Chapter 14
I placed my hand over the child’s, who was clutching the pen with suspicious eyes and unwilling to let go, and together we filled the paper.
Betty, her eyes wide with curiosity like a small, restless animal, glanced up at me again when the letters grew longer, as if she were beginning to understand.
Who dares glare at her master like this? Truly, this little one was insufferably cheeky.
She rubbed her soft, freckled cheeks, holding back the urge to pat them, and read aloud the letters I had written.
“Bernhardt Lirié Janus.”
“That’s the Duke’s name!”
“Honestly, knowing my name is more useful than knowing yours, isn’t it?”
Even if she got lost, saying “I’m Betty” wouldn’t help much. Saying “I serve Duke Bernhardt Lirié Janus” would be far more practical.
Betty pouted, her lips sticking out like a little beak, clearly displeased that she had no argument. Amused by the expression, I impulsively added,
“So, memorize it by tomorrow.”
“Huh?”
“My name—memorize it by tomorrow. There will be a test.”
“…Aren’t you busy, Duke?”
“No matter how busy I am, I’m never too busy to neglect the education of a child I sponsor.”
Watching the dissatisfied look on Betty’s face was immensely entertaining.
“My precious Betty seems to have a lot to say. Why don’t you try it?”
“Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule.”
Her words said one thing, but her expression said another entirely—that was the amusing part.
I took Betty’s hand holding the pen again, guiding it across the blank paper. The child eagerly asked,
“Could you tell me my name too? I want to know it.”
“All right, I’ll tell you, so stop pestering me.”
This time, I wrote short words that would be difficult for her to distinguish.
Betty watched the flowing strokes on the white paper, then suddenly asked in a sharp little voice,
“Did you write something strange again?”
“Fairy.”
I pretended not to hear, and her face crumpled in frustration. But her pouting looked so cute that I couldn’t stop. Really, it was Betty’s fault for being adorably cross.
“Teach me my name.”
“Your name? Well, if Betty wants it, I suppose I have to.”
I pulled her hand and wrote all sorts of random names on the paper: Cynthia, Anton, Margaret, Ann.
It was as if I intended to teach her every name in the world except “Betty.” Betty no longer paid careful attention to what letters my hand traced on the paper. She simply puffed out her cheeks and huffed in irritation.
“Have you teased me enough?”
“No, not all of them yet. Let’s see—this is John, this is Peter, this is Elizabeth, this is Eric. Why, you wanted me to teach you names.”
Then, as I continued listing names on a whim, I suddenly grew bored and stopped.
“All right, I think that’s enough teasing. Want me to tell you your name?”
“No.”
This tiny human…
Since the day she trembled and shouted “No!” in the temple, Betty’s “no” had grown bold and unabashed. She no longer shook pathetically like before.
I suppressed the irritation rising reflexively and forced a playful expression as I asked,
“Are you planning to go to school and not learn your own name?”
“I’ll ask someone else.”
“No. Learn it from me.”
I firmly grabbed Betty’s hand as she tried to resist, and wrote her name in the blank space: “Betty.”
I guided her with my other hand, pointing to each letter as I read aloud, “Be-t-t-y.” Her little brows relaxed, and repeating “Be-t-t-y” once more, her green eyes began to follow my hand intently.
“Is this really my name?”
So amazed, was she?
Normally, her face was weathered and grim like an old soul, but now, with her eyes wide in wonder, Betty looked as innocent and pure as any child her age.
“Try writing it yourself.”
I let go of her hand, and Betty focused intently, rewriting her name in the corner. She even stuck out her tongue in concentration. It was amusing to watch her so absorbed.
For a first attempt at holding a pen, her handwriting was impressively neat, and she copied exactly what I had written without looking back, as if she had memorized it instantly.
“Good writing. You could easily manage reading a few novels.”
“Really?”
I nodded vaguely, and she beamed.
“It would be wonderful if I could read books.”
Her green eyes, vibrant even in winter light, blinked slowly, and her small cheeks blushed a gentle pink, the freckles like stars scattered across the night sky.
I watched her quietly.
“Ap-pr, ap-pr-approval… pl-please… please approve. Please approve.”
Oh!
Amazing. Truly amazing.
So this is why children who have just learned Hangul read everything in sight.
I glanced around. The Duke wouldn’t return to the study for some time, so I thought I’d read a few more words.
“Eonjin… Ah, Wonjin… No, wait. Wonjeong. Hmm, Wonjeong Plan… Wonjeong Proposal.”
I couldn’t deny the deep sense of satisfaction swelling in my chest.
In a previous life, I had proofread theses, but acquiring a new language system always brought a unique excitement. Symbols etched in black ink on paper suddenly became meaningful.
“Is there nothing else to read?”
All that awaited on the Duke’s desk were piles of documents, dry and businesslike, tedious and dull.
“Well, no one said I had to just sit still.”
After surveying the Duke’s empty study, I hopped down from the chair and decided to peek into an unlocked drawer in search of something to read.
Luckily, there was a book inside. I quickly read the cover:
“For Our Child… The Hateful, Hateful Seven-Year-Old… 101 Essentials…”
What?
‘Why would someone put this in a drawer?’
Well, I’m ten, not seven, so I could disregard it.
Could there be another child under his care? Or a relative?
But the Janus family, aside from distant branches, had all been decimated by the current Duke.
Even if there were a distant relative aged seven, why would the Duke be reading about educating a seven-year-old? Aristocrats usually left child-rearing entirely to nannies and tutors.
Opening the book, I saw notes scrawled inside, messy and hard to read.
“What are you digging around for now?”
Startled, I looked toward the door. From head to toe, in pristine white, monocle perched, the Duke approached, looking sharp and wary.
I quickly closed the drawer and diverted his attention to letters on the desk.
“Count Bayern left some letters for you.”
Fortunately, the Duke’s gaze shifted to the letters. He examined the envelopes one by one, then suddenly paused, extending a hand toward me.
I grabbed a paper knife decorated with lilies and handed it to him. The envelope that caught the Duke’s eye bore the golden seal of the temple.
‘It’s the exam results!’
I didn’t have high expectations, but curiosity gnawed at me.
The Duke’s expression as he read the letter revealed nothing; he almost never showed emotion except when teasing me.
After finishing, he stuffed the letter back into the drawer and casually sat down, letting me perch on his lap.
He doesn’t intend to tell me, does he?
“Is this my guide rating?”
“Huh?”
Why surprised?
The boy’s red eyes behind the monocle widened slightly, then he averted his gaze and replied,
“Uh, it’s out.”
Does he not want to tell me?
At first, I didn’t mind, but seeing that he wanted to hide it ignited my determination to know.
“Can I see it too?”
“Sure.”
He opened the drawer again and handed me the crumpled paper.
Now that I could read, I could go through it myself. I unfolded the paper, but there was no need—the first line already stated:
C
A C grade, then.
‘Well… I wasn’t expecting much anyway…’
Still, I decided to check the details since the Duke had painstakingly written them.
Watching me, the Duke suddenly spoke,
“Betty.”
“Yes?”
“C-grade is impressive, you know.”
“Yes.”
Who says otherwise?
Even a C-grade guide is a precious and talented individual. Without transcendent beings and guides, the Sky Continent would collapse.
The Empire’s rapid rise in civilization was largely thanks to magical tools crafted from monsters slain by transcendent beings and guides.
‘But this… is a bit much, isn’t it?’
I’ve been “Betty” for ten years, long abandoned the reincarnation buffs, and can accept being a C-grade guide.
Even the terrible scores in all categories except purification affinity, and the barely-A purification affinity—fine, I can handle it.
But this is too much:
“Matching Rate with Transcendent Bernhardt Lirié Janus: 98%”
Christine had 95%, and I have 98%? That’s practically a rejection.
‘Why is the reincarnated special rule applied here alone?!’
I instinctively crumpled the paper.
If this life ends, I will hunt down the one who reincarnated me to the ends of hell and destroy them.
The Duke, unaware of my frustration, tried to soothe me:
“The grade is just an entry standard, it doesn’t matter much in the field.”
“Yes.”
“Many graduates who flaunt high grades end up dead.”
Then wouldn’t I die even faster?
Even clinging to the Duke, I’d probably die the moment I set foot on the ground.
Seeing me silent, he quickly added, taking the paper from my hand:
“And anyway, you won’t be going to the surface.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t let you.”
???????
If you’re not taking me on the expedition, why did you even select a guide?
