Klein was in no hurry to answer.
The Princess was bolder than he had anticipated. Usually, those of royal birth preferred to talk in circles—circling around, testing the waters, and only bringing out what they truly wanted to ask once they were sure it was safe. Diancie, on the other hand, had been blushing one moment and laying half her cards on the table the next.
But she wasn't without tact. The fact that she was sitting here at all said a lot—Diancie had contacted them through Nelisa’s channels. To be able to find that connection and be willing to use it meant she had done more than just look through the Silver Scale Chamber of Commerce’s public records. She likely held at least some details regarding the incident at Silver Scale Harbor.
As for how much she held, that depended on how much Nelisa had let slip.
Klein set his teacup back down, the bottom meeting the saucer with a very faint clink.
“Your Highness,” he said, “I must first correct a premise.”
Diancie’s brow twitched slightly.
“It isn’t a question of ‘how much we have in our hands.’” Klein spread his hands. “It’s that with certain things, having more people involved only ruins them.”
Diancie didn't interject, waiting for him to continue.
Klein didn't continue.
That was his answer.
The silence lasted for several seconds.
The begonia petal that had fallen on the table had already begun to curl at the edges, shriveling into the grain of the wood like a clenched fist.
Diancie looked down at the petal, her fingertips resting lightly on the edge of the table. Her nails were neatly trimmed and coated with a very pale rose-colored polish.
“Mr. Klein.” Diancie looked up again, her gaze falling directly on his face. “Are you saying that the alchemists in the imperial capital who serve the royal family are... not qualified?”
Her voice had deepened. It wasn't anger, but there was certainly a hint of being offended. There was no shortage of famous names among the alchemists supported by the royal family; several were even specially appointed researchers for the Privy Council, whose words in the imperial capital's academic circles could change the direction of three laboratories at once. For a small rural noble to say these people weren't good enough to a princess's face—no matter how open-minded Diancie was, she wouldn't be entirely without a reaction.
Ophelia held her teacup without moving. Her gaze drifted over Diancie’s face, pausing for less than a second before returning to the cup in front of her.
Klein gave a small smile.
It wasn't ingratiating, nor was it provocative; it was the kind of smile that said, "You aren't entirely right, but I understand why you think that." It was very gentle, and within that gentleness was a sense of certainty that was almost frustratingly firm.
“I wouldn't say I look down on them,” he said.
Diancie’s jaw tightened slightly as she waited for him to elaborate.
“Your Highness, the things left behind by the sea monsters are different from conventional magical residues.” Klein tapped his index finger lightly on the table, his knuckle making a dull thud against the wood grain. “The alchemists of the imperial capital are indeed experts at distillation, extraction, and elemental analysis. But the... information carried within the residues of the sea monsters isn't something distillation can solve.”
He intentionally paused for a beat on the word "information."
Diancie’s expression changed.
She had sat in on several alchemy seminars at the Privy Council. Every time those alchemists mentioned sea monster remnants, they used terms like "residual mana signatures" or "contamination factors." Those words were precise, safe, and followed academic norms. No one used the word "information."
“Information” implied that those things weren't just waste, but were communicating something.
Diancie’s lips parted slightly, but she didn't make a sound.
Klein noticed her reaction.
The Princess had indeed done her homework. If she had only attended a few seminars as a formality, she wouldn't have had such an immediate reaction to the difference in terminology.
“I’m not saying they lack ability.” Klein completed his thought, his tone softening slightly as if afraid his previous sharpness might have cut something it shouldn't have. “I’m saying that the conditions required to come into contact with those things—the alchemists of the imperial capital do not possess them. It’s not a matter of skill. It is an objective gap.”
He didn't explain what the "conditions" specifically were.
Because he couldn't explain it. He couldn't very well say to an imperial princess, "I’ve forged my own path in alchemy and started my own school." No matter how he packaged it, it would sound too ridiculous.
So he simply ended with the phrase "objective gap." Understated and matter-of-fact.
Diancie stared at Klein for several seconds.
She read something rare in this young man—confidence. Not the kind of confidence that needed a raised voice or a grand posture to show off, nor the confidence of the alchemists in the imperial capital’s salons as they talked loudly over glasses of wine.
It was just a calmly stated sentence. And yet, you couldn't refute it. Because he believed it completely—and that completeness wasn't blind; it was something that had settled after being verified too many times.
Never mind the royal alchemists; even the white-bearded old gentlemen of the Privy Council might not dare to say such a thing if they were sitting here.
Diancie turned her gaze to Ophelia.
Ophelia was looking down at her cup, her expression showing no ripples of emotion.
That lack of ripples was an attitude in itself.
She was neither surprised nor felt that Klein was exaggerating; it was as if she were listening to a statement of fact that had already been verified countless times. If there were even a hint of falsehood in Klein’s words, given her personality, she wouldn't be sitting here in silence.
If even Ophelia accepted it...
Diancie had been studying—ahem, had known of Ophelia from afar for quite some time. She knew exactly what kind of person the Knightess was. She wasn't easily fooled, wasn't easily coaxed, and wouldn't be easily convinced by anyone—let alone trust someone without reason.
Yet there she was—sitting by Klein’s side, believing him.
This realization plucked at a certain string in Diancie’s heart.
It wasn't jealousy, nor was it disappointment. To be precise, it was curiosity. The kind of curiosity that was like an itch she couldn't quite reach.
Just what level had Klein’s alchemy reached?
She had met many alchemists in the imperial capital, and several had personally demonstrated the processes of purification and elemental analysis for her. Those people each had terrifying titles and even more terrifying egos. As for their results—Diancie wasn't an expert, but she had studied under a tutor from the Privy Council for a few years; she could at least tell who truly had talent and who was using jargon to fool a layman.
And yet, the young man sitting across from her, clearly from a rural territory, spoke so plainly without any intent to show off. But the judgments he tossed out casually—“information,” “objective gap,” “do not possess the conditions”—every single one was precisely uncomfortable.
That discomfort wasn't because she was offended—well, okay, there was a little bit of being offended in there.
Diancie’s finger unconsciously tapped twice on the table’s edge.
She wanted to see.
She wanted to see with her own eyes what Klein’s alchemy was like.
The moment the thought appeared, Diancie mentally slapped herself. The man had already said as much—“with certain things, having more people involved only ruins them”—and now she wanted to go and observe?
Wasn't that the definition of pushing her luck?
But...
Diancie had a three-round tug-of-war with herself. Her reason held the reins, saying "mind your status," while her curiosity was already kicking the stirrups and charging forward.
In the end, curiosity won.
She cleared her throat. Her expression was rearranged into the proper, composed smile a princess should have. It was a very standard smile, as if practiced in front of a mirror.
“I see.” Her tone relaxed, albeit very deliberately. “Then if there is an opportunity, let me witness your alchemy as well, Mr. Klein.”
Having said that, she was the first to look away, turning to the pot of begonias on the windowsill.
It was very casual.
Extremely casual.
So casual it felt forced.
Ophelia’s eyelashes fluttered.
Her expression was a bit strange.
It was unclear if she herself even noticed.
Klein didn't think much of it and nodded with a smile. “If Your Highness is interested, you are certainly welcome.”
Polite words. A standard social response.
Diancie didn't push for a specific date either. The two of them let the topic drift away lightly, leaving no definite agreement in the air—Klein only took it as Diancie being polite.
The tea reached the bottom of the cups.
The light outside the window shifted from the east toward the south, the shadows on the table turning by a small angle. The shadow of the begonias fell near the back of Diancie’s hand, swaying gently in the wind.
Diancie picked up her cup and set it down again, her finger rubbing against the side. Her expression suddenly relaxed, as if a certain string that had been taut throughout the conversation had finally slackened.
“By the way.”
Her head tilted slightly, her gaze falling first on Ophelia before turning to Klein.
A look of sudden realization surfaced on her face.
It wasn't a manufactured realization—something had truly clicked in her mind, and a question that had been hanging unresolved suddenly had an answer.
“I see.” Diancie said, her tone rising slightly with a hint of talking to herself, as if organizing her thoughts. “No wonder the Sage arranged for Mr. Klein to be Lady Ophelia’s husband.”
The sentence was spoken very softly.
As light as a casual remark.
But the weight it dropped on the table was heavier than everything said today combined.
The hand Klein used to hold his cup froze.
Ophelia didn't just freeze—she stopped entirely.
The teacup hung in mid-air, the rim just touching her lower lip, fixed right there. Something flashed in her golden pupils, as fast as the light off a blade skimming across water.
Both of them looked at Diancie almost simultaneously.
Klein’s expression still held a smile, the curve of his mouth unchanged. But the look in his eyes was different.
He set the cup back on the saucer with a very light motion.
“...Your Highness.” His voice was flat, flat to the point of being deliberate, every word precisely controlled. “Who did you just say—the Sage?”
Diancie blinked.
She saw the reaction of the two, but clearly didn't yet understand what that reaction meant.
Diancie realized she had made a blunder.
She hadn't thought at all when she said that—it just came out naturally as the conversation led there.
A marriage arranged by the Sage wasn't exactly a secret within the royal family.
But the reaction of the two across from her was clearly wrong.
Diancie’s mind raced.
She went over what she had just said in her head, and then she realized where the problem lay.
No one had told them.
The fact that "Ophelia’s marriage was personally arranged by the Sage" had never been told to Ophelia herself.
Diancie’s back stiffened slightly. her gaze shifted back and forth between the two of them, trying to judge from their expressions which way the situation was sliding.
Klein seemed fine. At least on the surface. Ophelia’s face couldn't be called ugly, but there was something more in those golden eyes—not anger, but something closer to the daze of a missing puzzle piece suddenly being slotted into place.
“So...” Diancie’s voice grew small, the end of it a bit weak. “You didn't know?”
Silence.
A very brief silence, perhaps only two or three seconds. But to Diancie, it felt exceptionally long.
Ophelia was the first to speak.
“Your Highness.”
Her voice was steady, so steady that Diancie breathed a sigh of relief—though not a complete one.
“Could you tell us in more detail?”
It was a request, but it didn't quite sound like one when Ophelia said it. There was no tone of interrogation, nor the sharpness of an investigation. She simply had to know. Cleanly, she had to know.
Diancie swallowed.
She organized her words in her head, trying to make herself sound as coherent as possible. In truth, she didn't do a very good job.
“It was... back then, after you returned from the West Coast...”
She stumbled right at the start. Diancie’s fingers unconsciously gripped her skirt before letting go.
“The Sage suddenly appeared to see my father.”
“Suddenly?” Klein caught the word.
“Yes...” Diancie recalled. “The Sage rarely makes an appearance. The last time she appeared in the palace was over ten years ago during the drought in the East. So when she came that time, everyone in the palace was... quite nervous.”
Diancie paused there. She wasn't trying to build suspense; she was re-processing the memory herself.
“She told my father that you were to be married to Klein.”
She looked at Ophelia, then at Klein.
“Several ministers present at the time opposed it. Not because they were targeting Mr. Klein—they didn't even know you.” Diancie gave Klein a pained, apologetic smile. “They just felt that Lady Ophelia was a hero of the Empire and should have a more... dignified arrangement after being decorated.”
She had chosen the word "dignified" carefully, but she still regretted it the moment it left her mouth.
Klein had no reaction, even letting out a short laugh. “A small rural lord is indeed not very dignified.”
Diancie waved her hands hurriedly. “I didn't mean it like that—”
“I know.” Klein raised a hand, signaling her not to be nervous. “Please continue, Your Highness.”
Diancie took a deep breath and smoothed out the rest of her words.
“There was a lot of opposition. But the Sage...” She paused, as if weighing her words. “She didn't explain her reasons. She only said one thing.”
“What was it?” Ophelia asked.
Diancie’s expression became somewhat subtle.
“She said—‘Just do it.’”
When Diancie imitated those four words, her tone was very flat. Clearly, she was trying to mimic the Sage’s tone at the time. But coming from a princess, it lacked a bit of that weight.
“And then?” Klein asked.
“And then there was no ‘and then.’” Diancie spread her hands, her expression one of helpless "how should I know?" “The Sage left after saying that. My father and several ministers stayed behind closed doors to discuss it all night. The next morning—the imperial decree of marriage was drafted.”
Having finished, she looked at the two across from her.
Klein didn't speak. His hand rested on the table’s edge, his thumb slowly rubbing the side of his index finger.
Ophelia didn't speak either. Her gaze was fixed on an uncertain spot on the table, her brow furrowed slightly.
Diancie suddenly felt like she was in the way.
A silent exchange was taking place between these two—no need for eye contact, no need for words; just by sitting there, they knew what the other was thinking.
Diancie moved her gaze to the begonias on the windowsill. The flowers were still swaying gently in the wind, the edges of the petals translucent in the lingering sunlight.
The air remained quiet for a long time.
Rate on N.U.
