~Chapter 10~

It was a moment on the brink of catastrophe. Priests encircled Larvihan, their hands glowing with holy power—prepared to subdue him if he struck.

Larvihan surveyed them as if they were unruly children before speaking.

“Do you truly believe that this will restrain me?”

A priest answered calmly:

“At least we’ll offer comfort to the soul of the deceased.”

Larvihan smirked:

“That ‘comfort’ comes with a high price, doesn’t it?”

“Do not underestimate us,” Nicolai said as he slowly drew upon his divine energy. Larvihan, intrigued, stuck his sword into the ground and watched him.

Clearly, this Pope was different from his predecessor. Merely raising power to warn Larvihan altered the air around them.

One priest—a face that looked vaguely familiar—stepped forward.

Why does he seem familiar?

Larvihan’s sharp eyes scanned his memory; then realization struck. This was the priest who had invaded Lovelace’s chamber.

“That bastard,” Larvihan muttered.

He wanted nothing more than to remove his glove and strike.

Nicolai advanced, sensing Larvihan had recognized the priest:

“Stand down, Palaon. I do not wish to lose you.”

“Your Holiness—yes, this morning’s attack was… unfortunate. But I sought revenge for the defilement of the temple’s author…”

“Palaon!” Nicolai growled sharply.

He despised priests who flaunted divine power as arrogance—unable to discern when to act or stay silent.

Now, Nicolai suffered because of them.

“Step back. You remain alive not because Sir Larvihan is weak—but because Lady Lovelace chose mercy. Understood?”

Nicolai’s eyes turned ice-cold. Contempt glinted in them, and Palaon stuttered back.

“At least you speak sense. I won’t kill the author myself, as my lady forbade it.”

The priest collapsed, knees buckling—now utterly humiliated. Nicolai clicked his tongue and blocked his path.

“I speak truth, as a divine messenger should. My words hold weight—even those regarding Sir Larvihan.”

“His Holiness… trust once betrayed cuts the worst. Nothing is absolute.”

“Let me return your sentiment: do not think that having me at your side means all happens as you wish, Sir Larvihan.”

“So… you follow my love life?”

“I have love for humanity.”

“Then keep that love distant—if you’re to preserve the temple.”

Nicolai fell silent, appearing irritated rather than angry. Larvihan’s lip curled.

“Why so silent? Shall I simply act as I please?”

Larvihan touched his sword, and the priests flinched.

But when Larvihan sheathed it with a mocking grin, the tension visibly drained.

He glanced at the time—late. He still planned afternoon tea with Lovelace.

Nearby, Nicolai trembled with barely contained anger.

“We shall meet again.”

“My door remains open for you, unlike you knocking—come properly next time.”

Nicolai warned. Larvihan smiled smoothly.

“Today, I did come through the door,” he replied.

He had indeed broken the west entrance—but that counted. A tiny wrinkle formed on Nicolai’s expression. Larvihan raised a hand.

He’s insufferable.

Someone I hope never to meet again.

Their mutual disdain lingered as they parted.

“Stop the carriage.”

On the way back to the estate, Larvihan stopped by a shop dealing in magical tools and supplies.

“Do you need anything in particular, sir?”

His aide, Maxmuel, offered to go inside on his behalf. But Larvihan shook his head and entered the store himself.

“Welcome! This is Dain’s Magical Emporium—we have everything except what we don’t!”

The shopkeeper quickly scanned Larvihan’s cloak and rushed over, rubbing his hands together with a gleeful smile.

“Someone just starting out with magic. Bring me some basic texts for beginners.”

Larvihan was shopping for Lovelace.

Maxmuel stared at his master’s back with disbelief. In all the years he had served Larvihan, he had never seen him shop for someone else.

That morning’s incident—Lovelace’s spontaneous burst of magic—had caused a major stir in the estate.

Servants had long been curious about Lovelace’s sudden appearance and Larvihan’s unusually kind behavior toward her. The manifestation of her magic answered all their questions in one fell swoop.

“Is she his disciple?”

“Or maybe he’s recruiting a mage to expand his power?”

“Could this be one of those infamous strategic marriages between mages?”

Historically, mages had married strategically—either to preserve their own power or to produce stronger magical offspring.

The servants seemed convinced that this was Larvihan’s reason for courting Lovelace.

Knowing the truth, Maxmuel could only click his tongue.

“Here they are—Basic Mana Generation, What is Mana?, Physical Conditioning for Mana Use, From Mana Basics to Application, A History of Mages… Twenty volumes in total.”

“How much?”

“Forty Rubr.”

Given that 1 Rubr equaled two gold coins, that meant four gold coins per book. Outrageous.

The books were clearly unsellable—dusty, worn, and likely untouched for years. Not only were they overpriced, but such poorly authored, beginner-level books typically sold for a fraction of that price.

“That’s far too expens—”

“Wrap them.”

Larvihan dropped 40 Rubr on the counter and ordered the books sent to the carriage.

The shopkeeper grinned ear to ear, babbling nonsense about what a great deal it was and how anyone could become an Archmage with these books.

Larvihan stared at him coldly and asked:

“Can you guarantee that?”

“But of course!” the shopkeeper replied, completely unaware of who Larvihan was.

Larvihan looked down at the deeply bowing shopkeeper, then turned to board the carriage.

“That was too expensive.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve bargained.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“It wasn’t rational.”

“They’re for my lover—the future duchess. I don’t want to skimp on anything that belongs to her.”

Maxmuel’s mind temporarily left his body. Never in his life did he imagine hearing such words from Larvihan.

Renowned for his brilliance since childhood, Maxmuel had started to wonder if he was losing his edge since Lovelace arrived. More and more, Larvihan’s behavior left him speechless—just like now.

“But Your Grace, that man sullies the merchants’ reputation…”

“Enough. I’ll kill him soon.”

“Still, we need just cause…”

“We’ve got one. He said he’d take responsibility for his claims. Do you really think Lovelace will become an Archmage from reading a few dusty books?”

So that’s why he let the man talk so freely.

Maxmuel made a firm resolution: never make idle promises in front of Larvihan.

“You’re not busy these days?”

Lovelace was spending time with Larvihan, who now lingered at the estate more than ever.

She had been flipping through the magic books he bought when he silently handed her a cold drink. Surprised, she looked up.

He hadn’t looked away from his documents, but somehow knew exactly when she was thirsty or hungry.

“Nope. Not busy.”

Yet everything about him screamed the opposite. His towering stack of documents. His self-restraint—he hadn’t so much as brushed against her in days.

Since discovering that physical contact could transfer his power back to him, Larvihan had kept an oddly respectful distance—barring one exception. Though “distance” was subjective when it came to Larvihan.

What happened to all that flirting and talk of romance?

“Why do you keep looking at me? Bored?”

Larvihan set aside his papers and met her eyes. It had been a while since they’d actually locked eyes.

“…So, are we skipping the whole romance part, then?”

He paused, trying to make sense of her question.

When it clicked, he slowly leaned forward, setting his documents aside. His fingertips brushed hers—barely, fleeting.

Lovelace swallowed hard.

“So… have you reached a conclusion, my dear?”

“W-What conclusion?”

His gaze made it clear—he knew exactly what she’d been pondering these past few days.