“The Demon Lord, is it?” Duke Padparadscha muttered.

“Prince Lance Inkor…” Marquis Mossflower echoed, sinking into a chair with the heavy realization that, yes, this was actually happening.

Bianca, however, didn’t bother with theatrics. Instead, she gave Morgan a long, knowing look.

“Corruption… So that’s why you kept us out before,” she said, tone laced with understanding—and just a touch of accusation.

COUGH!

“Your Highness?” Yvain’s grip on Blair tightened as he felt her shift in his arms. A small sound, a weak breath—hope, maybe?

COUGH! COUGH—

No. Blood.

Thick, dark, and far too much of it. Blair’s body lurched violently, her small frame wracked with spasms as she vomited it up, staining her skin, her clothes, everything.

For a long, terrible second, no one moved.

Then Morgan—without a word, without a single wasted motion—raised her hand. A surge of power, golden and absolute, shot from her palm and wrapped around Blair, its warmth cutting through the cold horror of the moment.

Yvain froze. The three other adults stiffened.

Bianca, meanwhile, turned to Morgan, eyes sharp as a blade.

“You… Actually, who are you, Madame Sator?” she asked, her tone making it clear that this was not a rhetorical question.

Morgan exhaled, the weariness in her sigh speaking volumes.

“That’s not important right now,” she said, waving off the scrutiny like one would an insistent housefly. Instead, her gaze settled back on Blair, watching with clear relief as the girl’s eyes finally fluttered open.

“Your Highness!” Yvain sighed in relief as he embraced Blair, the young princess broke into tears, clutching him desperately. “It’s fine now. You’re safe. You are free…”

The adults, however, couldn’t dwell with this little victory, and without missing a beat, Morgan turned to Bianca.

“Now, let’s not waste time,” she said, voice as smooth as it was sharp. “Tell me what you know about Lance Inkor. And while we’re at it—Bianca Lumine, I’d love to hear about the unfortunate demise of Luminus’ Pope and, of course, the Democratic Teachers’ exciting new venture into corruption trafficking, particularly their involvement in poisoning Elven royalty.”

Morgan’s expression remained unreadable, but the pointed edge in her tone made one thing abundantly clear—she was done playing nice.

Marquis Mossflower began, slowly and carefully, as if he were picking his way through a minefield.

“He came out of nowhere. Well—not really out of nowhere, but close enough,” he admitted, rubbing his temple. “We knew he existed. His background was solid. His mother, Princess Willow Barbarella, had enough royal blood to make a decent footnote in history. A distant descendant of a Wintesin Emperor. But that should’ve meant nothing.”

His frustration was palpable. He went on, explaining how none of them had ever seriously considered that King Rafaye Inkor would acknowledge an illegitimate son, let alone one like him, someone who was the living proof of Rafaye’s unfair rise to the throne. And yet, somehow, that had happened.

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Worse still, the Prime Minister—a man who despised illegitimate heirs with every fiber of his being like his father, the former Prime Minister—had backed this sudden newcomer as a candidate for the throne.

“This,” Mossflower sighed, his fingers drumming against his knee, “more than anything else, is the inconsistency that bothers me. And trust me, as someone who has worked under the Prime Minister’s faction for years, I’ve seen plenty.”

He leaned forward, exhaling sharply. “Why would the King acknowledge him if he’s from the Prime Minister’s faction? And why would the Prime Minister support him if he’s illegitimate?”

Across from him, Duke Markus Padparadscha let out a sharp, humorless chuckle.

“Ah, so that’s why you, the Prime Minister’s right-hand man, are suddenly keeping your distance from him?” he said, voice laced with biting amusement.

“Yes, my Lord. That is exactly why.” Mossflower’s expression was grim. “Because it feels like—no, it is—a farce. The so-called ‘factions’ of this kingdom are nothing more than decorative labels. In the end, they all seem to be serving the same power lurking in the background.”

Then, with a sardonic shake of his head, he added, “And of course, let’s not forget the cherry on top—Celia Angemoux murdering the former Prime Minister, all so this random Lance Inkor could conveniently waltz his way into the current Prime Minister’s faction.”

Mossflower sat back, his words settling like a heavy weight over the room.

Politics had always been a game, but this? This wasn’t a game. This was a script, and they had all been playing their parts without realizing who was truly pulling the strings.

“Not to mention,” Duke Markus Padparadscha drawled, his voice edged with wry amusement, “that Lance Inkor’s entrance into Inkia’s political landscape was far too smooth for someone who had never been in the picture before.”

Lance Inkor’s background was too outstanding. Not only having the blood of a Wintersin Emperor AND Inkia King’s illegitimate son, he also emerged as the owner of the continent’s most exclusive gentlemen’s club and a close associate of the Loneborn Merchant Group? Okay, fine.

But even by the most exorbitant standards, Lance’s rise felt suspiciously effortless—like he wasn’t just buying his way into power, but walking in as if the throne had already been gift-wrapped for him.

His gaze flickered toward Bianca. “And as for the Democratic Teachers, the death of Luminus’ Pope, and Luminus as the base origin of the Loneborn Merchant Group… Bianca, I think it’s about time you told her everything.”

The weight of the request hung between them, and after a long silence, Princess Bianca Lumine sighed in resignation.

She had no particular love for the woman sitting in front of her. In fact, she had every reason to be suspicious.

This so-called “Madame Sator” had materialized from obscurity—allegedly spending the past three years on the brink of death—only to emerge as the wife of a merchant so wealthy he could rival entire kingdoms. If that weren’t enough, her son was the most talented student Bianca had ever seen in all her years teaching at Saint Lucia Academy.

And yet, what unsettled Bianca the most wasn’t the woman’s wealth, nor her son’s brilliance. It was her power.

Bunny Fay di Sator—this merchant’s wife—had holy power stronger than a Lumine.

Stronger than her. A direct descendant of Apostle Romeuf.

The sheer impossibility of it chafed.

Bianca’s sharp gaze narrowed. “Are you a saint, Madame Sator?” Her voice was as cold as it was cutting. “Because if you are, then that would be fascinating, considering every saint must be registered and acknowledged by the Holy Kingdom of Luminus. And I, Bianca Lumine, have personally met every single one of them.”

Her lips curled into something resembling a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yet somehow, I have never heard of you.”

Across from her, Morgan exhaled slowly, as if she had been bracing for this moment.

“No,” she murmured, her tone almost weary. “You have met every living saint—”

She paused, and in that moment, the air itself seemed to shift.

“—except one.”

Before Bianca could react, she saw it.

The transformation was subtle at first—a shimmer of light flickering at the edges of Bunny Fay’s form. But then, in a single breath, her cascading black hair bled into its original molten gold, a divine radiance suffusing her presence.

She no longer looked like a tired woman with a hole in her chest.

She looked immortal.

She looked sacred.

Bianca's breath caught as the truth came crashing down with the weight of an ancient legend.

“I am Saint Lucia,” Morgan whispered.

“The Original Saint.”