Chapter 18

“Man, regardless, that was some impressive skill, Elma. You have my thanks.”

A short while had passed since Dennis ran off screaming, “Just you wait!”

The knights, finally remembering the flow of time, began to either celebrate Theo’s recovery or help with the cleanup.

In the midst of this, a massive man with a fierce face now split by a wide grin spoke up—Vice-Commander Dirk, a giant whose short-cropped black hair and matching eyes left a strong impression.

He gave Elma a hearty thwack on the back with his thick hand, then offered a nod to Lucas, who had been watching the whole ordeal.

“Honestly, Lucas. You did well to bring her here.”

Though technically a subordinate in rank, Dirk was more than ten years older than Lucas, and because Lucas himself preferred it that way, Dirk spoke to him casually.

Lucas raised an eyebrow slightly and shrugged.

“Yeah. When I heard Theo’s leg was almost taken instead of mine, I felt ten years older. I have nothing but words of gratitude for her.”

To think the price for skipping ceremony rehearsal would manifest in such a way.

As Lucas spoke, Dirk nodded back with a grave expression.

“It’s fortunate that Theo recovered safely, but this is a situation we can’t overlook. A cursed tool capable of repelling even healing arts. And placed on a horse known to be ridden by the Second Prince. I’d hate to think it, but the First Prince, who’s rumored to be a horse lover—”

“Dirk.”

However, his voice was cut off by Lucas.

A typical sardonic smile played on the Prince’s handsome, masculine face.

“Don’t bring up such grisly stories filled with speculation in front of a lady. This is why people say you have no tact.”

“…Lucas.”

It was obvious that this prince—who was quite picky about his women—didn’t view the “head-wrapped, bespectacled maid” before him as a romantic interest.

However, understanding the intent behind the reprimand, Dirk swallowed his remaining words.

“I’ll take charge of the cursed tool’s remains. Do not let it leak to anyone that it was shaped like a horseshoe.”

“…Understood.”

With a brief exchange, they coordinated their future stance on the matter.

When Lucas and the others glanced her way, Elma spoke flatly.

“I haven’t heard a thing. It seems wearing this headscarf makes me hard of hearing.”

She was quite the capable maid.

Dirk gave Elma another appreciative thwack on the shoulder.

“Again, thanks, Elma. By the way, why don’t you take off that head-wrap and face mask? It must be sweltering by now.”

“Yes. Actually, the heat was getting trapped inside, and it was quite unpleasant.”

“Hahaha! Strip it off, strip it off!”

Riding the momentum of the moment, Dirk picked up the distilled spirits that had been used for sterilization earlier and poured it to the brim into a copper mug he’d snatched from a subordinate.

He thrust it toward Elma, who had turned her back to remove her apron and headscarf.

“Here, drink up! You must be parched. It’s the finest water there is.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Calm as she seemed, she was likely exhausted from the long period of intense concentration and drained by the summer heat.

Without even stopping to smell it, Elma tilted the mug back in one fluid motion, having just removed her mask.

“…”

A few seconds later, her movements came to a dead stop.

Seeing Elma drain the high-proof liquor in one go, Dirk let out a low whistle.

“You’ve got a hell of a stomach for drinking, don’t you?”

“Good grief, is there even a single thing about her that is normal?”

Lucas was now down to a wry smile.

He couldn’t imagine a fifteen-year-old girl drinking with such gusto.

However.

“…”

The moment the copper mug slipped from her hand with a clunk and began rolling across the cobblestones, the two men’s eyes widened in shock.

Her right hand remained frozen in place, having just peeled away her face mask.

Her left hand, which had dropped the mug, moved instead with a shaky, wandering motion to cover the girl’s small mouth.

—A shaky motion?

To the stunned men, Elma murmured:

“…I…”

Perhaps it was just their imagination, but her enunciation was softer than usual.

“If it’s… just for flambé… or, or disinfecting… I’m fine with it.”

The voice was that of a girl entirely appropriate for her age.

“But high-proof… alcohol is… not my forte.”

“H-Hey!”

“Are you okay?!”

As Elma’s arms went limp at her sides, the two men’s expressions changed instantly.

As Lucas and Dirk scrambled to reach out for her, she spoke in a strangely calm voice.

“Pardon me, but… in three seconds… I will lose consciousness.”

Just as she declared, exactly three seconds later, Elma collapsed into the outstretched arms of Lucas and his companion with a heavy thud.

“I have returned.”

After running away from the gazebo and heading to the Holy Medical Mentors’ headquarters, Dennis found that his colleagues and senior mentors were—unusually—all gathered together, perhaps having just finished other duties.

Being the youngest, Dennis entered the room with a slight nod and headed for his desk.

The position of Holy Medical Mentor was a prestigious one.

Many within the ranks were obsessed with their noble status, much like Dennis had been until recently, and the environment was filled with factional struggles and backstabbing worthy of high society.

It was generally best not to socialize more than necessary.

As he sat down in his designated seat, a voice called out to him from the entrance.

“Ah, you’re back, Dennis.”

“Marquis!”

It was Marquis Clemens von Rottner—Marquis, Priest, and Advisor to the Holy Medical Mentors.

At the appearance of his ever-gentle patron, Dennis hurriedly stood up and rushed over.

“How may I serve you, My Lord?”

“No, I simply grew worried after hearing you were called away on an urgent matter. I believe I had already asked you to handle the rescue duties for the knights’ mock battle today. Was the added burden of this new case alright for you?”

“Yes. I am deeply moved by your excessive concern.”

Dennis’s heart swelled at the Marquis’s thoughtfulness.

“It is only a rumor, but I heard that at first, your healing arts were ineffective. Not that I doubt your abilities, but I wondered if perhaps the situation was simply too much of a strain.”

“Ah, that—”

At the Marquis’s words, Dennis almost made a sour face.

He knew it was meant in goodwill, but he wished the Marquis wouldn’t say things like “your healing didn’t work” so openly in front of his colleagues.

He knew they would surely spread that around the moment Clemens left to try and trip him up.

“It was less a matter of my ability and more due to a cursed tool.”

“A cursed tool? That sounds quite alarming.”

“Yes. At first glance, it looked almost like a work of art—”

Mid-explanation, Dennis suddenly went quiet.

Reporting was important, but should he be doing it like this, in public?

‘No, if I bring up the topic of a cursed tool, it’ll definitely become a bigger source of gossip for these people than my own failure, which would actually help me…’

If it had been the Dennis of a few hours ago, he would have gleefully described the shape of the tool and how ominous it was.

He would have blamed everything on it.

Furthermore, he might have added suggestively that the horseshoe was of such high quality it looked like “part of the First Prince’s collection.”

In doing so, Dennis would quickly transform from an incompetent who was useless in an emergency into a key figure holding exclusive gossip.

It would be a far more comfortable position for him.

But…

‘What would that make me… as a doctor?’

Recalling the figure of the maid who had roared at him earlier, Dennis questioned himself.

She had scolded him, saying it was “common sense” not to douse oneself in perfume to hide a stench or bite one’s nails to hide irritation.

She had asked if he was even a doctor.

If so, then surely spreading gossip to hide his own lack of skill would be behavior far removed from that ideal.

Prince Lucas had the horseshoe.

Dennis hadn’t even been allowed to inspect it closely himself, and it wasn’t certain if First Prince Felix even owned such a thing.

Above all, his duty was to treat patients, not to engage in vulgar speculation about the background of their injuries.

Tracing his thumbnail—which had been clipped perfectly smooth—Dennis corrected himself.

“No. Actually, it was as you said. It was a lack of ability on my part.”

“…Dennis?”

“There were some points of concern, so I shall submit a formal written report regarding the treatment methods used this time and the insights gained.”

As he stated this firmly, the Marquis’s eyes widened slightly before he finally nodded.

“I see. However, if there is anything difficult to put into writing, I am always here to listen.”

He even added those kind words.

Dennis bowed once more to the Marquis’s kindness and watched him leave before returning to his desk to pick up his pen.

He had to compile the report.

Just as he dipped his quill into the inkwell, however, a question suddenly occurred to him.

How exactly did the Marquis hear the rumor that my healing didn’t work in such a short amount of time?