MLWP 7

MLWP

Posted by savage, Released on October 7, 2025

Chapter 7

Clatter—

“Ugh.”

The carriage jolted. Silia swiftly picked up a bucket and handed it to Margaret. Margaret opened her mouth as if to say thank you, then instead buried her face in the bucket. Thankfully, it was enchanted with a soundproofing spell. Still, for something used this way, it looked far too fancy—gold filigree glinting across its rim.

Juline, watching this, commented dryly.

“The Diamand family really is doing well lately. Even their buckets are extravagant. The carriage’s top-class too.”

You could sell that thing and pay off debts, Silia thought irritably, leaning back with a sigh.

“But why are we supposed to stay at the Diamand estate, anyway?”

“They sponsored you under the family name, so of course they’d want you under their protection—and their supervision,” Juline replied, stressing the last word.

Margaret tried to lift her head. “Silia, it’ll be all ri—” But she didn’t finish before ducking back down into the bucket. She looked miserable. Carriages weren’t something she was used to, and the motion sickness was clearly getting to her.

“Relax, Margaret.”

The Diamand family had generously allowed Silia to bring two “friends” with her. In truth, they were expected to be attendants for a noble child, but she’d chosen without hesitation.

From what she knew, freeborn children who served noble heirs sometimes received admission to the Royal Academy themselves as full students.

Juline’s ambitious, Silia thought. She’s all about “strategic alliances.” She’ll be useful.

As for Margaret, Silia had brought her because of the deep impression she’d made during the demonic beast attack.

Running into danger to help someone when you know the risk—that’s not something many can do.

Silia slowly turned to the two sitting across from her.

“I know it’s selfish, really.”

“…?”

The two looked at her, not sure what to make of that.

“We should be the ones thanking you for the chance,” Juline said lightly.

“Me too,” Margaret managed weakly.

They can say that only because they don’t understand war.

The Royal Academy, unlike the nobles-only Ahaim Academy, accepted commoners—but it also imposed obligations. One of them was emergency conscription. When disaster struck, students were among the first drafted.

She had seen it before—children, crying as they were forced into battle.

Not a pleasant memory. Her brows furrowed.

The best outcome is to stop the war before it starts.

Her goal in hunting Ilrod wasn’t just personal revenge—it was also to return his power, find the Heart of the Earth, and make him fight again.

Whether returning the power was even possible, she didn’t know. But if he could do it, then maybe she could too.

The appearance of a demonic beast meant the Heart of the Earth already existed somewhere. If only one beast had emerged, its power wasn’t strong yet.

Silia whispered under her breath, “Better to catch it while it’s weak.”

She didn’t even fully understand her own abilities. Testing them felt dangerous—and if she failed? She’d die once to Ilrod and once to the Heart of the Earth? No, thank you.

She’d capture Ilrod, squeeze everything out of him, and once he found the Heart, she’d personally kill him—mercifully or otherwise.

Once this was all over, Juline and Margaret would at least have the prestige of being Royal Academy graduates. That alone would open any door they wanted. Since fate had tied them together, she figured she owed them that much.

Silia looked down at the letter of recommendation stamped with the Diamand family crest.

“Whatever’s waiting, I’ll try not to be surprised.”

She was, in fact, a little surprised.

“…”

“Welcome to the Count of Diamand’s estate. The Count and his son are away visiting their provincial lands, so I, the head butler, will receive you in their stead.”

The mansion was magnificent—every inch flaunting wealth. As they stepped out of the carriage, a row of servants and the butler stood waiting in perfect formation. But that wasn’t what startled Silia.

It was that every servant behind the butler looked… built. Muscular. As if this were a training ground, not a noble estate.

So that’s where Flier Diamand got that body from, she thought. Is the whole mansion a muscle temple?

“Your warm welcome humbles us,” Silia said politely, stepping forward as their representative.

The butler—her face hidden beneath a black veil and hat—spoke smoothly. “Please, come inside. You must be hungry from the journey.”

At her signal, servants briskly escorted them into a grand dining hall.

“Greetings. I am the head chef. Please, take your seats.”

“The… chef?”

He looked more like a retired bandit chief than a cook—a heavily muscled man with arms like tree trunks. The kitchen assistants behind him looked equally intimidating.

As soon as the three sat, a heavy, unnatural silence filled the room. No one spoke; all eyes were fixed on them.

“…”

“Well, thank you for the meal,” Margaret murmured nervously, reaching for her fork—

Then froze.

The table was set in an intricate noble fashion, the sort of etiquette impossible for a commoner to know.

Seeing her distressed glance, Silia nodded slightly and picked up the first fork herself. The butler made a quiet “hmph” sound.

Suit yourself.

Truth be told, Silia wasn’t much better off. Her family had sold nearly everything of value long ago—proper tableware and etiquette included. But after years of dining beside fussy high nobles even on battlefields, she’d memorized a few basics.

Never thought it’d come in handy like this.

“Then, we shall serve the meal,” said the chef.

Why did his tone make it sound more like a challenge than an announcement?

Rumble—

A massive tray rolled in, piled so high with dishes it nearly reached a man’s height. And before they could even start, more food poured in—so much that the word course lost all meaning.

Even Juline, usually unfazed, looked stunned.

Then the chef approached.

“If you don’t mind, allow me to assist.”

He drew a huge knife from his belt and plunged it into the stack of food.

Thunk.

In an instant, a fresh salad landed neatly on Juline’s plate. She opened her mouth to thank him—

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

More and more food fell onto the table with lightning speed. It was far too much for one person. The chef’s voice dropped low.

“That is the appetizer.”

“…It’s a bit much,” Juline said hesitantly.

“Is it now?” His tone dripped with mockery.

Expressionless, Silia watched them both.

“Please don’t refuse. We prepared it with care.”

His sharp eyes glared at her slender arms with open disdain.

“You all look rather frail, so we made sure everything is nourishing.”

Translation: I wasted expensive ingredients on weaklings like you, so don’t you dare leave a crumb.

Reading the unspoken insult, Silia swept her gaze over the line of servants—cold, judging faces. Her lips curved faintly upward. Insults were something she’d long since grown used to.

Then the chef stabbed his knife into the roast pig in the center.

“Let me cut this for you.”

Thud!

The knife split the roast with a sound like a club hitting flesh. It was a threatening gesture. Margaret jumped, her fork clattering to the floor. A few servants chuckled.

Clang!

A sharp metallic note rang out, as if blades had crossed.

Two forks shot back into the air before even touching the ground. They collided midair with a visible spark—one landing perfectly back on Margaret’s plate, the other embedding itself in the pile of food before Silia.

“…”

The servants’ eyes widened.

That delicate, red-haired girl had thrown her fork fast enough to deflect another mid-fall, returning it to the plate. Precision and speed like that couldn’t be coincidence.

That had to be luck… right? they thought uncertainly.

Under their stunned stares, Silia said softly,

“Eat well. They went to such trouble to prepare this. If you leave anything…”

She rose to her feet.

With a calm smile, she pushed the fork deeper into the mound of food.

Thud.

A generous portion slid neatly onto her plate—rich and glistening with oil, as fine as promised.

She met the chef’s eyes and smiled brightly.

“Wouldn’t it be wasteful otherwise?”

She wasn’t blaming those who couldn’t eat it—she was blaming the one who’d made far too much.

A vein bulged on the chef’s forearm. Silia rested her fork on the roast he was carving.

“This looks high quality too.”