she wanted.

Hope rekindled on his face.

The Eldest Princess would personally review his poem!

He hurriedly and respectfully sent the blood-soaked parchment to Avira with his fighting spirit.

Avira took the heavy poem, the scent of blood thick upon it.

She unfolded it slowly.

She was actually reading it.

Word by word, line by line.

The entire arena fell so silent that one could hear a pin drop.

Every noble held their breath, hearts pounding in their throats.

The Victor family members’ faces were alight with uncontrollable excitement.

This was the highest honor!

Sylvia watched her sister, who was seriously scrutinizing the poem.

Her stomach churned again.

Sis, please stop reading.

Just judge already, hurry up and end this. I want to go back to sleep.

Finally, Avira finished.

She looked up, expressionless.

Then, to everyone’s expectant eyes, she smiled.

It was a nervous, oddly joyous chuckle.

“Hehe.”

The next moment, she took action.

Ssshhh—

The poem that carried an entire family’s future was torn clean in two before everyone’s eyes.

But that wasn’t all.

Ssshhh! Ssshhh! Ssshhh!

Avira tore the parchment carefully, rhythmically, into countless fragments.

The shredded paper mixed with dried blood drifted down from the high stands, falling onto Viscount Victor’s head and shoulders, and the empty sleeve of his severed left arm.

Time stopped at that moment.

Viscount Victor tilted his head back, dumbfounded, staring at the “snowfall” made just for him.

The color drained from his face visibly, faster than the blood he had just lost.

“W-why…”

His lips trembled, making incoherent sounds.

Avira flicked the last paper scraps from her fingertips, looking down at him with disdain.

“It’s written terribly.”

“An entire poem of flowery words without a shred of soul.”

“With your pathetic talent, you dare praise my sister?”

Each cold word struck Viscount Victor’s heart— no, all the nobles’ hearts.

Victor suddenly raised his head, panicked, trying to defend himself:

“Your Highness! This… this is my labor of love!”

“I staked everything! I severed my own arm! My loyalty—”

“Labor of love?”

Avira cut him off.

Her smile grew even more brilliant—and dangerous.

“Perfect.”

“Let your blood drain dry, then.”

She slowly turned to the crowd, her voice low but clear in every ear.

“Remember.”

“Praise for Sylvia must be flawless.”

“Any clumsy, self-righteous flattery is…”

She paused, her crimson eyes sweeping over the trembling nobles.

“Desecra-tion.”

With that, she refocused on the two men in the arena.

One was the victor, Victor.

The other, the failure, Philip, lying in a pool of blood with a large hole in his chest, not yet dead.

A flicker of relief showed in Philip’s eyes.

Luckily… I’m the loser.

Then, he heard the Eldest Princess’s devilish final judgment.

Clearing her throat, Avira announced the duel’s result solemnly, like declaring a divine decree.

“I hereby declare.”

“The duel victor, Viscount Victor, due to the crude and sloppy nature of his work,”

“which gravely insults the Second Princess’s sanctity and beauty, is sentenced to death.”

Victor collapsed to the ground as if struck by lightning.

“No!!!”

The Victor family head in the stands went black and fainted on the spot.

Avira paid no mind to the commotion and continued.

“The duel loser, Philip…”

The light of hope returned to Philip’s eyes in the pool of blood.

He lost, but his work had not been submitted!

He was not guilty of “Desecra-tion”!

He would live!

“…is sentenced to an additional penalty for attempting to compete for the title of ‘Desecra-tion’ with an even worse work.”

Philip’s light died out.

Despair engulfed him completely.

In the stunned, voiceless screams of both men, Avira moved.

Her figure vanished from where she stood.

***

The next instant, she appeared in the center of the arena.

No one saw how she drew her sword.

Only two blood-red arcs flashed by in the blink of an eye.

Pft.

Pft.

Two heads flew off simultaneously.

Blood spouted from their necks, staining the yellow sand beneath Avira’s feet.

The entire arena fell into deathly silence.

The stands, which had been roaring moments before, now held not even a single breath.

All the nobles—regardless of rank or strength—stood frozen in place.

Their faces pale, cold sweat pouring.

They finally understood.

The Eldest Princess was not joking.

She truly would kill.

For the sake of whether the Second Princess was “happy” or not.

Avira flicked the blood droplets from her blade, then meticulously wiped her sword clean with a pure white handkerchief named “Wailing.”

Having done all this, she returned to Sylvia’s side.

Her face once again wore that innocent, sweet smile.

“Sister.”

Avira sheathed her sword and leaned close to Sylvia’s ear.

“Now it’s quiet.”

“That noise didn’t disturb you, did it?”

Sylvia stared at the flawless smile so close before her, then glanced at the two still-bleeding headless corpses in the arena.

A wave of nausea surged up her throat.

This was no duel.

It was even crueler than the Battle of the Weeping Blood Valley she had once fought in as a cannon fodder knight.

On a battlefield, killing is for position, for survival.

But here—

All because of two lousy poems?

Her soul trembled.

Faced with her sister’s “concerned” question,

Sylvia forced all her strength to keep from vomiting.

She stiffly nodded.

Then she saw Avira’s smile brighten even more.

“Excellent!”

“I knew it. Sister, you hate those noisy flies too.”

After that day, the noble circle in Yelin City’s mad “creative” frenzy was doused head to toe with a bucket of ice water mixed with blood.

No one dared to write poetry anymore.

No one dared to paint.

No one dared to sculpt.

The “artworks” piled outside Sylvia’s chambers vanished overnight.

More thoroughly than if they had evaporated.

Everyone understood.

“To please the Second Princess is a path more dangerous than openly challenging the Queen.”

Because the standard of judgment wasn’t the seemingly harmless little princess herself, but the two world-class predators beside her who treated her like a precious treasure.

That path was closed.

But desire’s vines always find new cracks.

The half-month of frenzied competition ended in a manner more tragic than anyone expected.

Yelin City returned to a superficial calm.

And Sylvia finally enjoyed a few days of undisturbed peace, eating and sleeping soundly.

She almost thought her life could finally return to the relaxed path she desired.