[V8C24] A Small Joy in the Heart

The carriage departing Sazandol had been lively with the company of Cyril, Claudia, Thule, and Pikeh, but on the way back home, it was just Isaac and Monica.

In the quiet carriage, Monica stared at the disciple sitting across from her. Noticing this, Isaac raised his head and smiled amiably.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?”

“…You shouldn’t be so mean to Cyril-sama.”

“…”

Isaac made no response, though the radiance of his smile seemed to grow in intensity. He had been like this ever since pinching Cyril’s cheeks at the theater.

Isaac still behaved normally when spoken to, but he would immediately fall silent upon hearing Cyril’s attempts to address him as ‘Your Highness’, ‘Your Excellency’, or ‘Duke Erin’. He also fell silent whenever Monica scolded him for bullying Cyril.

But despite his lack of words, the sparkling in his smile only grew stronger, followed by Cyril flinching back as if he were being physically assaulted by the brilliance. Raul had dubbed this phenomenon as “Chantless Sparkles Magic!” but of course, Monica had never taught any such spell to her disciple.

By the time they parted ways, the pitiful Cyril was a flustered wreck. Even the weasels poking their heads out of his bag kept saying, “You bully,” and “Bullying is bad.”

As Isaac’s master, Monica wanted to firmly admonish her disciple. However, she found herself unable to say anything too strongly due to her shock at the revelation of Isaac’s actual age.

Isaac himself didn’t seem to mind, but there was a significant difference between a one-year and a three-year age gap. Monica had accidentally murmured, “That’s the same age as Dee-senpai…” but upon seeing the indescribable face her disciple made, she vowed never to say it again.

Nevertheless, the carriage carrying the two finally arrived in front of Monica’s house.

It was midday, and Monica was a bit hungry. She considered going out for lunch after sorting out her luggage… before going wide-eyed at the black creature curled up in front of her door.

“…Ah, Nero.”

Upon hearing Monica’s voice, the curled-up Nero slowly raised his head and glared resentfully at Monica and Isaac.

“You left me behind to go play, huh?”

“W-Well…”

“You better have a souvenir.”

Despite having run away from home, Nero was making some rather cheeky demands.

As Monica stumbled over her words, Isaac squatted in front of Nero, grabbed his front paws, and raised them to the sky, causing the cat’s body to stretch surprisingly long.

“Unfortunately, we only have carrots on hand right now. Would you help us finish them?”

“Meat! Meat! Meat!”

“By the way, Nero.”

Isaac peered into Nero’s face and narrowed his eyes.

“Were the waters of Sazandol to your liking?”

Nero’s golden eyes went wide at this question.

“…How did you know about me getting chased by a stray dog and falling into the sea? Were you watching or something?”

At that moment, a thought popped into Monica’s head, like the pieces of a puzzle fitting together.

Nero running away from home coincided with the appearance of the water dragon. The dragon had been accompanied by a school of several smaller dragons, allowing it to change its shape, which caused inconsistent eyewitness accounts.

…However, that explanation did not explain why the water dragon was spotted in the middle of the port. The accounts had described it as “a huge water dragon with large fins appearing out of nowhere” near the second port of Sazandol.

If, hypothetically, a certain black cat were to be chased by stray dogs and fall into the sea, then transform into its original form for easier swimming… It might seem like a water dragon appeared out of nowhere, and its spread wings could easily be mistaken for fins underwater.

“Ike, d-do you mean…” Monica trailed off, with the blood completely drained from her face.

“Good thing we didn’t accidentally subjugate him.”

Nero, the only one left in the dark, let out a disgruntled shout while still propped up by Isaac.

“Subjugate? Hey, what’s that supposed to mean? Tell me!”

“Just talking about the Phantom Dragon of Pistraune.”

＊　＊　＊

Having transformed back into a human for the first time in a long while, Nero slouched into the back of a chair. He listened to Monica and Isaac retell the events of the past few days while using his hands to scarf down Isaac’s homemade carrot cake.

First, the water dragon subjugation, followed by the visit from Claudia and Cyril, and finally, the trial set by an ancient artifact, the Key of Knowledge.

“I see how it is. So the appearance of some water dragons made an unfortunate overlap with my refreshing swim.”

“If we exclude the fact that you nearly drowning after being chased by stray dogs got turned into a refreshing swim, then I suppose that’s correct.”

Upon hearing Isaac’s comment, Nero wrinkled his nose in annoyance. This was an expression he occasionally showed, even in his cat form.

“Well, what else was I supposed to do? It’s too hard to swim as a cat or human, and I can’t turn into a fish. I did my best to avoid people by returning to land in an unpopulated area at night.”

Apparently, this caused Nero to end up quite a distance away from Sazandol. Then, he took his time walking back on foot, occasionally swapping between cat and human forms.

He could have easily shortened the return trip by transforming into his original form to fly, but the sheer size of his dragon body meant a high chance of discovery.

“Well, um, are you the Phantom Dragon of Pistraune…?”

Eight years ago, a large water dragon suddenly appeared under the luxury cruise ship Evangeline in the waters of Pistraune.

Monica anxiously asked if this was also Nero’s doing, but he casually shook his head.

“I barely ever go to the sea, and before meeting you, I was in the mountains of the Empire. You got the wrong dragon.”

Monica secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

The Phantom Dragon of Pistraune caused hundreds of deaths by sinking the Evangeline, so she couldn’t help but feel relieved to learn that Nero was unrelated. Surely, the school of water dragons that Monica had subjugated must be the real Phantom Dragon.

“Um, also… about the white dragon that Cyril-sama contracted…”

While explaining the commotion with the Key of Knowledge, Monica had briefly told Nero about Cyril contracting with a white dragon. However, Nero had displayed almost zero reaction when she mentioned this.

“Nero, are white dragons really, um… your n-natural enemy?”

What could she even do if the enraged Nero demanded to know Thule’s location so he could fly over and kill him?

This was Monica’s greatest concern, but Nero just casually shook his head.

“Dunno. I’ve never ever seen a white dragon in the first place.”

“…Really?”

“I mean, those guys live in cold places, and I hate the cold. Why should I bother going there?”

Now that he mentioned it, the logic made sense.

“So, um, is it true that the blizzards of the white dragon can nullify black flames?”

“Ah… I remember hearing that before, but where…? Hmm, it must have been so long ago that I forgot.”

Nero grunted in deep thought as he chewed on the carrot cake. It seemed he genuinely couldn’t remember. Perhaps his “long ago” meant a few decades or so.

While Monica was somewhat curious about Nero’s past, there was a more pressing matter in the current. This was something she had to confirm.

“…If you see a white dragon, would you chase after it?”

Nero grinned, revealing his fangs.

“Do you want me to?”

“No! Absolutely not!”

“Alright, if you say so, Master. I’d never go out of my way to bully the weak anyway.”

Despite being in front of his master, the familiar promptly leaned back with an air of superiority and started gulping down his hot tea.

Isaac refilled the empty tea cup while bringing up a question of his own.

“Nero, can you sense a white dragon that has transformed into another form? For example, a small animal or a human?”

“Probably not. I could sense one in dragon form easily, but they’re harder to detect when transformed into something small.”

“…Do black dragons and white dragons have equal detection capabilities?”

“No way, I’m way better at detection. After all, I’m the strongest.”

Isaac let out a quiet “hmm” in response.

Monica understood the intention behind Isaac’s question. He was asking if the cat and weasel would realize each other’s true identities the next time Cyril brought Thule to Sazandol.

If transforming into a small animal allows Nero to remain incognito, then having him continue to act as a cat should avoid any possible issues.

“Nero, if Cyril-sama brings Thule… the white weasel, please don’t bully him, okay?”

“Come on, I already said I wouldn’t do anything.”

“You too, Ike. The next time you see Cyril-sama, um… make up properly, okay? Picking a fight is mean.”

Monica had said this after putting on her ‘scary master’ face, causing Isaac to look like he had been taken by surprise.

“A fight, huh… So that was a fight.”

He murmured this in contemplation, before chuckling to himself. This was the kind of slightly mischievous laughter that ‘His Highness’ would never perform.

“I like the sound of that. My first fight with Cyril… How very friend-like.”

(That sounds like something Raul-sama would say…)

Despite thinking that, Monica earnestly pressed Isaac with another, “Please make up properly, okay?”

＊　＊　＊

The next time Sophocles woke up, he had returned to the Highown mansion and was on Marquis Highown’s finger. Noticing this, Marquis Highown spoke up while spreading a brand-new board game across the table.

“Good morning, Sophocles. Did you enjoy your rare outing?”

“You tricked me, Vicent. Sneakily making me into their babysitter.”

Ancient artifacts were one-of-a-kind treasures, so bringing them outside was a risk that few would take… However, the man named Vicent Ashley had always found various reasons to show the Key of Knowledge to the outside world.

Since he had introduced Sophocles to Cyril during the renovation of the Ascard Library, he must have been planning this little excursion from the very beginning.

“There is much knowledge to be gained by seeing the world, no?”

“Hmm, you are not wrong… I must say, the current Thorn Witch is quite the monster. And that Silent Witch’s chantless magic is completely inexplicable. Summoning a Spirit King without an incantation… Are you sure she’s really human?”

Marquis Highown nodded along while setting up two pieces on the board. Then, he rolled the dice and moved his piece forward.

“It’s your turn next.”

“Good grief, Vicent. As expected of the only contractor who tried to win me over with board games… Roll the dice. Hmm, a four. I’ll move towards the red space then.”

“Apparently, this game can be played by up to four people simultaneously. Let’s invite Cyril next time.”

“Speaking of which, what is that youngster up to right now? And without any greeting to me!”

The complaints of Sophocles were followed by a serious reply from Marquis Highown.

“It seems he’s writing a letter. Judging by his very serious expression, perhaps it’s a love letter.”

“Nonsense! That blockhead engaging in romance? Maybe in another ten years!”

＊　＊　＊

Facing the desk in his room, Cyril Ashley wrote diligently on the back of a discarded scrap of paper.

This was a draft of the apology letters he would be sending to various parties: Monica Everett, Raul Roseberg, and…

“This is a private setting, so I must refrain from mentioning anything that indicates his identity. In which case, ‘Your Highness’ and ‘Your Excellency’ are inappropriate… Since ‘Mysterious Noble’ wasn’t to his liking… How about ‘Esteemed Noble’? Should I add another adjective?”

While muttering to himself, Cyril brainstormed various titles for a certain ‘Esteemed Noble’ on the scrap paper. He had written so many that his right hand was black with ink up to the nails.

Meanwhile, the two weasels were playing around by rolling the glass marble that had been placed on a corner of the desk. But once the marble nearly fell off, Cyril stopped it with his fingers and returned it to its original position.

“Pikeh, Thule, what are you going to do if it falls and breaks?”

“Glue it back with ice.”

“Sorry. Would it be a problem if it breaks?”

To the unapologetic Pikeh and the genuinely apologetic Thule, Cyril sighed with a complicated expression.

“…Since we don’t know who it belongs to, we must treat it with care.”

This glass marble, which was about the size of a candy, had somehow found its way into the pocket of Cyril’s jacket.

It was decorated with light blue snowflakes on a white background, and judging by the hole for threading a string, it was apparently used as decoration on an accessory or piece of clothing.

Cyril thought the marble was pleasing to the eye, so he set a small piece of cloth at the corner of his desk to place the marble on. Though if the owner claimed it, he would, of course, return it.

With their plaything taken away, the weasels quickly grew bored. They began darting across Cyril’s shoulders and back instead.

“Ugh, don’t climb on people when they’re trying to write!”

“Three.”

“Argh…”

Recently, Pikeh had taken to counting the number of times Cyril shouted. His current goal was to keep the count under five times per day.

Cyril went on to awkwardly clear his throat, causing Thule on his shoulder to lose his balance. The white weasel clung onto Cyril’s hair to prevent his fall, which made Cyril let out a surprised gasp.

“Sorry, Cyril. Did that hurt?”

“…From now on, please do not use my hair as a lifeline.”

Restraining himself, Cyril spoke calmly to avoid shouting. Meanwhile, Pikeh tugged at his hair while offering a suggestion.

“Why don’t you just cut your hair then?”

“…”

Using his clean left hand, Cyril grabbed a strand of his hair and looked down at it absentmindedly.

The words of a certain girl suddenly crossed his mind: “Glistening and pretty.”

Cyril had never liked it when people commented on his appearance.

Whether praise or criticism, such comments always flooded his mind with thoughts of his father, causing him to freeze.

But strangely enough, this instance did not remind him of his father.

All Cyril remembered was his mind going blank, followed by a strange thumping in his chest. At that moment, Cyril had felt genuinely happy.

“…I’ve found a reason not to cut it.”

Cyril picked up the quill and began writing a long apology letter, which started with the words, “To the honorable and esteemed noble…”

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