“You should come in too. Mustache just arrived.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Mustache” was what Riela called Marquis Marhim Bolthen, much like she called Ormil “mold.” Excited for his appearance, Mail hurriedly opened the door leading to the ballroom. The moment it cracked open, music and lively chatter spilled onto the terrace.

Five days had flown by, and the first selection day had arrived—a day eagerly awaited by many.

The previous night, for some reason, Mail could barely sleep and was still wide awake as another night approached. The announcement, which she thought would be brief, was taking longer than expected. Blinking her tired eyes, Mail stared at Marquis Bolthen.

“Greetings, everyone. Has it been almost ten days? As announced days ago, today is the day of the first announcement for the selection process. I’m sure you’ve all been curious about who has been eliminated and who has passed… however,” he trailed off.

“…?”

“Regrettably, the announcement has been slightly delayed.”

The banquet hall murmured in surprise. What did he just say? The confused candidates looked around at each other, then back at the marquis, who wore a somewhat apologetic smile as if he too felt uneasy.

“I’m sorry. Due to circumstances beyond our control. As a small consolation, we have prepared the banquet to be as grand as possible. It will continue for three days, so please eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves. Before it ends, we will inform you of the selection results.”

“What?”

“Why announce it and then suddenly change?”

“Ah, I told my father I’d update him on the results today.”

“Contact Lady Tazzia again. Since there’s extra time, let’s raise the stakes on the bet.”

A mix of reactions spread throughout the hall, leaving Mail stunned.

She had been waiting so eagerly for today, even staying up all night yesterday. While her face showed utter disappointment, Riela and Rose seemed unfazed.

Riela seemed oblivious to the marquis’s words, staring intently at the gemstone on her ring. She alternated between looking at the large stone set in the center and her own porcelain-like hand, as if debating which was closer to the epitome of beauty.

Unable to settle, Riela finally called Mail over to ask, “Which is better?” Mail’s answer came out weakly, “I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you didn’t know either, that’s why you asked me.”

“Then ask Rose.”

Riela trailed over to Rose, who was nearby—working out, even in the banquet hall. Mail started to follow but decided to stay put.

Just standing there felt exhausting. The mental toll was heavy, possibly worsened by her lack of sleep.

“Maybe I should get something sweet to eat…”

“Eek!”

Splat.

As Mail turned her gaze toward the refreshments, she jumped in surprise. A maid nearby had stumbled, spilling a tray of drinks. Such things could happen, but unfortunately, it occurred right by Mail.

She looked down at her dress, now stained with dark splotches from the spilled contents. What a stroke of bad luck.

“Oh, oh my! I’m so sorry! I’m terribly sorry!”

Already drained, Mail had no energy left. Normally, she would have reassured the apologetic maid, but she was too spent to respond.

After standing dazed for a moment, Mail turned away. She couldn’t stay like this.

She needed to change or perhaps even leave altogether. She looked around for Riela, who was happily sipping her drink while watching Rose’s impressive muscles.

After a moment of thought, Mail decided to go change and return. Leaving without Riela didn’t feel right, nor did telling her to leave when she was enjoying herself. With that decision, Mail quickly moved.

“At least it didn’t spill on my face or hair.”

As she left the main palace, Mail muttered to herself. If the drink had spilled on her head, it would have been much worse. Thinking that, she tried to focus on the positive.

“At least it’s not far… hm?”

Nearing the auxiliary palace, Mail slowed down. The entrance, which she’d used a few times before, looked strange. There were no guards.

Whether it was the main or auxiliary palace, there were always one or two guards at the entrance. They protected the place but also served to open doors for nobles.

“And the torches are out.”

Pushing the door open herself, Mail noticed it was even stranger inside. For one, it was far too dark. Although it was late at night, the halls usually had torches lit from the entrance on, so it should not have been this dark.

The dimly lit corridor, visible only in the moonlight, felt eerie and almost artificial.

“Strange. This is definitely the auxiliary palace.”

Her murmuring voice broke the stillness. It wasn’t just the lack of light; there were no people either. It felt more like an abandoned castle deep in a forest than a palace crowded with candidates.

Mail normally enjoyed dark places, but something about this situation felt unsettling.

“Should I go back?”

If she hadn’t been so exhausted, Mail would have left without hesitation, returned to the main palace, and summoned some attendants to relight and restore the auxiliary palace to its usual state.

But she was too worn out. The lingering effects of a sleepless night weighed on her heavily.

Even the short walk back felt arduous. The damp hem of her dress felt even more uncomfortable. Reluctantly, Mail began to walk further inside.

‘I’ll bring a lamp from my room when I return,’ she thought, rounding a corner.

“Oh, someone.”

There, halfway down the corridor, stood a figure. Judging by their outline, they seemed to be a servant or attendant.

Mail’s expression brightened. Perfect timing. She could ask them to light the place up. But Mail soon had to reconsider.

“…Did they put the lights out themselves?”

This was not a pleasant meeting. Looking at him, Mail felt certain that she’d found the culprit who turned the palace into this state. Her reasoning came from his behavior.

From the moment she appeared, he had fixed his gaze on her, standing still as if nailed to the spot. No typical greeting or move to step aside. The man seemed highly suspicious.

“Excuse me. Are you a person?”

Mail asked a question that, depending on the situation, could sound like a joke. In her mind, this man had to be either a criminal or a ghost.

If it were the former, she’d have no idea why he did this, so it would be best to turn and run. If it were the latter, she wasn’t too scared and could just go on her way. Then, the man in the darkness spoke.

“Are you Mail?”

Mail was speechless. This was bad. At any other time, she’d be outraged to hear a stranger use informal language with her right off the bat. But not now. Mail bit her lip as she sized up the situation. Time to bolt.

“You’ve got the wrong person. Mail lives in the other neighborhood across the street. So, goodbye.”

Mail hurriedly turned around. From his words, she’d figured out two things.

First, he wasn’t a ghost but likely the one who had extinguished the palace lights. Second, he probably cut the lights to ambush someone in the dark—and that someone seemed to be her.

Summing it up in three words: she was doomed.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Why are you following me? Go find that other Mail!”

“Lying, are we? I already heard that you’re the only one coming through here at this hour! You even match the description!”

In the dark, how had he even noted her appearance? Mail turned her head back, annoyed, only to be startled.

The man was terrifyingly fast. The distance between them had closed considerably. Realizing running wouldn’t work, Mail tensed her core instead, intending to scream as loudly as she could.

Thud!

“…!”

Damn it. Mail cursed inwardly. She should’ve screamed first instead of responding. The man, apparently sensing she was about to shout, swiftly targeted her throat, his hand chopping near her larynx to silence her with practiced ease.

How often has this lunatic done something like this? Mail thought as she crumpled to the floor.

“Finally, you’re quiet.”

For the first time in her life, the word “quiet” felt so degrading. Lying on the ground, Mail gave a mirthless laugh. She’d had her share of trouble with perverts, but meeting a complete psycho in a foreign land was new.

There was no need to make an effort to stand up. The man simply grabbed her by the collar and lifted her off the ground.

It dawned on her that he was strong. If he hadn’t held back, his first strike could’ve easily broken her neck. Should she thank him for not killing her? With a sneer, Mail listened as he spoke.

“Did you dare lay a hand on the goddess?”

‘What?’

Who was this “goddess”? If she could still use her voice, Mail would have asked. Sure, she’d once prayed to a goddess to curse the emperor’s looks, but she’d never actually touched one. Then, she realized.

“A lowly servant like you, how dare you offend the goddess.”

Mail knew someone who wasn’t a goddess but looked like one. And contextually, it had to be her. It was far more plausible that this man had gone crazy for beauty than that he was some fanatic of the goddess’s temple.

Mail let out a dry laugh despite the pain in her neck.

Completely insane, Ormil Petten.

‘This guy is even crazier.’