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⁜ Episode 11. A Firm Ideal Type
“I think I’ve come down with love-sickness, Head Priestess.”
At her disciple’s sudden words, Pythia raised her head with a startled “Huh?”
The girl was sometimes shameless, sometimes sharp-tongued, but usually she was kind. For the daughter of the chamberlain, her behavior was unusually unrefined.
Pythia herself had been raised under strict courtly education, and she was the one and only Saint. She couldn’t bring herself to call a high noble’s daughter “rough.” At most, she thought of her as “rather too down-to-earth.”
“Love-sickness? For whom…?”
“You remember the visitor who came last time.”
“Ah, Sir Corchet. His neat appearance—”
“His appearance, personality, and family don’t matter. To put it simply, his type appeals to me.”
Type?
Pythia hesitated. Should she tell her not to classify people like cattle? Or should she at least scold her for weighing people with eyes like a butcher’s scale? But she knew one thing for certain: this disciple was nearly impossible to win against in a battle of words. Silence was safest.
“I think he was my ideal type. Jean Corchet, wasn’t it? I wonder which house the Corchets belong to. I remember almost every noble family, but not this one.”
He had a surname, so he wasn’t a commoner. But Corchet? Where in the world was that strange name from?
“Ideal type? Arian! You shouldn’t say such things so easily. You’re the chamberlain’s daughter.”
“Even if I were the king’s daughter, couldn’t I still have an ideal type? That’s just the kind of man I like. Oh—and women are fine too.”
If they’re gullible enough, what does it matter, man or woman, young or old?
The best thing about ideal types: you could have hundreds, and no one would care. Let all the world’s suckers come to me. Preferably the faithful, easily duped kind like Jean Corchet, who would hand over everything in the name of God.
“Y-y-y-y… Oh, Lord Gerka, forgive these horrid words…”
But Pythia suddenly froze. With a look of dawning horror, she glanced back and forth between the delicious soup she was eating and me, the one who had cooked it.
“D-Don’t tell me, the woman you mean… is…”
She pointed at herself with a trembling finger.
Ah. I see why she misunderstood. She really was beautiful—stunningly so. And being a Saint on top of that, she might as well have been a goddess incarnate in the eyes of men. Countless suitors had pursued her, no doubt. From her perspective, her suspicion made sense.
But from mine? Ridiculous. Excuse me?
“Head Priestess, you are indeed very beautiful… ah, and noble, and kind as well.”
For a second, I blanked out after “beautiful” and couldn’t think of what to say next. That was awkward.
Still, she did have her charms—I just hadn’t recalled them fast enough.
“But you are, to my taste, as far apart as heaven and hell.”
“Who’s heaven, then?”
“Of course you, Head Priestess. My preferences are just… a little more hellish.”
She was the Saint—honorable enough to rival kings in dignity. Me? Just the chamberlain’s daughter. If she was the sun, I was but a candle.
“To utter devilish words as a disciple of the temple is unacceptable. Even in jest, you must refrain. You need to train yourself more strictly.”
She gave me a stern lecture, but I only smiled sweetly at Pythia—who was generous enough to imagine she could be my ideal type.
The rain had fallen for three straight days.
The “Grand Assembly Hall” was a sanctuary of myth. It housed not only Gerka’s temple but shrines to many other gods as well—a sort of temple district.
It might seem mad to build a whole temple street atop an untraveled mountain, but such was the way of things.
“Wow, not a soul out today either.”
Usually, Gerka’s temple alone was empty. To others, it looked like ruins, not a building. You don’t call a mummy a person, and you don’t call ruins a functioning structure.
Sure, there were ruins that doubled as usable buildings—but this was not one of them. Judging by the crumbling pillars, some would collapse within a few years. I’d have to get Pythia out before then. She was too fragile to dodge falling stones.
For now, though, the whole temple district was as empty as we were—like well-fed cats napping in spring sunlight. Ah, bliss. It’s fine if I succeed while others fail, but the reverse? Never.
“Indeed. The other priests must be worried. It’s already the third day…”
Pythia sighed at the rain outside. I didn’t bother replying. Hmph. Worry about yourself first.
“I’ll head to the library.”
“Oh? Very well, but…”
She hesitated. She had a sweet tooth. She hadn’t tasted anything sugary in ages.
Before she could say it, I cut her a hefty slice of the medieval-style apple tart I’d baked that morning, with honey, cinnamon, and nuts.
“No more after this. You’ll spoil dinner.”
“Mmh… thank you…!”
I wasn’t sure if I was serving a patron or raising a puppy. But it was fine—Pythia was cute. Still, one freeloader was enough. Once I had her patronage secured, I’d cut her off without a backward glance.
She ate with rosy cheeks while I pulled up my hood and hurried through the rain toward the temple basement.
Gerka’s underground library. Enchanted for perfect preservation, with over a thousand years of knowledge. No other shrine nearby could match its quantity or quality. Naturally, this was because Gerka was the god of wisdom and learning.
“Show me everything on this bookshelf.”
I had carefully explained “status” to Gerka, but clearly he hadn’t understood. When I called a bookshelf’s status, every book title and summary popped up, even its ownership history.
He hadn’t grasped that “status” should be limited to people. And I hadn’t thought to spell out the obvious. Result? An ability absurdly versatile.
“Next time I bargain with a god, I’ll use 21st-century terminology.”
“Show me everything about my status.”
Now I could view every status I’d ever checked, and select any entry to recall it. Gerka had gifted me immense power out of sheer misunderstanding.
And with it, a revelation:
Even gods can be conned. No—the outcome of negotiations with gods depends entirely on my skill.
If Gerka, the wisest god, could be fooled, surely the others could too.
For now, I set about “status-izing” the entire library, so I could access its contents anytime. Information was power. Even as Count Hamilcar’s wife, I still had nine more revelations to complete.
By dinnertime I left the library, dripping rain from my cloak. Pythia took it from me at the entrance, and I hung it on the wall peg. The monster-leather repelled water well enough that I was mostly dry.
She dabbed my face with a handkerchief and smiled.
“If you love the library so much, why not go more often? I don’t mind.”
I could only visit on days of heavy rain or snow—otherwise, there was too much survival work to do.
After all, this mountain was a deathtrap. Even in summer, blizzards struck. Come winter, we’d be stranded. The only option was to fortify our shelter. Basic survival game rules. And on top of that, I had to feed and care for a practically useless NPC.
“I came here to serve you and learn, Head Priestess. I can’t neglect my duties.”
I’d prepped sandwich ingredients in the morning, so for dinner I laid out sandwiches, herb tea, and apple tart. Just as we were about to eat—
Someone knocked on the temple door.
“I’ll get it.”
I rose, watching Pythia chew her sandwich like a baby bird. As I opened the door, a chill swept in.
“…Who?”
A boy stood outside.
When he lifted his head, his soaked hood fell back, revealing a pale face framed by black hair, rain dripping from long lashes like tears. He was unnaturally beautiful—white skin, black hair, and violet eyes.
He looked at me, as though asking silently who are you?
Excuse me? You come to our temple and demand to know who I am?
I blinked in disbelief. But before I could speak, Pythia appeared beside me, curious about the visitor.
The moment she saw him—
“Damien!”
She screamed and rushed forward.
So, she knew him. Unexpected.
As I thought that, the boy—Damien—collapsed toward me.
