TVH 50

chapter  50

The unexpected compliment made my shoulders twitch upward. No, even if we didn’t get along, don’t make things up out of nowhere.

“Not at all. I’m actually pretty good at being objective about myself.”
“Subjectively, yes. Master, you have a squirrel-like face.”

Is that really a compliment?

But when I looked into his clear, confident eyes, a strange feeling crept over me. Maybe it’s just a difference in taste.

While I was thinking that, he slowly turned his head and added in a low voice, “And please don’t praise other people in front of me. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“To be honest, Dante is prettier. Jet-black hair, eyes blue as a clear sea on a fine day, perfectly symmetrical features—he’s a beauty who could bring a kingdom to ruin. If I were king, I’d be so bewitched I’d ruin the country and be forcibly deposed.”

“Good.”

He couldn’t hide his disappointment, but his face lit up with great satisfaction at my top-tier praise.

…Is this man a jealous type who can’t stand other people being praised? His competitiveness shows up in everything.

After meeting the Saint Galatea, I walked the hallway with Dante, lost in thought.

I knew this place was the world of the novel “The Last Princess,” and I knew the rough plot and that Dante existed—so why couldn’t I remember the heroine’s name or appearance at all?

Actually, I kind of hoped the heroine wouldn’t appear. I wanted the original story to change.

If that happened, Dante, Killian, and Ezekiel would keep staying at my house. I didn’t like the idea of being left alone once the main plot started.

“Master, do you know the way?” Dante stopped me, striding ahead like someone who’s confidently directionally challenged. Why did he follow me obediently when he clearly knew I was going the wrong way?

“Ah? I fell into a brief swamp of thought.”

“This way.”

I obediently followed his gesture.

When we got to the kitchen, my eyes landed on the piled-up dirty dishes—like a labor quest prepared just for us.

“Oh my… looks like these’ve been put off for at least three days.”

“You know your stuff. You must’ve postponed often.”

Dante, a diligent housekeeper, seemed not to grasp how many times one has to skip doing dishes for them to pile up like that.

I awkwardly smiled and grabbed a dish sponge.

“Ha—well, with so many kids, they probably piled up this much.”

I looked up at the tower of dishes.

If stacking them this high is a skill, it’s a skill. Viewed by a pro procrastinator, this wasn’t the work of someone who delayed once or twice.

I stepped on the small stool and, like a game of Jenga, began carefully removing plates. Dante watched with an anxious look.

“Dangerous…”

He sighed after barely stopping the wobbling dish tower from toppling.

“…I was about to say that.”

“As long as nothing broke, it’s fine.”

Crash—

No sooner had I said that than the plates at the top cascaded down and shattered. I put on an expression of regret.

“So Dante makes mistakes too. I’ll keep quiet about it.”

He gave me an unreadable look as I naturally tried to shift the blame, then glanced down at the broken pieces on the floor.

“Clumsy.”

I thought I heard him mutter resentfully—probably just my imagination.

We quickly started washing the dishes, and Dante watched the plates I had arranged with a displeased expression. It felt like a silent plea: please don’t do anything.

He looked at me like an interrogator, then began reorganizing the carelessly stacked dishes and spoke.

“Master, please don’t get too close to that saint from earlier.”

“Saint Galatea? Why?”

“She’s a harmful person.”

So he’s saying “I don’t get along with her, so you shouldn’t either”—is that it? From Galatea’s perspective, Dante would be the harmful one.

“I prefer to judge things by my own experience. They say Dante’s hot-headed and has a foul temper, but he’s been kind to me.”

Dante, who’d been looking at me quietly, nodded.

“He’s selectively dirty.”

What does that even mean?

Frowning, I watched as Dante inspected a plate under the kitchen light like an emotion analyst and added, “Master, there’s a stain on this plate.”

He shoved a plate at me in a scolding manner, and I, embarrassed, examined it.

“I thought it was spotless—how strange.”

“I’d like you to leave the dishwashing entirely to me.”

“How can you do all these by yourself?”

“The more there are, the more enjoyable it is. Don’t take away my happiness.”

I could at least try my best—yet his pleading eyes made me sit quietly on the small stool and watch his back.

“You’re versatile, Dante. I don’t have many talents.”

He looked up at me, rinsing plates with a clatter.

“You have many strengths, Master.”

“What are they? Tell me in detail.”

I can’t accept empty flattery—I need specifics.

He tilted his chin slightly and said, “The night the house was robbed, you used your wits to create an opening. You have courage when needed. You also have the judgment and persistence to decide on one important thing without greed.”

“Genuine—pass.”

I mentally added it to my performance review, pleased. Then he asked, “Is there a reason you came to the capital?”

I picked up a plate so clean it reflected my face and replied, “I didn’t come with any grand dream. I was so busy working part-time I didn’t have time to dream. I came partly because of a promise to my grandfather to go to the capital, and partly to avoid my aunt and uncle.”

I had come up with nothing more than plans to find a job and a place to live—sometimes having no plan is a plan.

Dante’s eyes softened as he listened.

“Do you regret coming to the capital?”

“No. I got to live in a nice mansion and met good people.”

I twirled a strand of hair and added, “And now I have a dream. I want to open a bakery with Iz.”

“Is there a reason you want to open a bakery? I feel like you’d be good at other things too.”

At Dante’s question, I smiled at memories of childhood hunger.

“When I was little, I once found a coin while walking. I was so hungry I thought I’d die, so I bought three pieces of bread at the bakery. There was an old woman who looked hungrier than me, so I gave her all the bread. Strangely, I stopped feeling hungry afterward.”

A story fit for someone who’s had tears-in-the-bread moments.

He made a serious face. “Was the old woman actually some kind of ability user who bestowed satiety upon you as a test…?”

No, that’s not what I meant! I cleared my throat and continued.

“Anyway, the baker who was watching that came out and gave me bread, calling me a good child. For that moment, I felt like part of this world. I felt like I could make a difference. I want to be like that baker and give bread to hungry children.”

After finishing the dishes and drying his hands, he fully faced me. The corners of his mouth relaxed.

“If you open a bakery, Ezekiel should practice baking seriously. He still alternates between bread and charcoal.”

“If he can’t, Dante can help. You’re good at cooking, right? I’ll handle publicity and sales.”

We chatted about trivial things when suddenly someone rushed in.

“Hello.”

A boy of about ten stood smiling at us. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and a neat appearance: a white shirt with a ribbon tie, shorts to his shins, and long socks. From the children I’d glimpsed at the orphanage, these must be the uniforms here.

“Nice to meet you. What brings you here? Are you hungry?”

I smiled back. The boy scratched the back of his head shyly.

“I heard Commander Dyke was here. I wanted to meet him.”

Dante tilted his head and looked at the boy with his blue eyes.

“You know me?”

“You’re a war hero. You’re my idol. I want to become a soldier like you. Your uniform is cool and the parade is awesome.”

The boy clenched his fists and blushed.

Dante put on a faint smile, but what came out was a remark that would shatter a child’s fantasy.

“What you saw was just an illusion. Look for another profession.”

“Why?”

“Killing people isn’t cool at all.”

Hearing that realistic answer, the boy’s face fell.