Chapter 23: Because We’re Friends

While the common guests whispered about Chloe’s appearance, the true elites focused on something else entirely—her etiquette.

Her greeting had been that elegant.

“Ho, quite refined.”

“I don’t know who her etiquette tutor was, but they trained her perfectly in salutes and formal protocol.”

Loyal, but not sycophantic—elegance with restraint.

A fine line to walk, yet Chloe did so flawlessly.

Considering her age, one might even call it genius.

Even the plutocrats of Pirandel and the prince-electors of the Holy Empire didn’t see her as an ordinary citizen.

Not even your average noble’s daughter could match her.

She held herself with the grace of royalty.

If only she weren’t bald.

They had overlooked it at first, but her appearance truly was impossible to ignore.

That dress—handpicked by the head of the painters’ guild.

An artist who catered exclusively to nobility had chosen it with the utmost care, and Chloe wore it with faultless poise.

If only she weren’t bald.

“…I can’t. All I see is the bald head.”

“Her skin’s so pale and smooth, it actually shines more.”

Her beauty gleamed like a pearl (in more ways than one).

And she had the grace to match it—poise that didn’t pale even beside that flawless face.

It was the kind of skill one couldn’t explain without assuming a childhood spent training in court etiquette.

If only she weren’t bald.

Still, the elites weren’t wrong in their assumptions.

Chloe had learned etiquette from her father.

Oliver Turing—a gentleman who dearly wished for his adorable daughter to grow into a graceful lady.

Perhaps that’s why—

“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgle…!”

Oliver Turing, court musician of the Holy Empire.

Collapsed foaming at the mouth in the glorious imperial audience chamber.

No one—not a single father with a daughter—dared to blame Oliver for being carried out on a stretcher before the Empress.

***

“…Send him to recover. Take him to the high priest.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!”

Though she had only sons herself, the Empress didn’t feel inclined to criticize Oliver.

If anything, she felt a touch of gratitude.

“Truly… a rather unique hairstyle.”

Thanks to him fainting in her place, she had regained some composure.

“…Have I perhaps caused offense with my appearance?”

“No. Have you forgotten who I am? I am the Empress of the Holy Empire. I see bald-headed clergy on a daily basis.”

Hair was the symbol of worldly vanity, tainted by sin.

Many clergy members shaved their heads as a matter of discipline.

‘Still, I’ve never seen a girl—let alone one under ten—come to a party with a shaved head!’

The Empress suppressed the urge to scream.

What was this, the Mingar Wastes Orc Raiders?

Why come to someone else’s birthday with a shaved head?

‘And she’s younger and prettier than me, to boot!’

She should learn to live modestly with that face.

How dare she outshine the birthday girl herself?

But it wouldn’t do to glare at a child.

Naturally, the Empress’s eyes turned to her guardian.

“…Shit.”

Specifically, the head of the painters’ guild.

“Was the shaving of your head your own will? Or… was it the will of the man who stands here as your guardian in place of your father?”

“Y-Y-Your Majesty! Such rudeness is beyond words—”

“I wasn’t speaking to you. And I believe I said it wasn’t rude.”

Cold sweat on his back.

Cold sweat on his palms.

So much cold sweat his thighs felt damp.

The guildmaster couldn’t even lower his gaze before the Empress. His lips had turned blue.

He didn’t dare glance sideways at Chloe.

One look, and she’d see the fury in his eyes.

‘This wretched brat—

Is this how she gets back at me?!’

He had never imagined a counterattack like this.

Sure, he’d vaguely considered she might take her own life. At least that had crossed his mind.

And he’d felt relieved, confident that she wouldn’t do something so extreme.

If she did resist, he thought she’d try to run away—

At the very least, seek someone’s protection.

He’d been wrong.

‘An eight-year-old little girl pushed me this far? Just by cutting her damn hair?!’

“Just” hair.

Easy to say. Much harder to overcome.

“There have been troubling rumors about the painters’ guild since he took charge.”

“Ah, so he has nothing to say in his defense, does he?”

“Now look at that child—how composed she is!”

Words. Words. Words.

From lords, from magnates, from knights and mages.

And not one of them had been influenced by the guildmaster.

‘They’re turning their backs on me? Just like that?’

Of course.

They had no more use for him.

Their attention was all on Chloe now—

Not on a petty criminal who clung to power.

This was no mere haircut.

It was a masterstroke—a bold, strategic move to protect her honor, her chastity, and above all, her freedom.

How noble.

How ingenious.

The guildmaster shuddered. And then he knew, with absolute certainty—

This brat… is a genius.

A mind operating on a level wholly alien to that of ordinary people.

An intellect that could not be restrained by common sense.

Tick would have agreed without hesitation:

[I’m an AI who respects human creativity…]

“Shut up, liar.”

The guildmaster cast a sidelong glance at Chloe mid-conversation.

A thousand schemes flickered through his mind.

…Should I use the Blood Crystal Necklace?

A flash of temptation.

But he bit back the impulse, barely stopping himself from giving the order.

Not now.

If I use it now, I’ll be caught for sure.

The Blood Crystal Necklace was akin to an electric shock collar—

A device that forced obedience through pain and magic.

Its activation gave off a telltale magical reaction.

True, elemental magic was harder for humans to detect.

He might get lucky and slip by unnoticed.

But in a room full of elites and skilled practitioners, was there really not a single one who’d sense it?

“You’re trembling, Guildmaster. Guilty of something, are we?”

“N-not at all, Your Majesty. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

More than anything, there was the woman standing before him.

The Empress of the Holy Empire—

Crowned under the blessings of the Twelve Deities of Runtraval.

The very pinnacle of the electors endorsed by the Holy See.

Gods and spirits were deeply intertwined.

If anyone was sensitive to divine energy, it was the Empress.

She might well detect the use of elemental magic.

That’s why I already silenced Chloe!

He’d noticed the shaved head before the banquet even began.

And through a blood spirit, he had already cast a silence command.

A spell to keep her from speaking any words that might incriminate him.

Of course, that silencing was also powered by elemental magic.

And right now, the blood spirit couldn’t use magic at all.

So the spell wasn’t likely to work.

But Chloe wouldn’t know that.

Which meant—

“If you shaved it yourself, you must have had a reason. Speak.”

No matter how much the Empress questioned her, she would be fine.

No magic meant no magical reaction.

Chloe would answer of her own will.

Nothing to worry about.

“I did it to enter a monastery.”

Or so he thought.

What?

The guildmaster snapped his head toward the voice, stunned.

It was a flat tone, utterly void of intonation.

A character so famous for never using question marks, even in the original story.

Emil.

H-How is that kid here…?!

He’d assumed Yaltarian and Emil were scouring the entire Yaltessance region looking for Chloe.

A naive assumption.

Compared to Chloe, this girl was the real genius.

A genius on a level where even that assumption played right into her hands.

“And you are?”

“I am Noemilica of House Yaltarian, granddaughter of the archduke. Forgive me for intruding upon Your Majesty’s conversation.”

Forget rudeness—what in the world are you doing here?

Even Chloe was too stunned to hide her reaction, her eyes going wide.

“Emil…? What are you doing here?”

It was a look Chloe had never worn before—genuine shock.

Emil bit her lip.

Of course she did.

“…What do you mean, ‘what am I doing here’?”

Because in that moment, she understood exactly what Chloe’s words meant.

You never even thought I would come.

You assumed she wouldn’t care if you vanished.

That she wouldn’t bother to come save you if you were kidnapped.

That’s what those words meant.

All because of one argument—one fight over taking different paths.

A burst of anger, a rash decision.

Emil had driven Chloe to this point.

And Chloe must have thought:

That Emil would never come.

That she’d have to survive this on her own.

That’s why… you tried to handle it all by yourself.

It must’ve been some cruel form of blackmail or torment that robbed her of even the right to speak—

And yet, she still shaved her precious hair to fight back.

Without trusting me… or waiting for me.

And who could blame her?

Asking someone to trust and wait—

Emil had long since lost the right to say such things.

No apology would ever be enough.

Still…

There were things Emil had to say.
Not excuses—just truths that deserved to be heard.

“Don’t ask how I’m here. Ask me why.”

“…Why?”

Because we’re friends.

That’s what she wanted to say.

Even knowing she had no right to say it.

“You’re…”

So instead, she lied.

Crushed her feelings.

Forced down the truth.

“You’re… my rival.”

Biting her lip until it bled, Emil swallowed the pain and told herself—

This was enough.

A friend who’d already been hurt so deeply—

It wasn’t right to burden her with the weight of forgiveness too.

And Chloe, along with the guildmaster, had the exact same thought:

Fuck.

Fuck.

They’d tangled with the wrong kind of monster.

So this is her way of saying “Don’t you dare quit painting,” huh…

“I know everything, so give it up”—is that it?

To swoop in at the perfect moment and “rescue” a vulnerable genius, then “recruit” her?

What kind of lunatic, yandere, art-obsessed cliché is this?

At this rate, you’d think Emil was the protagonist.

Chloe stamped her foot in frustration.

She really didn’t have to help!

She was just about to unleash her dazzling, webnovel-protagonist-style rhetoric!

Even while grumbling, Chloe couldn’t help but feel a flicker of worry.

What if Emil got in trouble for her boldness?

If the punishment’s harsh, she’d step in.

If it’s light… eh, let it slide.

Getting a little spanking from this yandere might even be deserved.

“You’re the granddaughter of the Liberion artist? Very well. You have my permission.”

Yaltarion was a meme legend.

Chloe slapped her forehead.

“But what was that you said? Chloe plans to enter a monastery?”

“Yes. But that’s what’s strange. Why would someone about to become a nun make a debut in high society?”

Dressed in a formal gown, Emil furrowed her brows.

Suspicion crept onto her pretty little face.

“Not with her parents, the royal musicians. Not with my grandfather, the great archmage. But with someone who’s practically a stranger.”

“Oh?”

As the expressions of the three girls shifted by the second, the Empress watched with keen eyes and a twisted smile.

“Very well. I shall personally investigate. I swear by the gods that no innocent blood will be spilled.”

…Flash!

At the Empress’s judgment, Emil lifted her head.

Gone was the guilt-ridden look she wore speaking to Chloe—

Now replaced by a bright, innocent smile.

As if genuinely relieved by the ruling and the vow.

Well, well…

What a terrible liar, thought the Empress with a wry smile.

Just moments ago, she’d been fuming over her ruined birthday.

But now, it didn’t seem to matter.

Such petty irritation wasn’t worth remembering.

“What a fine friendship. Cherish it, Noemilica.”

“…I’m honored, Your Majesty.”

This little exchange had more drama than a full stage play.

Consider the girls’ genius-level friendship as the price of admission.

“Take him away. I shall interrogate him myself after the banquet.”

“Y-Your Majesty?! Please, I can explain everything!! Please, just one more chance—!”

As he was dragged away by the imperial guards, the guildmaster saw it.

“Don’t worry, Guildmaster! You’ll be fine!”

That bright, toothy smile of a bald-headed girl,

Chloe, waving both hands like a ray of sunshine.

“As long as you didn’t commit any serious crimes, you’ll be released eventually!

I believe in you! You’ve got this! Fighting!”

“…KRRRAAAHH—!! Chloe, you little—mph!! Mmmf!!”

Guildmaster of the Yaltessance Artists’ Guild.

Imprisoned on 14 charges including delusional conspiracy and child abduction.

“We got the child abuser, too!”

“Let’s keep up the good work, everyone!”

And so, the three-day birthday festival had only just begun.

“Oliver was taken away?! Why?!”

Outside the banquet hall.

In the lounge.

Court musician Linda-ril spat out her drink in a fine mist.

It was the kind of thunderbolt-from-a-clear-sky news that called for it.

“It’s a long story… But that’s what happened.”

“Dear gods, you’re serious? What are we going to do?!”

Her elven ears flushed bright red as Linda-ril stomped in distress.

Oliver’s fellow musicians were equally panicked.

To faint in the Empress’s presence…

How severe must the shock have been?

Her heart ached for her colleague, as did Linda-ril’s.

Until—

“Wait, then what about the performance?! Will he be up by tomorrow?”

“?”

The hell is wrong with this pointy-eared woman?!

“Gah—! Of all days for something to go wrong, it had to be now!”

She downed a gulp of strong wine and slumped in a moody huff.

“Think we can find a skilled replacement by tomorrow?”

“…Even if we could, I doubt anyone would want to help us.”

“I get it. Humans can be so heartless, honestly.”

She was devastated.

(Not about Oliver, of course—)

But about this unexpected misfortune befalling her.

Lindaril sighed up at the ceiling with the sorrow of a tragic heroine.

“Oh! If only there were some prodigy apprentice musician— someone ridiculously talented but undiscovered, just dying for a chance to debut!”

“Yeah, that’d be nice. Real lucky if someone like that happened to be nearby.”

“Right? And if they’re a kid, we don’t even have to pay them much!”

Snark didn’t faze her in the least.

The court musician muttered a dry response while thinking:

Elven personalities… yeah, that’s not prejudice—it’s statistically sound. Noted.

Freaking island-dwelling pointy-eared jerks…

Wait, no.

Still… it really would be nice.

To have a genius apprentice like that.

Someone talented enough to take Oliver’s place—

Even if it was a long shot, she started wishing for that kind of luck to show up.