“May the blessing of the radiant morning be with you. It’s been a while, Count Laurel.”

The woman who had carefully concealed her appearance with a thick veil and long dress bowed to Sion.

It was Roble Tuha, the current saint.

Though hidden by the veil, Sion could imagine a graceful smile on the saint’s face. This was due to the dignity evident in the saint’s gestures and her clear, transparent voice.

Roble Tuha was a noble woman who was worthy of the title of saint in every aspect.

“Please sit.”

And Sion Laurel remained consistently indifferent even to such a saintly figure.

The saint briefly looked at the count, who merely nodded his head carelessly without even rising to pull out a chair for her.

To this, Sion only glanced at her as if to ask if there was a problem, and eventually, the saint pulled out the chair herself and sat down.

“I was very surprised when you requested a separate meeting. The last time I saw you was at your succession ceremony for the title of count.”

The saint spoke kindly, recalling past events.

Indeed, the last time Sion had seen the saint was seven years ago, at the ceremony where he inherited the title of Count Laurel.

Sion recalled the blessing the saint had given on that occasion. It wasn’t a particularly special memory. It was just one of the procedures of the succession ceremony.

This was the extent of their connection. They were complete strangers who knew of each other’s existence without any personal relationship or interaction, which is why the saint was quite surprised by Sion’s sudden request for a meeting.

And even more surprising was the cold attitude of Sion Laurel, who sat with an unfriendly face despite being the one who had called for the meeting.

“I’m concerned that I might have been discourteous in postponing our meeting, given that you called for me so early.”

The saint spoke elegantly in response to the count’s coldness.

Originally, the two were scheduled to meet at the banquet hall last evening.

However, due to Cassel Montra’s whim, the saint was unable to attend the banquet. This was because of the saint’s impeccability, which prevented her from setting foot in places where rumors were circulating.

As a result, the meeting with the count was naturally postponed, and this hastily arranged meeting was the one that the saint’s side had rescheduled.

Although it was an unavoidable situation, the saint was being cautious about having postponed the count’s summons.

But Sion didn’t care much about this matter. In fact, he hadn’t had the chance to meet the saint either, as Ibi had collapsed.

“I don’t mind about that.”

“I’m relieved. I was worried that I might miss the opportunity to see you, Count.”

Despite Sion’s indifferent response, the saint’s demeanor remained infinitely elegant. This made Sion vaguely understand where Ibi’s affectation originated from.

The current saint, Roble Tuha, was indeed an ideal saint as rumored.

She was graceful, elegant, always maintaining her composure, never setting foot in unsavory places, and preserving her nobility with an almost obsessive dedication.

“So, is there a special reason why you called for me?”

“There is something I would like to ask.”

Sion slowly began to speak in response to the saint’s question.

The reason Sion had requested a private audience with the saint was singular.

As part of the promise to help each other once, made with Ibi, he wanted to confirm whether Roble Tuha was the one who had cursed Ibi.

So, as soon as the saint sat down opposite him, Sion intended to ask straightforwardly.

‘Do you know that Ibi Ariate has been cursed?’

But just as he was about to open his mouth, his body suddenly froze. At the same time, Sion lost control of his body.

He couldn’t move. All his actions were restricted, making it impossible to even open his mouth, let alone speak.

The concealment curse placed on him suppressed him to keep the secret.

‘…Does she not know at all?’

“Count?”

As Sion just stared silently, the saint carefully called out to him. So Sion changed his words to break free from the curse.

“Saint.”

Sure enough, as soon as he changed his intention, his mouth opened again. It was truly a repulsive curse.

“Whom do you support as the next saint?”

“That is…”

The saint appeared momentarily flustered by Sion’s direct question.

After a brief hesitation, the saint spoke in a gentle voice.

“May I first ask why you are asking such a question?”

“No.”

But Sion did not allow it.

He stared at the saint as if telling her to just answer the question asked, and after hesitating, the saint politely said.

“I support Ariate. That child sings more beautifully than anyone else and is loved by Manyanya. I think she is perfectly suitable to become the saint.”

The saint’s answer was truly befitting of a saint. That’s why it wasn’t very convincing.

Knowing what Ibi had done yesterday, to say she’s perfectly suitable to become the saint.

Sion looked at the saint, wondering what kind of deception this was. The saint carefully asked in return.

“Do you still not want Ariate to become the next saint, Count?”

Sion couldn’t answer this time either.

Partly because of the curse, and partly because of the change in his feelings that had begun yesterday.

So as Sion kept his mouth shut, the saint carefully asked again.

“Could it be that your intention is to make Ariate your lover…?”

“You should watch your words.”

“…I apologize for my rudeness.”

Sion coldly rebuked the absurd question, and the saint immediately bowed her head.

Still feeling incredulous, Sion glared at the tilted veil with displeasure.

To ask if his intention was to make her his lover, hearing such words from the saint’s mouth made Sion’s head ache anew.

He was well aware of all sorts of things the nobles were saying about him and Ibi.

And he knew, regrettably well, that in those rumors, he was portrayed as the violent and vulgar one, while Ibi Ariate was the pitiful and innocent one.

But upon careful consideration, out of the four or five incidents that created this dynamic, only one was something Sion had done voluntarily.

Threatening the nobles not to make Ibi the saint.

This was the only thing he had done, and the rest were all Ibi Ariate’s misdeeds.

It was Ibi who cursed at Sion at the banquet in Laurel Castle, Ibi who manipulated him to prevent the tower’s punishment, and moreover, it was Ibi who dragged him into this Wisteria Festival.

Yet he was the one suffering from this lowly misunderstanding.

‘Damn it…’

Although he felt newly ashamed of this situation, Sion overcame it with his usual arrogance.

In the meantime, the saint spoke again.

“If that’s not the case, may I make a request to you, Count?”

The saint clasped her hands together and suddenly uttered unexpected words.

“Could you help Ariate succeed me?”

At this unexpected request, Sion quietly stared at the area around the saint’s face.

‘Is she serious?’

Sion doubted the saint’s intentions. However, due to the veil, it was difficult to infer her true thoughts.

“You must be aware of what happened between Ariate and Marquis Montra yesterday.”

“You mean the exposure of the Marquis’s misconduct?”

“Yes… Regrettably, such an incident occurred.”

Regrettably. It’s a convenient modifier that can be used to criticize others while pretending to be concerned.

Hearing this common social parlance from the saint’s mouth, Sion silently stared at her again.

“Because of yesterday’s incident, Ariate has lost the support of Marquis Montra. So, although it’s presumptuous and shameless, I would like to ask if you could persuade His Highness the Grand Duke.”

As she said, it was a presumptuous and shameless request. To approach a blood relative to try to influence the Grand Duke’s will.

But rather than being angry at this overstepping of bounds, Sion became purely curious.

Ibi suspects that Roble Tuha might have cursed her, but here she is, insisting that Ibi should be made the saint.

Of course, it’s unclear whether this is sincere. Tienda is full of people who say things they don’t mean, knowing it won’t work.

So, Sion pretended not to know and asked back, wondering which side the saint was on.

“You just said that Ibi Ariate is perfectly suitable to become the saint, but is exposing someone’s weakness out of resentment really befitting of that?”

Sion regretted saying this shortly after. Not because he had misspoken, but because he felt he was getting involved in unnecessary matters.

The saint doesn’t know about Ibi’s curse. Now that he had confirmed this, he should have just made a perfunctory response and left.

Yet he had started this conversation unnecessarily.

Sion couldn’t deny that this was because of yesterday’s events.

―It’s not okay at all. I, until now, not even once…

―Everyone should have at least one chance.

―I’m furiously angry that only I am desperate.

Sion clicked his tongue at Ibi’s image and voice lingering in his mind.

Meanwhile, the saint answered in a calm, smiling voice.

“Yes. That’s what I think. Otherwise, she would become a puppet no different from me.”

Behind that gentle voice, the sound of birds chirping was particularly clear. The sunlight penetrating through the glass window cut through the air so sharply it could be seen as lines.

In the peace of a perfectly controlled greenhouse, Sion silently looked at the saint with her face hidden behind a veil.

Sion couldn’t help but notice the implication of those words.

Borrowing the dragon’s blessing. It’s a rebellion against the world that once again defies the providence that has already been defied once.

That’s how Sion defined the power he shouldered.

Tiendabis is already an afterthought of a world that should have been submerged and disappeared in ancient times, an imperfect world born of God’s whim and stubbornness.

The providence that was barely aligned became distorted again, and the blessing that should have been held by dragons was passed on to humans.

The result is the abhorrent flip side of the righteous Laurel, the Count Laurel.

So Sion naturally guessed. That there must be an equally dark shadow in the noble tower as well.

It’s something that anyone belonging to Laurel and Sedro would implicitly know. But it’s something they tacitly turn a blind eye to.

Sion sensed that the saint had just alluded to this.

“Are you able to bear the consequences of such a statement?”

“No.”

Sion’s eyes narrowed at the saint’s answer.

“I can’t. I can’t brazenly charge ahead without fear like Ariate does.”

After saying this, the saint, Roble Tuha, quietly bit her lip beneath her veil. To suppress her fear.

Although doubt filled the cold eyes of Count Laurel, Roble was sincere.

She sincerely wished for Ibi to be selected as the next saint. No, she desperately wanted it.

But unable to reveal the reason, she could only implore that cold count while keeping her mouth tightly shut.

Although it had been ten years ago, Roble still vividly remembered everything from that day.

The day she first set foot in the underground of Manyanya Tower, having become the noble saint.

At that time, to Roble who was in disbelief and shock at the sight before her, her longtime friend and the new tower master, Rohika, said this.

―It’s for the sake of the world. For everyone, it’s something someone must do.

Roble couldn’t bring herself to accept Rohika’s words.

So to the young saint who was screaming, the young tower master said with a smile.

―Don’t you care about the safety of your family?

With that one sentence, the reality of the world was revealed to the ignorant saint. It was the beginning of hell.