SS 12📍

⁜ Chapter 12. The Black-Haired Boy

I imagined this boy collapsing into my arms and dying a tragic death. For, like, one second.

But instead of falling, he straightened his body again and looked down at me.

Tall.

His face was beautiful, but he was also tall. He stared down at me piercingly before turning his gaze to Pythia.

“Saintess.”

“Ah, yes, let us go.”

The boy removed his robe right in front of me. His pale fingers were so slender and elegant that they were almost sensual. Watching those fingers unfasten buttons felt like watching a bed scene in a movie.

But of course, there were clothes under the robe…

Well, surprisingly, no, it wasn’t that he was naked—he was clothed—but those clothes were soaked not with rainwater, but with blood.

He’s hurt?!

“Arian.”

Pythia urged me, and I snapped back to my senses, quickly taking the robe from the boy’s hands.

I almost hung it by the door next to mine, but worried about the dripping blood on display, I fetched a wooden bucket and placed it inside.

When I saw Pythia supporting him, I hurried to the kitchen to boil water. For an injured patient, the most important thing was clean water.

Luckily, this shabby little house had more supplies than it appeared from the outside. Enough to manage basic nursing, at least.

Now then, before I prepare everything, let’s take a look at his condition. Otherwise, I won’t know what to bring—wait, where is he?

This house only had three rooms: mine, Pythia’s, and the guest room.

If he wasn’t in the guest room, he wasn’t anywhere. There was only one door in and out of the house.

So if I didn’t see him pass by… then… no way.

I hurried, and—oh my god. There he was, bleeding heavily, kneeling before a palm-sized statue, praying.

I was dumbfounded and clasped my hands behind him too. Immediately, I heard an exasperated voice.

{Get him out of here right now! If Pythia’s in that state, at least you should keep your head! You took that “status” or whatever, so earn it! He’s bleeding all over, for heaven’s sake!}

Hmm. So that’s Gerca’s personality, huh? Even gods have tempers.

‘Going right now, sire.’

Until a few days ago, I was the pampered daughter of the Steward, and suddenly I’d been reduced to a servant girl.

I rushed forward and pulled the boy to his feet.

Wow, the smell—rain, blood, and something else foul. And yet, I was so dazed by his face that I didn’t even notice. Handsome men really are powerful.

“Good heavens, Arian!”

“If someone dies praying, that would disgrace Lord Gerca.”

At my words, Pythia nodded, “That is true.” Then she quickly offered the boy a chipped bowl.

Is she a psychopath…?

As I stood speechless, the boy, as if expecting it, pulled out his money pouch and dropped it into Pythia’s donation bowl.

Wow. That’s a lot, even for a fairy tale.

Pythia beamed.

“Oh my, Damien, so many gold coins? The Lord will surely bless you.”

Wait—gold coins?!

Oh. Ohhh. Not only was he beautiful—he was literally my type. Wow. Dear guest, I’ll be taking very good care of you.

“Please, this way, honored visitor.”

Since he’d paid, he deserved proper service. With the mindset of a professional hostess, I led him to the guest room.

The boy, Damien, didn’t wake up for two whole days.

And I nearly collapsed myself. My ideal man—perfect face, deep pockets—had one fatal flaw.

[ Damien Hamilcar, 12 years old. ]

There was only one Hamilcar family in this land: the Counts of Hamilcar. Honestly, I doubted there was another anywhere in the country.

The last time I’d seen him was when he was three. Back then, his father’s overwhelming presence had completely eclipsed him…

But now that I thought harder, yes, I remembered. There was a child beautiful enough not to be overshadowed, practically a walking statue. I’d thought then he would surely turn ugly with age, but apparently, he’d hit the jackpot instead.

So—the son of Count Hamilcar.

I could marry him after killing his father. That was an option. But something about him didn’t sit right with me.

Being covered in blood, tossing fistfuls of gold into chipped bowls—marrying a man like that sounded like a fast-track to ruin.

Sure, he had the looks, but without a shred of financial sense, even if he became king, nothing would fix that. And beauty fades. I knew too many celebrity children raised on the internet who’d lost their shine. Not one kept their looks.

And then there was his status. Ugh.

[ Assassination S / Swordsmanship A / Gambling S / Accounting C ]

Assassination and gambling?! Aren’t you my age? Twelve years old, with S-rank in both?!

That wasn’t promising potential—it was a withered sprout.

As the wise elders online always said: you can’t change people.

So, Damien—you’re out.

I almost stamped a mental “REJECTED” on his face… but then hesitated.

God, that face really is criminal.

“Please… please…”

Burning with fever, that beautiful face muttered deliriously.

Ah, so pitiful. I thought of the healing potion I had stashed away. Considering the money he’d given, maybe one bottle wouldn’t hurt.

But… humans do have natural healing, don’t they? With Assassination S and Swordsmanship A, he should be sturdy enough. Maybe his body could fix that gaping hole in his side on its own?

So I waited a day. No luck. Blood kept soaking through the bandages.

Pythia kept insisting we wash and reuse them—excuse me, I’m no medical student, but even I know that’s a terrible idea. This medieval nonsense is insane.

“Damn it. What kind of glass body is this? So annoying.”

On the third night at midnight, I finally poured the healing potion over Damien’s side.

It was a waste, but I couldn’t just let Hamilcar die. I hadn’t even decided yet whether to marry him or kill his father and take him instead.

Besides, we were out of bandages. Honestly, the bandages were more precious than the potion at this point.

Luckily, this potion had come from the pack of another “honored guest,” so it wasn’t even my loss.

Still, just in case, I opened the window. Potions were notorious for curses or debuffs. Not that a window would help, but everyone did it—open windows, rub noses, chant Balmido’s name three times. Ridiculous rituals, but I’d picked them up living here.

No choice. It had to be done.

The potion’s label said it was genuine, but potions were rare and expensive, so urban legends abounded.

The most common: spending all your savings to buy one for a dying family member, only to find it was just crushed leaves.

The second most common: the disease healed, but transferred to someone else instead.

This world was ruthless. If you weren’t sharp, you’d be swindled blind. Which is why testing uncertain items on an assassination-obsessed idiot seemed perfect.

“If you die, well, that’s your fate.”

Damien whispered “please” again. It almost sounded like he was calling Pythia.

Brat. Twelve years old and already simping for the Saintess. This world is doomed.

Anyway, the wound in his side slowly closed until no trace remained.

Healing successful. But the question remained—was there a debuff?

That would take time to know.

[ Healing Potion / Grade C / Made by Jean Corchet ]

Alchemists were famous. Anyone who made potions that could knit flesh became known quickly, especially since the craft usually passed through families.

But Corchet? I’d never heard the name.

Was Jean Corchet really an alchemist?

I thought back to the man who had been my “ideal.” He looked more like a scholar than an alchemist. Hadn’t he even called himself one?

In this medieval-like world, clothing mattered—it defined your identity. Alchemists dressed a certain way, and he hadn’t.

Maybe he wasn’t a formal alchemist. Plenty of dabblers tried their hand at alchemy, chasing dreams of turning trash into gold.

But potions made by those types usually carried curses or just didn’t work.

Well, time would tell. Our little guinea pig here—er, “honored guest”—was as good a test subject as any. Especially since in this land, he had the status of royalty.

With the wound sealed, I stripped away the bloody bandages, wiped him down, and left the room.

I’d provided service worth his gold. That was enough.

Outside, the full moon hung heavy and bright.

Tonight, before I slept, I would think carefully about how to use my new title:

“The Savior of the Hamilcar Heir.”

While engraving this onto my mental calendar, something flickered past the window.

An animal?

I peered out. Through the downpour, I glimpsed something like the hem of clothing.

A ghost? No, impossible. Not here.

If I didn’t believe in gods, I might have feared ghosts. But I was a firm theist—one of the strongest in the Grand Basilica.

Of course. I had felt a god, heard their voice, spoken to them, even received power. If Gerca existed, so did the others.

And no ghost could trespass on such holy ground.

So either I imagined it—or it was a living person.

I’d rather it were imagination.

Because the thought of someone standing in that torrential rain, staring into my window…

That was a bad omen if ever there was one.