A figure with a cloak pulled over their head cautiously knocked on the door of a pristine mansion, seemingly built not long ago. The door opened quietly, and a woman who appeared to have been waiting greeted the visitor and guided them inside. At the end of a smooth, uninterrupted hallway, the woman glanced around sharply, ensuring no one was watching, and carefully opened a door before stepping in with the guest.

The room appeared to be an ordinary study. Without hesitation, the woman walked toward a wall obscured by bookshelves. She lightly pushed one shelf aside, revealing a small hidden door in the corner. Handing the visitor a lit candlestick, she opened the door. After exchanging a nod, the visitor stepped beyond the threshold while the woman stayed behind to close the door. The study reverted to its normal appearance.

In the pitch-black underground, the guest walked forward, relying solely on the candlelight. Damp and cold air seeped through the cloak, but the guest hurried on. After walking for a while, they found a fork in the path. Without hesitation, the visitor turned left. Again, they walked a considerable distance, only to find a dead end. Yet, undeterred, the guest approached the wall and knocked softly. Eventually, the wall opened, revealing a glimmering light—shining like a beacon of hope.

“Welcome, Count Leiphir.”

Count Leiphir, just stepping into the room, removed his cloak with a polite bow. Around a long table, several individuals welcomed him warmly. A quick glance confirmed that most of those supposed to attend had already gathered. It appeared he was the last to arrive.

“My apologies for being late.”

“There was no fixed time anyway,” replied the individual seated at the head of the table. Her silver hair, as brilliant as jewels, was carelessly tied back, and her voice was soft. Her lake-clear blue eyes reflected a calm warmth in the dim light of the candles everyone had brought.

“Shall we continue our discussion?”

Lette, observing Count Leiphir take his seat, gave a subtle nod to Ikael. Ikael, clutching a roll of documents, understood and began to speak.

“This proposed tax reform will surely be a turning point. This came as a bolt from the blue for the noble families that have remained neutral until now. They never expected the king to impose such heavy taxes on them. They assumed he wouldn’t be foolish enough to make enemies out of them.”

“To think he believed raising taxes would scare them into compliance—typical of a king who imagines himself forever untouchable.”

“It’s a ridiculously foolish decision. But because of that…”

Ikael carefully unrolled the documents he held, revealing crests that everyone immediately recognized. All eyes turned toward him, except for the few already aware of the news.

“Marquis Harpers has reached out to us first.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Marquis Harpers? Are you serious?”

The room filled with murmurs, amplifying the surprise within the confined space. It was difficult to believe.

After all, Marquis Harpers was the neutral faction’s central figure. Although the Harpers family, throughout the kingdom’s brief history, had produced neither renowned knights nor scholars, their mastery of rhetoric always positioned them at the heart of high society. While the marquis had no particular inclination to curry favor with the royal family, he had managed to stay in their good graces, carefully toeing the line.

The neutrals were far more troublesome than royalists who openly sought the king’s favor. Declaring them enemies meant outright hostility, but neutrals required negotiation without dropping one’s guard. They cared little for the kingdom’s state of affairs, focusing only on their well-being. Cautious and conservative, they were meticulous in protecting what they had. This made it exhausting to predict where they would stand after events unfolded.

And yet, the very symbol of the neutral faction had reached out to the revolutionary forces first. The significance of this could not be overstated.

The kingdom was on the verge of collapse.

“The king is doing our work for us.”

A biting remark drew a round of dry chuckles.

“At this rate, we might end up as a group of revolutionaries with nothing to do.”

“Perhaps we should award the king an honorary revolutionary medal.”

“At the guillotine?”

Their bitter jokes flowed back and forth. The group seemed buoyed, as if they had overcome a significant obstacle. The core revolutionaries, already aware of the news, made no effort to stop the others’ lightheartedness; the development was worth celebrating.

“Watching the arrogant royals flaunt themselves will soon be a thing of the past,” someone commented.

“Ah, the Harvest Festival is next week, isn’t it?”

“They’re boasting it’ll be the grandest yet.”

“With the new tax revenue, I suppose they think they’ll have no financial issues for now.”

“They never fail to disappoint.”

As the conversation lightened, talk shifted toward the upcoming Harvest Festival—the final royal celebration that everyone here was sure would be remembered as such. Cautiously, someone asked a question.

“Will the Saintess be attending?”

All eyes turned to Lette, seated at the center. Having quietly listened to the conversation, she smiled faintly and replied.

“Yes, I’ll be attending.”

“The damned royals only care about parading the Saintess to prove their legitimacy.”

“She’s the only thing they have left to lean on.”

“Indeed. Without Lady Lette, the royal family would’ve crumbled long ago.”

A disdainful click of someone’s tongue echoed in the small room. It wasn’t hard to sense that everyone here shared the same anger.

The royal family had annihilated a loyal household on fabricated charges of treason, using it as a pretext to force Lette into their service. They exploited her sacred image, keeping her confined to a mansion provided by the royal family and ensuring she lacked for nothing. A gilded cage, no more. The royal crest engraved on her carriage declared her loyalty and obedience to the Bailey dynasty and the kingdom. Seeing her used as nothing but a tool for the royals’ survival was enraging for all present.

“If it’s uncomfortable for you, Lady Lette, perhaps you don’t have to attend. After all, soon enough…”

“No.”

Lette cut off the offer directed at her with a single stroke without erasing her leisurely smile.

“If you believe in me and dare to act arrogantly because of it, it would be better for you in many ways to continue believing.”

Though Lette’s face still held a smile, the one who made the offer flinched and fell silent. The saintess, who always appeared gentle and kind, sometimes uttered such merciless words with chilling ease. The stark contrast was unsettling, and he quietly rubbed his arms to calm the goosebumps. His behavior felt immensely disrespectful to the saintess.

Ruben watched the scene closely without missing a beat. He wasn’t particularly interested—it just happened to catch his eye. It was a familiar sight to him.

The image people expected of Saintess Lette was already set in stone: a sacred and noble agent of the gods. A being so divinely pure that even her words and steps seemed ethereal. She was always righteous, always correct, and always virtuous. That was what she had to be.

It was a secret known only to the core members of the revolutionary army that Lette was their leader, yet it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that all of those members followed her. If she began to step forward earnestly, her name alone would convince many others. The saintess’ title was undeniably the revolutionary army’s greatest asset.

However, Lette hadn’t risen to the leader’s position merely because she was a saintess. Lette possessed every quality a leader needed: her ability to see the broader picture, her cold and swift judgment, and her political acumen to use everything she had.

Yet she made no effort to correct those who overlooked this fact, letting them remain mistaken. She never bothered to fix the foolishness of those too preoccupied with the facts presented before them. For a benevolent saintess, she was undeniably indifferent to others. But it was precisely that quality that made Lette fair to everyone.

“Let’s wrap it up for today.”

At Ikael’s concluding words, everyone began tidying up their seats. Ruben rose as well, but Ikael suddenly grabbed his arm. When Ruben looked at him, Ikael just smiled faintly without saying a word.

Ruben sat back down. Since it wasn’t uncommon for only the two of them—the revolutionary army’s de facto strategists—to stay behind for further discussion, no one seemed to care as they filed out of the room. Once Lette, surrounded by guards, had also left, only Ruben, Ikael, and Ruben’s adjutant Enoch remained in the dimly lit room.

Ikael threw a quick glance at Enoch. Was this a conversation he shouldn’t be hearing? Enoch hesitated, starting to leave.

“Well, never mind.”

Ikael turned his gaze back to Ruben and got straight to the point.

“A letter arrived.”

There was no need to ask who the letter was for. If there had been a sender’s name, Ikael would have mentioned it already. Only one person sent letters between them without a sender’s mark. Ruben asked nonchalantly,

“What does it say?”

Instead of answering, Ikael tossed a neatly folded paper from his coat onto the table. Ruben reached for it. Through the folds of the paper, he could feel a coarse texture. It wasn’t hard to guess that a powdered substance was concealed within.

“What is this?”

“Euresica.”