“Even if every enhancement somehow succeeded,” the blacksmith uncle continued, “the cost of materials alone is already astronomical. After all, your gear has two high-grade enchantment affixes added on top of the base stats.”
Seeing the light drain from Serena’s eyes, the old man kindly continued his brutal critical hit:
“Just the enchantment scrolls cost several thousand gold coins each, and the success rate is only around 30%. If it fails, the scroll’s gone. It’s a sky-high expense.”
“If it weren’t for that girl’s freakishly good luck…”
The rest of his words were lost to Serena, drowned out by the numbers echoing in her skull.
“Impossible!!”
She snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence.
The blacksmith uncle shrank back slightly, wounded and a little guilty—after all, he had just blown up a piece of gear worth a literal fortune.
He knew it wasn’t really his fault, but even so, he felt uneasy.
“You’re telling me she had a 100% success rate with those odds? Do you think I’m a moron?!”
Serena’s voice rose as she recalled the probabilities.
It was literally impossible!
There’s logic to everything in the world.
Every person has 12 equipment slots.
Between the whole team, that’s about 60 total items.
And she’s telling her every single one was enhanced to max without a single failure?
What kind of fantasy was that?!
‘Oh, I see what this is, Irene. Spinning such an obvious lie, trying to make us feel like we’re useless without you… so we’ll be the ones to beg you back?’
‘Nice try! I almost fell for it!’
This was the only “rational” explanation Serena could accept.
In her mind, the blacksmith must’ve also been bribed by Irene to tell this ridiculous tale.
‘Too bad—I saw through it!’
Driven by her own bias and conventional wisdom, Serena selectively ignored the most basic fact: if Irene really had lied and bought the blacksmith off… then where the hell did all their equipment actually come from?
Making up stories needs logic.
Reality?
Not so much.
The blacksmith uncle sighed and shook his head, resigned.
“Well, do you still want your equipment repaired or not?”
Serena hesitated, then muttered, “…Can I get a bit of a discount…?”
“No can do!” he replied instantly.
“Do you have any idea what kind of gear you lot are using?! These cursed artifacts will bankrupt me if I give any discounts!”
With that, the old man picked up a hammer and began repairs.
“I don’t know what kind of fight you had with that girl,” he said, voice rumbling like steel on steel, “but you’re teammates, right? Comrades who’ve been through life and death together. Isn’t it worth at least talking it out?”
Serena clenched her jaw, then let out a cold snort.
“Fix the equipment, old man. This is none of your business. Our party has our own way of handling things.”
The Blacksmith Uncle could only sigh.
After all, he was just a tool NPC—err, a service provider.
He could offer kind advice if they were willing to listen, but if not… well, it wasn’t his problem.
*****
Late at night, in the dimly lit tent, only a few candles flickered.
The dancing flames threw shadows across the canvas walls, shifting like ghosts.
Klara sat kneeling beneath Irene, her clothes strangely absent, fair skin glowing like porcelain in the amber light.
Her cheeks were flushed bright red, and a collar rested gently around her neck.
The chain attached to it was held… in Irene’s hand.
“Come, my pet. ❤”
“Y-Yes, my Lady…”
The chain rattled.
Klara slowly crawled forward, inching closer toward Irene, who sat cross-legged on a throne-like chair of carved dragonbone, her golden eyes locked onto Klara’s with a predatory gleam.
The air grew thick with a sweet citrusy scent, like tangerines and forbidden fruit.
She wore only a semi-transparent nightgown, sheer enough to reveal far too much.
Beneath it… was nothing. Nothing at all. Klara felt her nose nearly bleed.
The dainty red heels slipped off her mistress’s feet, revealing the elegant curve of her legs wrapped in white lace stockings.
Klara trembled, reaching out—blushing furiously—as she cradled Irene’s delicate foot in her hands.
Her lips parted slightly as she brought it closer—
——And saw an unfamiliar canvas ceiling.
Klara blinked.
Her hand was gripping… her own boot.
Her tongue was practically touching a patch of dried mud.
“Pfft—blech!”
She spat and flung the boot away in disgust.
It was just a dream.
A very weird dream.
Apparently, her PeachBowl.net subscription had expired right at the best part.
Having completely lost all desire to sleep, Klara groaned and sat up in her sleeping bag.
The events of the day had worn out the whole convoy, and Lady Irene’s party was forced to camp out in the wilderness for the night.
She pulled aside the tent flap and stepped out into the moonlit camp.
Her thoughts drifted back to earlier…
Irene had sighed deeply and said, in a tone laced with exhaustion and mild despair:
“Miss Klara, I don’t know what kind of rumors you’ve heard about me… but I swear those were malicious slanders and baseless gossip. I may have a slight issue with my orientation, but I am still a dignified noble who’s never done anything so lewd or shameful!”
The sharp-faced maid chimed in coldly, “There’s no need to worry. The young lady won’t do anything to you. As for… breaking someone… I haven’t had the chance to try it yet.”
The latter part was muttered under her breath, like she was talking to herself.
Klarette only vaguely heard it; Irene didn’t catch it at all.
“R-Really? You’re not lying to me…?” Klarette asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
There was a grudge between them, after all.
When she had tried to join the S-rank party “Rainbow Covenant” and got rejected by Irene, she’d filed a complaint with the guild.
That complaint had even caused the party’s ranking to be penalized.
And now, she had just called Irene all kinds of unspeakable names to her face.
If Irene were to retaliate by throwing her into some dungeon as a star slave… well, that would be totally fair.
And she was just… letting her off?
Was this really the infamous noble heiress from the royal capital, whose name made commoners tremble?
Facing Klarette’s anxious, trembling gaze, Irene simply looked… calm.
She’d long since gotten used to this kind of thing.
With how the rumors had twisted her reputation beyond salvation, it wasn’t surprising that this girl assumed the worst.
Heck, for all she knew, Klarette probably thought those bandits were her personal lackeys!
Irene lowered her gaze slightly, her golden eyes tinged with fatigue.
“Why would I lie to you? Enough now. Go have some tea and get some rest. Once we reach the next town, I’ll drop you off. Whatever grudge we had ends here—we won’t be crossing paths again.”
Klarette nodded nervously and went off to lie down.
She eventually dozed off—only to awaken from a shamefully inappropriate nightmare.
No… it wasn’t just a dream! she thought in horror as the evening wind brushed against her cheeks, clearing her mind.
She replayed Irene’s words in her mind:
“Our grudge ends here. We won’t cross paths again.”
That could be interpreted another way: “You’re useless to me now.”
And that could also mean:
“Once we get to the next town…”
Klarette imagined Irene’s cold expression, finger sliding across her neck in a throat-slitting motion.
Yes.
That’s it.
She was planning to silence her.
She knew how nobles worked.
She’d seen it herself—just because a poor person had accidentally blocked a noble’s carriage, they were strung up by the gates like it was nothing.
And Irene wasn’t just any noble—she was the scariest of the scary.
The kind of wicked heiress bards sang about in hushed tavern corners.
There’s no way she’d just let me go.
She was just building up her hopes—only to shatter them at the last moment.
That way, the despair would hit deeper, cut harder, hurt more.
Too cruel.
Monstrously cruel.
And the proof?
When she’d first seen Irene, that maid next to her had definitely looked like she wanted to kill her.
The breeze chilled her skin.
Klarette shivered violently.
“No, I have to run. If I don’t, I’m dead for sure!”
Just as she reached that conclusion—
“Oh my, isn’t that Miss Klarette? Still awake at this hour?”