in which the saintess beats up an innocent man and mugs him

Pebble wasn’t a Saint yet when she went to her first auction. She’d been an undercover agent. Her quest had been to retrieve a stolen item, but she’d gotten kicked out because she’d been dressed “too modestly”.

Well, not anymore—the burgundy tailcoat was back. Unfortunately, she ruined her look with a wig and an eyepatch to conceal her identity. People stared as she walked past them, which was moderately embarrassing, but it helped to pretend as though they were admiring her fashion sense.

She was also carrying a cane. It’d be her weapon in case of an emergency.

It was still raining.

It wasn’t very crowded.

The building’s architecture stuck out like a sunflower in a dandelion field. With the earthy tones of the houses and the perennial, silver rain, the primary colors on the walls were refreshing until they became nauseating.

Despite herself, Pebble bid for an old necklace. It was dull, so no one else wanted it—good. It’d be great for crafting.

The same should’ve happened with the crown, except some idiot bid right before she could snatch it. Standing up, the usurper said, “Fifty turtles,” against her offer of forty.

Fifty turtles were… how much in her home currency again? She had no time to do the math. “Sixty turtles,” she countered.

The usurper leered at her and she leered at him. Based on his pointed ears—longer than Pebble’s, not as long as Frell’s—he was probably a mountainman, too. Where she had the annoyingly pale skin of the southern tribes, his was tanned, framed by golden hair weaved with jewelry. Staring at her, the tacky man replied, “Two hundred turtles.”

…that was… how much in local currency… a lot…

Why did he want this thing anyway? Why this of all things? At this rate, she’d burn through their weekly budget in one go.

“Two hundred at the count of one,” said the auctioneer.

Pebble rummaged through her rucksack.

“Two hundred at the count of—”

“Two hundred ten,” Pebble mumbled.

The usurper frowned. “Three hundred.”

The weekly budget was four hundred. Anything above that meant less money for her village. With her heart fluttering like a caged bird, she said, “Four hundred.”

“Five hundred,” the usurper replied immediately.

Needless to say, he took it.

He took that stupid-looking hat.

He took the arbitrary item Frell had chosen as the catalyst to awaken the demon king. Couldn’t they use anything else? Was it because an actual king had worn it once? The worst part was that the usurper clearly didn’t know what to do with it; he stretched it, tried it on as a bracelet, then hit a wall with it.

As the auction ended, the usurper stuck his rucksack into it, presumably to use the crown as a sash.

They could use a different item, sure, a different crown. Eventually they’d find a new one if they kept looking, but… what if something like this happened again? Also, why this crown in particular? What if there was something special about it? What if she’d err by allowing it to leave her hands? What would Frell do in this situation? “Convince” the usurper to hand it over by—

But Pebble didn’t want to engage in those activities unless it was with the love of her life. It was with a heavy heart that she decided to forcefully borrow it.

The usurper took an umbrella covered in jewelry from his bag, opened it, and began to walk. Pebble followed. It was a pain to wear the cane and use an umbrella, and it didn’t help that she’d never learned to double-wield.

Locals wore rainhats. Pebble bought one. The problem was then fixed.

As the usurper began to take progressively narrower pathways, Pebble readied her weapon. Predictably, after reaching a dead end, he said, “How lowly,” with his back turned to her. “Since you couldn’t win through merit, you resort to this.”

“...huh? What merit is there in having endless money?”

“Someone like you would never understand. Very well, I shall humor your witless decision. Let it be known that I am quite merciful… except to thieves.”

That annoying way of speaking gave him away—he was from the wind tribe. Pebble was from the earth tribe. In their native language, Pebble said, “I just need to borrow it.”

The usurper gave her a cold, dramatic gaze from above his shoulder. “Who gave you permission to use our sacred tongue for such malicious purposes?! Begone, filth. Last warning.”

Thus Pebble swung the cane at him, mostly to gauge how much she’d have to hold back. He whirled around, pulverizing it with his fist.

…not too shabby.

Pebble used a hairpin to beat him up, took the crown, dropped a bag with four hundred turtles next to him, and left. She had less than an hour to get back to the meeting place she and Frell had agreed on: a two-story inn at the edge of the village. Once this was said and done with, she’d get the money back and return the crown.

During the spar, the guy had also pulverized her umbrella. Taking a clean hit from him would’ve probably meant the end of the demon king scheme for a month or two. Strange—wind tribesmen weren’t known for their physical prowess.

Instead of telling Frell any of this, her greeting upon reaching their room (she’d asked the innkeeper first and confirmed her name) was, “I got the crown.”

Frell lay facefirst on one of the beds. He gave her a thumbs up before letting his arm drop beside him.

“How did you do?”

Another thumbs-up.

“Good to know. Time for the next step.”

“Ughhh. Give me a BREAK, woman.”

Pebble sat on her bed, taking off the eyepatch, the rainhat, then the wig. Her silver hair spilled down her shoulders. “Fine… I just want to leave this place soon. It’s too rainy. My fingers have been pruny all day.” Frell turned to her with a sly smile on his face. “Not in that way.”

“In what way?”

Instead of humoring him, she asked, “How much did they give you for the bandit and the chief?”

“...well…”

“...well…?”

“Meh, we’ll live. How much did you pay for the crown? Fifty?”

“What happened to the bounty?”

“How much did you pay?”

They exchanged glances. Sighing, Frell sat up. The white ribbon holding his hair had slipped, so a few strands fell over his shoulders. His emerald green eyes had white dots for pupils. For an incarnation of lust, he sure was delicate-looking, almost effeminate. “They’re investigating the chief, so I haven’t gotten paid yet. Please don’t tell me you paid over a hundred for that thing.”

“Then I won’t.”

“Pebble!”

“Someone else kept bidding on it.”

“Then you should’ve just let them have it! We could’ve found something else. It was an excuse, not… a real catalyst.”

Pebble found herself tugging at the buttons of her coat. “Well. I forgot to tell you that I was involved in a mugging. I lost the money there.”

Far from worrying, Frell scowled at her. “You want me to believe that a common thief stole from you? Please.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Then that thief must’ve slayed gods before.”

“Maybe he has.”

Unlike other people, to Pebble, the idea of peace through bloodshed sounded like an oxymoron. Of course, it was different if she was staging the threat and if she controlled who lived and died, which was to say that everyone would live, no one would die, and all wars would end. No flower would ever be used to mourn again.

“So? What are we supposed to do now?”

“I’ll negotiate,” Pebble tried.

“With the thief that supposedly mugged you and took our money?”

“...yeah…”

Frell wasn’t impressed.

“Don’t look at me like that. Our scheme is fragile enough as is.”

“Fine.” He plopped back on the bed. “I don’t know. To me, everything is fragile. Wake me up when you get the money back, or if your pointless nihilism returns.” Then he began to fake-snore.

If left uninterrupted, Frell’s naps could take weeks—for a mortal’s lifespan was a blink to a god, or whatever the excuse was—which was weird since he slept semi-regularly otherwise. The more Pebble questioned things, the worse everything got, so she left.

Easy: if she could come to an agreement with the wind tribesman, it proved that the world was not fundamentally evil.

If the world was not fundamentally evil, then it meant that conflict could end.

If conflict could end, then it meant that—

“Two thousand turtles.”

Pebble froze on the way downstairs.

The innkeeper gasped. “That much for a thief?”

“Indeed. That wretched burglar humiliated our young master. Woe be to those who resist justice.”

More wind tribespeople. Pebble had left her disguise behind. Assuming a bounty had been put on her head, it’d be that of her alter-ego, whom she’d named Sunny. Adjusting her collar and smoothing down her hair, she asked, “What is this I hear about a burglar?”

“Ms. Saintess!” The innkeeper waved at her. “What great timing! Why not take the commission? These guys just tacked it on the bulletin board. Remember the ten percent share with us. Please.”

The wind tribesmen—both pale and blond—exchanged glances. The “larger” one (by their standards) said, “Well, a Saintess taking upon this endeavor would most certainly assist us. The young master would be overjoyed. May I please know your rank and moniker?”

“Saint of Swords #244, The Slicer.”

“...oh. Well, that should work nonetheless.”

“Can I see your—uhh, could I humbly request an audience with your young master?”

They exchanged glances again. What for? The innkeeper was vibrating with the chance of getting that 10% share, the poor thing. “Very well,” the smaller one spoke. “Kindly follow us.”

It wasn’t until she reached a very luxurious hotel that Pebble realized she was still wearing the same suit…

As she excused herself to run back and change into something else, something landed beside her. Pebble sidestepped, annoyed; some of the mud landed on her boot. Slowly, a heavily-bandaged usurper rose next to her. “Excuse my discourtesy, great Saintess,” he said. “I happened to reside in the chamber next to the window, thus overhearing your conversation. I must intervene.”

Surprised (the only open window was from the third floor) but not disappointed, Pebble reached for her hairpin.

“As I indulged upon the local cuisine, I couldn’t help but notice your plight.”

She stopped. “My… eh?”

He let some drops fall on his hand, then pushed his hair out of his face. “Why, the bounties. That wretched woman initially stole the golden sash from you, did she not? I saw you post those bounties last night. She must’ve stolen it from you to sell it. The blackheart! Naturally, I decided to assist a maiden in need, but alas—I was bested. However, if we join forces…”

Pebble stared at him.

The rain drowned the rest of his words.

‘Indulging in local cuisine’ probably meant getting drunk… which meant he’d visited a tavern last night… and seen her put up the bounties she should’ve tacked after staging the burglary…

So that was the reason why he’d wanted the crown…