Stockings had once been Lya’s proud tool for raking in wealth.
They were also her favorite XP.
But for the first time in her life—Lya hated them so much!
Especially when they were on her own legs!
The thin, dense silk felt like flirtatious willow fluff, or pale petals tinged with pink, fluttering in a drunken spring breeze.
Honestly, there was a bit of “so comfortable” and “actually looks pretty good” in her heart—after all, it was an XP she’d once found adorable.
How could she not appreciate the allure?
But this strange feeling, when mixed with the domineering life of a “bossy” Demon King from her past, was like sulfuric acid meeting caustic soda—releasing a rush of heat that first climbed to her face, then quickly spread across her whole body, making her fair skin flush as pink as peach blossoms.
“So cute, Lili.”
Jon wore the silly grin of a 21st-century macho man decorating a Barbie Doll.
Lya wanted to bow to the Hero right then and there, begging him to stop.
Cute?
Was that a word for the Demon King?
She’d rather listen to an entire book of Demon King jokes!
But she couldn’t.
As a “naive and pure” Pupu, she wasn’t supposed to show strong gender awareness or clothing preferences.
So Lya could only pinch her skirt, lower her head, pout, and protest reluctantly:
“Clothes! Cumbersome!”
It was useless.
The Hero didn’t accept her reasonable request, as a Pupu wanting to get close to nature.
Instead, he turned back, smiled at the old woman, and asked:
“Grandma, could you make a few more? I’ll pay.”
“Of course, young man. I’m overflowing with inspiration.”
The old woman adjusted her glasses, gazing at Lya with admiration.
“This race is incredible—her body proportions are nearly perfect. She’s like an angel.”
Jon chuckled.
“An angel wouldn’t stand on my shoulder and kiss my earlobe.
I can touch her—that matters more than any god’s will.”
“May the Goddess of Love bless you both.”
The old lady covered her mouth, smiling gently as if seeing her younger self.
Lya couldn’t hold back.
No! Grandma! Are you misunderstanding something?
Blessed by the Goddess of Love? You might as well have the Mother of Pleasure bless us!
Jon, oblivious to the undertones of romance, accepted the blessing naturally and replied:
“May the Empire’s glory shine upon you.”
Old and young, talking past each other, they arranged a time to pick up the clothes.
Jon paid the full price up front, not just a deposit, then left the Tailor Shop.
The commandeered Lord’s Mansion was just a short distance ahead.
Since the disaster, Jon hadn’t stayed here for days.
Once, his teammates lived here.
Now, he felt as if he barely knew them anymore.
Miss Yuna, famed for her kindness, had ignored the homeless refugees…
Lady Margaret, burdened by the Empire, forced him to bow with the weight of three thousand lives…
Compared to them, even Miss Elita—who wasn’t human—seemed more humane.
Truly, the ways of the world are strange.
Apparently following the Princess’s orders, the Imperial Guards at the gate blocked Jon’s way.
One quickly ran inside to report.
The others stayed, giving Jon helpless, apologetic looks and winks—trying to hint at him silently.
No one dared speak, fearing a stray word might ruin their political prospects.
Jon nodded to the guards.
They’d fought side by side before—he didn’t want to make things hard for these brothers simply carrying out their duty.
Besides, he understood well.
He was probably here to break off ties with the Princess—distancing himself now would keep the guards safe from her wrath.
—
At the same time.
In the fragrant Temporary Bedchamber, Margaret hurriedly changed dresses after receiving the report.
Maid Ananna assisted, helping her review the steps.
“Intimidate first… show concern… then pretend to be pitiful… and finally bring out the Lord for execution… Is that the order?”
Margaret’s mind was already overwhelmed—now even more muddled.
“Don’t forget the food—delivering food is the most important step.
Please, don’t miss it.”
Ananna quickly reminded her.
“So troublesome.
Why must we make things so complicated?”
Margaret grumbled.
“Because thunder and rain alike are Heaven’s grace.”
Ananna explained patiently.
“Your Highness, the will of Heaven is mysterious.
That’s why people fear it.
From monarchs and ministers, to masters and servants, to husband and wife—it’s always the same.”
“Weak women who can control powerful husbands rely on alternating between harshness and tenderness.
Their husbands crave the sweetness but fear the quarrels, gradually lowering their guard until they hand over all decisions to their wives.”
Margaret’s eyes lit up.
“That’s the Throne Technique!
Why didn’t you just say so?
I get it now.”
She finished applying her lip rouge, tossed the makeup box aside, and stormed out.
Ananna quickly grabbed the Princess, her years of serving Margaret telling her that if the Princess said “I understand,” she probably didn’t.
“Your Highness,” she explained more carefully.
“The Hero must be desperate—coming to you now with no options, prepared to yield.
But he must also be angry, steeling himself for humiliation.
If you only intimidate him, wait for him to bow, then show concern instead of humiliating him—you’ll break his expectations and leave a deep impression.”
“Next, pretend to be pitiful—explain the disaster victims’ stolen food, blame the Lord’s treachery, and show that you’re just a naive girl who made a mistake.
That way, his anger will shift to the Lord.”
“When you personally arrest the Lord and execute him, his anger will have nowhere to go and naturally dissipate.
Punishing a local official before his eyes will be a warning.
Then, generously send food—demonstrating your mercy and virtue.
That way, he’ll truly submit.”
“Otherwise, it’s like taming a wild beast—if you only whip but never comfort, even a subdued beast will seize any chance to bite back.”
“Understood, understood.”
Margaret pulled her hand away, clearly impatient, and hurried outside.
Compared to all the later steps…
She was far more eager to see Jon’s defeated, desperate face—forced to bow before the woman he hated most.
She couldn’t even imagine how delicious that sight would be!
Just thinking of Jon, the scars at the base of her thighs—long since healed—burned with phantom pain.
She could never forget the Hero approaching, Whip in hand.
That mighty, godlike figure.
The pain of the Whip had left no trace on her flawless skin—but it had carved an invisible scar deep in her heart.
Except for the Emperor, she would never allow anyone to make her feel such unworthy awe or fear.
Her brothers were out of the question.
A commoner Hero—even less so!
—
In the Rear Garden, autumn’s chill lingered.
Yellow leaves, heavy with dew, dotted the air.
Margaret sat on her favorite chair.
For safety, she’d stationed all elite Imperial Guards around her and instructed Cobilio to be ready with Blood Burst and Anti-Magic to restrain the Hero.
Only after all these precautions did Margaret dare to summon the Hero for Audience.
Soon, Jon approached at a measured pace.
He held his head high, his expression calm, with no sign of defeat.
Margaret blinked in surprise—this wasn’t what she’d expected.
But then, she recovered.
Hmph, putting on a brave face, are we?
Inside, you must be dying.
Why bother pretending?
“Jon.”
Margaret ignored Ananna’s frantic eye signals and raised her chin.
“Did you come to apologize today?”
“No.”
Jon suddenly stepped forward.
The Imperial Guards tensed; Cobilio broke into a cold sweat.
But Jon stopped, facing Margaret.
He spoke clearly.
“Princess, I came to ask you to apologize to the disaster victims.”