After much hesitation, Yuna finally sent away the convoy that had come to deliver food, shamelessly deciding to stay for the festival.
Even though that pink pufu had interfered, making the Hero colder towards her, her curiosity was too strong—
curious about the changes in the refugee camp, and even more curious about who exactly was acting as the Hero’s ‘strategist.’
At first, she suspected it was the pufu.
However, upon reflection, Yuna dismissed that thought.
The Hero’s attitude toward pufu wasn’t like that toward a strategist, but more like toward a cute pet or a clever younger sibling.
If the pufu truly advised him, he would unconsciously show respect for it.
In the camp, some repaired houses, some dug ditches, some fetched water, some built stoves.
Even as rain soaked their straw coats, it didn’t dampen their enthusiasm.
The scene was lively yet orderly, making it hard for Yuna to believe such a state could be achieved by a group of ignorant commoners on their own.
As the Saintess of Light, she often represented the church in aiding believers, demonstrating the church’s compassion and virtue.
She had seen many gatherings of refugees elsewhere, none of which possessed such spirit.
Even when she stood among the stench of the refugees, clutching her Scripture, her white skirt spotless, spreading the Goddess’s gospel—those people would only lower their dull eyes, like corpses with no graves to return to.
Only when they heard the words ‘porridge distribution’ would their decayed bodies stir, pressing in waves toward the porridge tent like scrambling cockroaches, sometimes trampling women or children to death in the chaos.
Yuna hated that scene most of all, for it was savage, ugly, lacking humility and courtesy, the light of humanity utterly lost, a betrayal of the many virtues taught by the Goddess.
She pitied them.
She always believed that only someone like herself—well-read in Scripture, wise, and devout—could guide these foolish, uncivilized commoners out of their innate suffering and original sin.
Yet what she saw in the camp seemed to shake her long-held beliefs.
She had met the camp’s manager—a common, aging farmer.
Apart from being literate and slightly more experienced, he was unremarkable, easily overwhelmed by a few tasks.
“Strange… Who is really leading the refugee camp…?”
After inquiring subtly, Yuna muttered to herself, stepping out of the tent—only to see Jon equipping himself with armor like a general about to set out.
The ever-present pink pufu was perched atop his head, cheering him on like a miniature newlywed wife.
“Where are you going?” Yuna blurted out.
“A debt must be repaid. A wrong must be corrected.”
Jon replied casually as he fastened his greaves, sounding as if discussing a trip to the market.
“The Princess also owes an apology here. I’m going to bring her over to repay it.”
Yuna didn’t react at first.
After two or three seconds, her brain processed the outrageous statement, and her eyes widened in disbelief.
“You… You want the Princess to apologize…?”
“Mm.”
“Will she agree?”
Yuna tried to suppress the corners of her mouth from rising.
This was the scenario she most wanted to see.
Yet beneath her delight, her heart pounded with fear.
“Jon, Her Highness the Princess is a strong-willed person. I think… she’d rather die than apologize.”
“Really? I don’t think it’s so bad. She admitted fault last time.”
Jon replied offhandedly.
“Ah?”
Yuna was stunned.
The incident of Jon disciplining the Princess was only discussed within the Imperial Guards, kept discreet from the public.
After all, the Princess truly had the authority to punish an entire squad of the Imperial Guard.
As Jon finished, he pulled down his helmet, hiding his youthful face behind steel as rain pattered down its edges.
In that instant, he became once more the invincible Hero of the Demon War.
The Hero waved to the Saintess, mounted his horse, its hooves stamping and shaking impatiently.
With a light kick, the steed neighed and charged through the rain.
Yuna stared blankly at the scene.
That fearless back was engraved in her heart for the first time, evoking a strange mix of respect and fear.
She suddenly recalled a passage from the Scripture—a Prophecy of Victory said to be composed by the Goddess herself, though no one could prove its authenticity.
“The Hero of Victory returns in glory and flowers.”
“But his lonely shadow never halts its gallop.”
“Feasts and wine flow.”
“Coming and going in haste.”
“But where do good dreams dwell?”
“……”
The moon rose.
The rain fell.
Inside the heavily guarded Lord’s mansion, Margaret and Ananna huddled over a stone table.
The Princess gripped the Gem-Studded Dagger in her right hand, her left trembling slightly.
“Your Highness, don’t be afraid. It’ll be over in a flash… just a moment…”
Ananna whispered worriedly, gently wiping the cold sweat from Margaret’s forehead, like a tender mother or a loving sister.
Margaret thought of the Hero wielding a whip.
Her heart hardened.
The sharp dagger sliced her palm, the delicate skin splitting as blood as red as any commoner’s dripped into the Holy Grail.
“Haa~”
The pain nearly made her cry out, but she held back, tears welling in her eyes.
“What! It doesn’t hurt at all!”
She declared in a trembling voice.
Ananna stifled a giggle, then softly pried the Princess’s fingers from the dagger and set it aside.
As Margaret’s blood filled the Holy Grail, her face turned pale.
Ananna hurriedly cast a Healing Spell, closing the wound.
“Hehe.”
The Princess grinned foolishly.
“That idiot Jon even announced the time he’d arrive. This time, we must put him in his place, so he understands—he’ll never match the might of the Empire!”
Stimulated by the blood of the departed, the Holy Grail gleamed with a strange purple light, like a lotus of poisonous mist.
Within the cup, the blood bubbled and steamed.
Before the expedition, Father had given her the Holy Relic as a trump card against the Demon King.
Yet the Demon King was so weak that Jon slew him instantly, rendering the Holy Relic useless.
Margaret pondered.
She suddenly decided—it was all the fault of the Demon King Lia!
If only Lia hadn’t been so weak, she would’ve had her chance to shine, to wield the Sacred Artifact, and Jon wouldn’t dare look down on the Empire or its thousand-year Royal Family.
Her ancestor was none other than Sinmir, the great hero who ended the Seven Demon God Uprising and transformed the Dark Chaos Land into a human paradise—the world’s first Hero.
Before her ancestor appeared, demons rampaged across human lands, slaughtering and devouring at will.
Within humanity, too, Black Magic and Evil Arts reigned, the strong oppressing the weak.
Powerful spellcasters enslaved others, the victors taking all, the defeated suffering—all people were born to serve these strong ones.
Even the wild, untamed magical beasts outside were enough to wipe out entire villages.
Later… her ancestor, the Hero Sinmir, appeared.