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“When did I say that?” Axel asked, his eyes widening in mock innocence.

“Doesn’t needing a cheer imply that?” I replied, keeping my eyes wide with feigned confusion. I noticed the corner of Axel’s mouth twitch—a sure sign that I had gotten under his skin. 

If Axel didn’t accept my cheer, he’d be giving in to a petty taunt from his rival. But if he did accept it, it would imply he wasn’t confident in his abilities. Realizing he was trapped either way, Axel’s expression turned a bit sour. And, of course, I relished seeing that look on his face.

Bael, who had been watching the whole exchange, let out a small chuckle. “Some things never change, do they? It’s almost exactly like old times… not that everything needs to be the same as before…” Bael trailed off, realizing his slip, and quickly checked on Eugene. It seemed he had momentarily forgotten that Eugene was there because of how quietly and calmly he had been sitting.

Thankfully, Eugene didn’t seem to find Bael’s comment strange. Given that I had been living as Axel’s younger sister for several years now, it seemed the mention of “old times” didn’t strike him as odd. 

‘Interesting,’ I thought. I had always considered my connection to Axel and Bael as something tied only to my past life. But now, as I looked at them, I realized just how much time I had spent with them as “Reshia” as well.

‘There will come a day when my life as Reshia outlasts my life as Greslin,’ I mused. Given that I had died young in my past life, that day wasn’t too far off. The thought made me feel a little strange.

When I was younger, I had thought of myself as Greslin trapped in Reshia’s body, frustrated by the limitations of a child’s form. But now, if someone were to ask me, “Who are you?” I would naturally answer, “Reshia.” It was a sign of just how much I had adapted to this life.

“People shouldn’t change,” I said, dismissing the complex thoughts and shifting back to the conversation at hand.

“So, what do we do next?” Axel asked.

“First, you need to close your eyes and check if there’s any lingering energy around the heart or the head. Those are the usual spots where geases are placed,” I explained carefully.

As I laid out the process, Axel frowned, clearly displeased. “The heart or the head… the most critical areas if something goes wrong.”

“Exactly. That’s why geases are placed there—because they’re so critical, it makes breaking them much harder,” I replied.

Axel looked slightly queasy at my explanation. For black mages, efficiency was everything. White mages like Axel, who valued form and appearance, often found this approach distasteful. The extreme pragmatism of black magic—where the ends always justified the means—was why black mages had earned such a bad reputation. Pursuing efficiency inevitably led to clashes with moral and ethical standards.

‘And we typically ignored those conflicts,’ I reflected. Looking back, I realized just how much I had embodied the traits of a true black mage in my past life.

Growing up alone in the slums without family or friends, I had no trust or affection for humanity. It was the members of the expedition who managed to change my mindset. By the time we defeated the Mad Dragon, I had softened enough to distance myself from the “efficiency and practicality at all costs” mentality typical of black mages.

‘In return, I taught that stiff young master how to be more flexible.’  

We helped each other grow, which made us good rivals—at least, that’s how I saw it. Of course, I never actually voiced this thought to Axel.

“Anyway, focus on the tracking. The energy of a geas usually feels solid, like gold. It’s not sticky and murky like a typical curse, which feels like a black swamp,” I explained. Describing intangible forces meant relying on abstract terms, but fortunately, Axel seemed to understand exactly what I meant.

This is why it’s great to have comrades who can grasp your thoughts with just a few words.

“And Eugene, it’s important that you try not to think about anything. Just imagine you’re giving everything up,” I advised. In truth, Eugene’s role was even more critical and difficult than Axel’s. “Not thinking about anything” sounds easy, but when you actually try, your mind tends to fill with all sorts of thoughts.

The good news was that since Eugene had just absorbed Axel’s magic, their energies were closely aligned. This would help minimize resistance to the foreign magic Axel was now introducing.

I could see sweat forming on Axel’s forehead—he was clearly exerting himself. The fact that the tracking was taking this long wasn’t a good sign. Could it be that too much time had passed, making the tracking process more difficult?

Just as I began to worry, Axel whispered, “…Got it,” his eyes snapping open.

At the same moment, Eugene’s eyes also flew open.  

“I saw it.”  

“I saw it,” they both said simultaneously.

* * *

Upon ascending to the throne, Kirke established a formal audience time for the citizens of the empire. Once a week, the Emperor would set up an audience chamber outside the city gates, opening the doors to everyone.

During this time, anyone—regardless of age, gender, or social status—could petition the Emperor. This was Kirke’s way of reducing the distance between the imperial family and the common citizens.

The central nobles, who had easy access to the Emperor at any time, dismissed this as shallow showmanship, mocking Kirke behind his back. But the commoners and lesser nobles, who rarely had the chance to see a “high-ranking” person, responded positively to the initiative. 

Although the Emperor’s aides would screen the petitions before they reached the throne, the mere existence of such an opportunity was what mattered most.

And today was the day that regular audience was scheduled to take place. Those who had passed the final gate of the Emperor’s aide gathered in the audience chamber. As usual, Kirke sat in the seat of honor, receiving people one by one.

There were the usual petitions: disputes with neighbors, complaints about poor harvests making it difficult to survive, pleas for help with unjust situations. The audience proceeded much as it always did—until an old man, quite different from the others, stepped forward.

“Your Majesty,” the old man began, his voice strong despite his frail appearance. His sharp eyes, incongruent with his small frame, held a steely resolve. His simple, even shabby clothing gave off the aura of a monk, and Kirke instinctively sensed that this man was not an ordinary petitioner.

The Emperor’s long-trained instincts, honed through years of swordsmanship, raised a subtle alert. Yet, as the old man bowed his head and began to speak, the intensity of his presence seemed to soften.

“I have come to petition on behalf of the former Emperor, who resides at our monastery. His illness has grown severe, and it is for this reason that I seek an audience with Your Majesty.”

At the mention of the former Emperor’s illness, a murmur spread through the room, not only among those waiting their turn but also among the attendants present. This was not a matter to be brought up in such a public setting. It should have been quietly conveyed through official channels directly to the Emperor.

“We have sent several letters from our monastery to the royal palace, but received no response. Thus, I had no choice but to take this more direct and perhaps improper approach.”

“!”

Kirke’s face stiffened at these words. Although the old man’s tone remained calm and measured, his words carried the implication that the royal court had deliberately ignored the monastery’s communications. The others in the room clearly caught on to this, and their eyes turned toward Kirke with growing curiosity and concern.

Struggling to maintain a calm and composed expression, Kirke addressed the old man, “If such letters were sent, I should have received them. But what’s more important now is the severity of the former Emperor’s condition.” 

Kirke rose abruptly from his seat and approached the old man. As the Emperor drew near, the man bowed even deeper.

Kirke took the old man’s hands in his own, speaking in a grave tone, “This is not a matter to be discussed in such a public setting. Let us move to a more private place. I appreciate that you traveled a long way to bring such important news.”

To onlookers, it might have seemed like a gesture of gratitude, but Kirke had another motive. He was examining the old man’s hands. While one could disguise their stature, voice, or gaze, the hands rarely lied.

‘These are the hands of a trained warrior,’ Kirke thought with certainty. This man was no ordinary monk.