Leaving the chapel, Harlotte was taken by the head guard for physical training. The reason was simple: once he inherited his title, he might be conscripted, so he needed to learn horsemanship and swordsmanship—to have at least enough skill to protect himself on the battlefield.
Wearing armor and training with a two-handed sword was, admittedly, a bit awkward for our chubby hero.
Thanks to his morning exercise, he ate heartily at breakfast. The castle’s cook was excellent—far better than the Western fare he’d sampled in his past life.
Today’s class was held not in the usual second-floor classroom—guest scholar Margaret taught different subjects in different rooms—but in the prayer chamber, a small chapel where theology lessons took place.
The click of high heels preceded Margaret’s entrance. Harlotte’s gaze first fell on her hair: light-brown curls gathered into a loose chignon, two tendrils framing her temples, and a small silver pin securing a few strands. A ponytail, tied with a golden band, draped over her shoulder, lending her an air of gentle dignity. Seeing this familiar style, Harlotte couldn’t help thinking: Madam, your hairstyle is dangerously alluring.
Her deep-purple velvet dress traced soft curves; pale-gold vine embroidery wound along the neckline, and a wide leather belt at her waist highlighted both slenderness and a mature charm.
She carried an aged tome whose cover was yellowed with time. Her stride was measured; the scent of herbs mingled with faint sandalwood, exuding a soothing maternal presence—like a devoted wife. Unmarried, she nevertheless gave off a subtly broken allure. In Harlotte’s mind, seven words formed: innate sanctified body.
“Today we will begin theology, Young Master Harlotte.”
Madam the teacher set the book on the desk, pushed up her gold-rimmed glasses, and tapped the spine with her fingertip. Behind the lenses her eyes were gentle yet detached. “You have learned the basic prayers; now it is time to understand the origins of faith in our world.”
Harlotte’s heart fluttered, but he masked it with obedience: “I’ll follow your instruction, Teacher.”
“Our world’s dominant faith is in God the Father. Legend says He created heaven and earth and commands seven archangels, each presiding over virtues like Strength, Wisdom, and Courage. Long ago, Heaven was the only sacred realm, and all beings took pride in their faith in God.”
“Teacher, is there only this one God?”
Harlotte knew from his past life that Christian denominations are monotheistic—recognizing a single deity, whether God the Father or Jesus Christ.
“But not all gods bowed to Him.” Madam Margaret shook her head. Fingertips drumming on the desk, she continued, “Some ancient deities once had their own worshipers and domains. Because they refused Heaven’s authority, they were branded ‘evil gods.’ Many were originally great guardians of their realms, differing only in allegiance.”
She paused, her tone growing subtly complex: “But that is no longer important, for the gods have long since withered.”
“Withered?” Harlotte asked, curiosity perfectly measured. His pulse thundered—the original’s memories were too fragmented; he knew nothing of this world’s cosmology.
Madam Margaret nodded. “Legend tells of a crimson star with a great eye that fell centuries ago. God Himself shattered the star to prevent disaster, but in doing so unleashed foreign evil gods. The war raged for years; Heaven was grievously wounded, most archangels vanished, and even God has not appeared since.”
Harlotte’s heart skipped. The one-eyed Red Star… it felt so familiar. Universe Songstress, Big Clock, Miss Gehtros… And that dice-muse in his mind—damn, no wonder peril had come calling!
At that moment a pained scream rose from beyond the windows—clearly male. Harlotte started to rise, but Madam Margaret gently restrained him.
“Be still. A servant has surely broken the castle’s rules and faces punishment. Lilith and the head guard will handle it. As Young Master, you need not concern yourself with such trifles.”
Harlotte fell silent for several seconds. He sensed that this was no simple matter. This was not the first desperate scream he’d heard, yet he could never find the body—or any sign that anyone had been punished at all.
He had questioned the maids, but none knew who had been condemned or why, as if the shrieker had never existed.
Composing himself, Harlotte turned his attention back to the lesson.
“Afterwards, a rumor spread,” Madam Margaret’s voice dropped, a hint of frenzy creeping in. “Mad cultists claimed divine revelation—proclaiming ‘God is dead’—and spoke of a new Savior, a brother to Jesus Christ. But it was mere legend. Centuries have passed; no Savior, no God has reappeared.”
She closed her book, pushed up her glasses, and resumed her calm tone. “The Church, of course, denies ‘God is dead.’ They proclaim His light endures, and they persecute any who spread such heresy.”
“Teacher,” Harlotte ventured, voice controlled, “those beings called ‘evil gods’—do they still exist? Could they… harm humans?”
He intended to probe her feelings about nonhumans, to infer her nature. His mother’s fable and the parchment aligned—so uncovering the others’ true identities was crucial.
Madam Margaret studied him for a moment, as though weighing a judgment. Finally she shook her head: “No one knows their exact whereabouts. Some may hide among humanity; others lurk in ancient ruins. Whether they harm humans depends on whether you are their worshiper. Faith remains the Church’s monopoly; those evil gods do not fare well these days.”
She paused and tapped the book’s pages again. “Some evil gods require believers; others demand sacrifices. So long as you do not violate their thresholds, most will not attack unprovoked. After all, the Church’s Inquisition cares not whether you are god or man—all heresy is met with trial.”