SOTBW - 236

Mackanon, briefly lost in old memories, looked down at the forest sprawling beneath his feet.  

The rationality and instinct of the Seriths cannot coexist. When Bersha dominates the body, Sainth is overwhelmed; when Sainth seizes control, Bersha is suppressed.  

Of course, it wasn’t entirely impossible for Bersha and Sainth to coexist within the original Serith’s body. All Sainth had to do was abandon his reason and succumb to madness. If Sainth gave up on himself and fully embraced Bersha, there would be no need for a constant struggle over dominance.  

It wasn’t surprising that Sainth, who had been the only hope for controlling the Seriths, had eventually broken. The Dragon Lord had foreseen this outcome before his demise.  

“Sainth Philux will inevitably go mad. No matter how powerful a resurrected being he may be, he is still human… Imagine being trapped in a confined space for thousands of years with only your consciousness intact. Even the greatest sage would have their soul shattered. Though he loves Emaydis, who brought him back to life, he will eventually come to hate her. If Sainth Philux loses his mind, our plans will fail. If Sainth becomes tainted by the hatred and madness within Bersha, even if Emaydis reincarnates as a perfect being, she will not be able to destroy that monster…”  

At that moment, one of the adult Seriths opened its seven eyes and stared directly at Mackanon. Despite being concealed, the creature was glaring precisely at where Mackanon stood. Mackanon silently applauded, impressed.  

Just as the adult Serith prepared to leap into the sky, Mackanon swiftly teleported away. He retreated to a location far from the forest and whistled softly. Even someone like Mackanon wouldn’t stand a chance against tens of thousands of Seriths swarming in one place—his bones wouldn’t survive.  

Mackanon glanced at the forest, now just a faint speck in the distance, and then shifted his gaze toward the direction of the Noctis Fortress.  

“So, Emaydis needs a new Sainth Philux.”  

When he first heard those words from the Dragon Lord, he hadn’t understood what they meant…  

Mackanon swallowed an enigmatic smile as he recalled Maximón, barely born from Mahilen’s hands.  

“Just as Sainth Philux sacrificed himself without fear of death for the sake of Emaydis alone, we must create another Sainth who will willingly die at the hands of their beloved in the distant future. We witnessed Sainth controlling Bersha and the monsters for Emaydis. To recreate that miracle once more…”  

Poor Emaydis.  

How many tears will you have to swallow before you can accept the fate of having to kill your lover?  

“…It is inevitable that the Sainth Philux created by Mahilen will die by Emaydis’ sword. Only through that death can this world be set right.”  

---  

The young maid, whose cheeks were still plump with baby fat, carried an entire box overflowing with potatoes all by herself. She was assigned this task simply because she had a bit more flesh on her bones compared to the other girls. Meanwhile, the other maids were either fetching water or peeling vegetables in the kitchen under the head chef’s relentless scolding.  

This work was originally supposed to be done by the kitchen staff as soon as they arrived, but six of them had fallen ill with the flu, forcing young maids from other areas to step in.  

The knights would soon return from the field, and the kitchen was in chaos. The pressure to prepare meals on time caused the head chef to raise their voice at every sign of inefficiency. The regular kitchen staff openly clicked their tongues, clearly dissatisfied with how little help the young maids provided.  

The maid, struggling to carry the heavy load, finally set the box of potatoes down and exhaled deeply. There were still piles of boxes left to bring inside, yet no one offered to help—it felt overwhelmingly unfair.  

She bent her knees and took a brief moment to catch her breath. After more than thirty minutes of lugging boxes up and down the stairs, her legs trembled uncontrollably. A plea for help rose to her throat, but no one in the kitchen seemed to have a spare moment.  

With despair in her eyes, the maid looked down at the stack of boxes still waiting at the bottom of the stairs. They were all filled with potatoes. By now, the mere sight of potatoes made her nauseous.  

She had come to the Noctis Fortress hoping to earn money, but the thought of enduring this kind of labor for the rest of her life made her vision darken. Remembering her mother, who used to gently stroke her forehead with rough hands every night, brought a sharp pang to her nose.  

The sixteen-year-old maid wiped her nose with her sleeve, only to lock eyes with the bustling head chef. Seeing her awkward posture, the chef assumed she was slacking off and stormed over, yelling at the top of their lungs.  

“What are you doing, you sluggish wench! If you don’t hurry up and bring the potatoes, how will we peel them inside? Everyone else is working hard, and here you are, trying to slack off?”  

Terrified by the boar-like chef’s outburst, the maid shrank back.  

“N-No… It’s not like that…”  

Flustered, the maid shook her head and tried to explain, but the chef, already frustrated by the disarray in the kitchen, unleashed their anger on the hapless girl.  

“You’re already learning bad habits at such a young age!”

A hand as large as a pot lid slapped the maid across her cheek. Knocked to the floor, she blinked in confusion before noticing people watching her through the window—looking at her with clear disdain.

Hurt by their thoughtless gazes, the maid finally burst into tears. The head chef raised their hand again, and the maid let out a shrill cry, covering her head with both hands.

The chef kicked the box of potatoes the maid had brought toward the dining area, shouting irritably,  

“Don’t lie there bawling! Just carry the rest of the boxes!”

Fearing she might be kicked like the box, the maid fled down the stairs, tears streaming down her face once more. Though her pride was wounded, her primary concern was earning money to support her family—there was no job as stable as being a maid for the Romsoa Knights.

Far from being angry about the unjust beating, the young maid feared being fired. If she fell further out of favor, she might receive a failing grade and be dismissed.

Wiping her tears hastily, the maid resumed carrying the potatoes without even realizing her cheek had swollen. Suddenly, someone tugged sharply on her apron strings. As she tried to walk forward, she was yanked backward like a fish caught on a hook.

Startled, she turned her head to see a waist cinched tightly in fitted clothing, revealing a distinctly masculine silhouette. Following the lines of that sturdy waist and chest upward, her eyes met strange emerald-green irises.

The maid’s face paled as she stood frozen, holding a box—it was Maximón. Had he overheard what the chef said? Overwhelmed by a sense of injustice, she instinctively shook her head.

Before she could explain that she hadn’t been slacking off, Maximón lightly held her apron strings between his thumb and forefinger and gestured toward the pile of remaining boxes with his other hand.  

“Is this all you have left to carry?”  

His tone was calm, as if nothing unusual was happening. Expecting a reprimand, the maid nodded dumbly.  

“That’s quite a lot,” he remarked casually, as though admiring an art piece.  

Caught off guard, the maid stammered,  

“...Y-Yes, it’s… a little too much…”  

Maximón released her apron strings and took the box from her hands. Overwhelmed by his imposing presence, the maid shuffled awkwardly to the side.  

He stacked seven potato boxes—each one heavy enough to challenge even strong servants—and hoisted them onto both shoulders. The maid’s jaw dropped as she watched him ascend the stone steps leading to the dining hall with ease, balancing the load as though giving piggyback rides to children. It felt like watching a circus act.  

When the head chef came storming out, ready to scold the maid again for not bringing up the boxes, they froze upon seeing Maximón climbing the stairs with the heavy load.  

How dare the commander of the knights carry potato boxes! The chef’s face drained of color as they glared at the stunned maid standing below.  

At that moment, Maximón placed the boxes in front of the chef with a thud. Startled, the chef clutched their chest and stepped back.  

After brushing the dirt off his shoulders, Maximón glanced briefly at the chef. Only then did the chef realize they hadn’t greeted him and quickly removed their hat, bowing deeply. But Maximón ignored the gesture and descended the stairs.  

The young maid fidgeted nervously, glancing back and forth between Maximón and the chef.  

“Jacob.”  

Maximón glanced behind the maid. She jumped in surprise, only now realizing someone was standing behind her. Jacob stood ready to follow any order, gazing steadily at Maximón.  

Maximón patted the maid’s back gently, as if praising her for her hard work alone, then walked past Jacob.  

“Fire that person.”  

It was obvious who “that person” referred to. Instead of responding, Jacob gave a slight nod and shot a glance at the chef, whose face had turned ashen.  

Jacob patted the maid’s shoulder reassuringly. Her red, swollen cheek looked pitiful.  

“You should go see the head maid and get treatment.”  

“But…”  

“No unfairness will come to you. Don’t worry, just go.”  

Comforted by Jacob’s gentle tone, the maid glanced hesitantly at the chef before slowly leaving the scene.

Jacob let out a long sigh as he watched the maid’s retreating figure, brushing his hair back. The head chef seemed eager to explain what had just happened, but Jacob ignored them completely and turned away.

Maximón had been in an unusually good mood since last night…  

Though Jacob had followed Maximón for years, he had never seen him take the initiative to do something kind. Sensing that something positive must have happened between Maximón and Najane, Jacob tilted his head quizzically, still unsure of what it could be.

What could possibly make Maximón Elgort, who showed no interest in others, voluntarily help someone? Lost in thought, Jacob glanced toward the direction of the residence.

Everyone in Romsoa who had gone out into the field with Maximón knew how unusually cheerful he was. Though he rarely revealed his emotions, he would stand quietly and then suddenly smile for no apparent reason.  

It was strange enough when he started giving considerate orders—like moving soldiers shivering from the cold closer to the campfire. Jacob himself had been startled by such commands. To hear Maximón say, “Since there won’t be any attacks anyway, let the soldiers rest more comfortably,” was unheard of.  

One veteran soldier, who had been with the Romsoa Knights for eight years, couldn’t believe it at first and even went to Maximón personally to confirm if it was really okay. No wonder even those who didn’t care about Maximón’s personal life began whispering things like, “Najane must have given the commander something extraordinary.”  

What could Najane, who was terminally ill, possibly give Maximón that would make him so gentle and forgiving? A gift with enough impact to soften him…  

Jacob narrowed his eyes as he recalled the pregnancy rumors surrounding Najane.  

Could it be… marriage?  

But the idea of Maximón being this elated over something as simple as marriage felt far-fetched. At least, the Maximón Jacob knew wouldn’t get excited over marriage.  

As Jacob made his way back to the main building, he tilted his head skeptically. Reflecting on everything Maximón had done for Najane, it seemed plausible that he would be thrilled about marriage—but perhaps Jacob was overthinking it.  

Not particularly interested in romance, Jacob racked his brain as much as he could, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t deduce what might have happened between Maximón and Najane. Frowning deeply, he pressed his fingers against his furrowed brow before shaking his head, utterly clueless.  

Suddenly, he found himself missing Daniel’s sharp intuition.