Chapter 4

It happened shortly after I returned from the royal capital to my domain.

"I will now begin the procedure. Please remain still until it is finished."

"...Y-Yes!"

At my words, the middle-aged man gave a slight nod.

He was muscular and looked healthy, but something that should have been there—everything beyond his right wrist—was gone.

I took his hand, gathered my mana, and poured it into the wounded area.

Flesh slowly began to form and swell.

Little by little, it reshaped into the form of a hand.

"Do you feel any discomfort?"

As I asked, the man clenched and opened his hand, then rotated his arm in wide circles.

Then he gave a firm nod.

"No, nothing in particular."

"I'm glad to hear it. ...Please remain in this castle for a while. If anything feels off, report it immediately."

"Ha-ha!"

When I said that, the man—the Marshal—bowed his head deeply.

"...To think that one as foolish as I would receive your divine grace—words cannot express my gratitude."

"I expect devoted service from you going forward."

"Ha-ha!"

Tears of gratitude welled up in his eyes.

When I returned to my room, I sank onto the sofa.

Having spent a massive amount of mana, exhaustion crashed down over me all at once.

"Welcome back, Princess. Shall I bring you something to drink?"

"...Then, some tea, please."

I forced out those words and closed my eyes for just a moment.

Then a strange chill crept over me.

In this world, there is magic—a mysterious power known as mana.

But not everyone can use it.

Only those of the ruling class—nobles, knights, and the like—have that ability.

Whether they became the ruling class because they could use magic, or they could use magic because they were born into the ruling class—it's a chicken-and-egg sort of debate.

Generally speaking, the higher one’s status, the greater the mana reserves, and the stronger the magic they can wield.

As a practitioner of healing magic, I am likely among the most powerful in the world.

I may be the only one capable of regenerating lost limbs.

The Marshal had likely come to terms with the possibility that he would never wield a sword again—so it was only natural that he wept.

The reason he lost his arm, however, lies with his own son.

Now, who exactly is this Marshal?

He is my father's cousin.

That makes his son my second cousin.

We are lord and vassal, head family and branch family, and relatives besides.

That’s the kind of relationship we share... In other words, there is a difference in status.

Nevertheless, it seems his son had fallen for me and hoped to marry me.

And the Marshal supported that idea—half out of doting foolishness, half out of ambition.

But the candidates for my fiancé include names like "the Crown Prince of the Empire" and "a prince of the royal family."

Compared to them, the Marshal’s son simply does not measure up.

Still, what he lacks in pedigree, he could make up for in military achievements.

"If we win this war, marry me!"—having raised such a flag, the Marshal’s son marched off to battle... only to be spectacularly crushed in a two-pronged ambush—one at dawn and one at night—led by young Thor.

As a result, the entire front line was destabilized, and a critical position was in danger of falling to the enemy.

My father then hastily gathered a large force and ordered the Marshal to lead it into battle.

In essence, he told him to clean up his son’s mess as a father.

The son may be a fool, but the Marshal is a capable man.

He doesn’t dazzle with glory, but he wins the winnable battles and makes orderly retreats in the unwinnable ones.

He’s the kind of tactician who fills in all the gaps.

We had nearly double the troops prepared, so my father must have thought, "Victory is assured! Wahaha!" ...A classic death flag.

I believe you already know how that turned out, but to explain the process—apparently, he made a mistake he normally never would’ve made and lost the battle.

How do we know?

Because young Thor sent the Marshal the severed arms and legs of his son.

The note attached reportedly read, “Next comes the eyes.”

No wonder he was shaken.

In this world, severing all four limbs is a common tactic used to neutralize nobles.

Capturing a noble with powerful mana requires specialized equipment.

Of course, such things aren’t easy to bring to the battlefield, so the simplest method in combat is to just cut off the limbs.

Well, second simplest.

The easiest method is removing the head.

So Thor isn’t especially brutal.

In fact, the fact that he left the son alive could be seen as merciful.

Well... sending those limbs to the enemy commander—who happens to be the boy’s father—is undeniably deranged.

And so, through all this, the Marshal lost his arm, and I was forced to go around flattering men and dancing at social events.

Fortunately, thanks to the success of those social efforts, the fallout from the defeat was kept to a minimum.

In the end, my presence as heir was made more prominent—and, most importantly, I placed the Marshal in my debt.

Having covered for his son and even restored his arm, he cannot repay me with ingratitude.

He will surely remain a loyal Marshal even in my generation.

"Princess. Here is your tea."

"Thank you."

I enjoyed the fragrance of the tea before slowly swallowing it.

My chilled body gradually began to warm up.

Just as I felt my condition improving, a summons came from Father.

"...Apologies for calling you while you're still tired."

"No, this concerns my future as well."

I met with Father in his office.

When he gestured for me to take a seat on the sofa, I bowed my head before sitting.

A knight who had been standing by placed two letters on the table.

The wax seals indicated that they were from the House of Duke Larknoll.

One was already opened, the other still sealed.

Father slid the opened one toward me first.

A clear signal to read it.

"The Duke of Larknoll has proposed a ceasefire."

The Duke of Larknoll is on the winning side.

For the victors to suggest, "Shall we stop the war?"—that’s a stroke of fortune.

Depending on how it’s presented, it might even look like we’re the ones winning.

"In concluding it, they wish to invite Roselia to the Duchy of Larknoll."

For the peace of both our lands and the future of our children, they want to deepen ties with Princess Roselia.

Thor wishes for it as well.

That’s what the letter clearly stated.

Apparently, young Thor is genuinely serious about marrying me.

...Did I perhaps go a little overboard?

"That was sooner than expected."

"They likely lacked the stamina to prolong the war. We surpass them in national strength."

The reason I danced with young Thor at the social event was to use the prospect of marriage as bait to form a peace deal with the Duke of Larknoll.

In this world, marriage essentially equals a political marriage, and that in turn means an alliance.

First, a ceasefire. Then, formal peace.

If there is to be a marriage alliance, it should come afterward.

...Of course, a ceasefire doesn’t necessarily mean we must form a marriage alliance.

We haven’t said a single word about wanting a marriage alliance.

Incidentally, the difference between a ceasefire, armistice, and peace is roughly:

Ceasefire: Temporarily halt military actions and withdraw troops.
Armistice: End hostilities without withdrawing any claims.
Peace: The losing side accepts the claims of the victor.

That’s the general idea.

Though, in practice, the terms aren’t strictly distinguished.

"Apologies for the continued burden, but I must ask you to travel abroad again."

"I see it as a valuable learning opportunity."

One way or another, since they hinted at marriage with me as the price for peace, it only makes sense that I go myself.

That said, the actual negotiations will be handled by subordinates, so I won’t have to do anything myself.

Unless something truly extraordinary happens, I won’t need to make any judgment calls.

All I have to do is smile and chat with the Duke of Larknoll.

...Though "all" is putting it lightly. My words and behavior reflect directly on the entire House of Budoudarl.

The responsibility is enormous—it’s enough to give me stomach pains.

"The handwriting reflects the martial nature of a warlike noble. ...Hmm? Was this written by a scribe?"

Looking closer, the end of the letter read, "Sorry, written by a scribe."

So it was dictated...

"The Duke of Larknoll can’t write. Probably can’t read, either."

It’s not especially unusual for nobles to be illiterate.

They can simply hire someone who can write.

What bothers me is...

"...So this was written by a scribe?"

"He probably lacks decent scribes. It says something about the quality of his personnel."

"...Indeed."

It’s not a problem if the Duke himself can’t write, or even if his writing is poor.

But for the scribe’s handwriting to be this mediocre—that’s unacceptable.

A letter written on behalf of the head of a house should be penned by the person with the best mastery of script.

If this is their best, then the average standard across the board must be abysmal.

More than anything, the fact that the Duke of Larknoll is willing to send this out in a diplomatic context without hesitation...

Well, it reveals something about where he comes from.

For a moment, I thought, "Could this be a ploy to make us let our guard down?"—but no, the risk of being underestimated outweighs any such benefit.

"Still, while the Duke of Larknoll may lack polish, he is an excellent warrior and capable ruler. ...And a schemer as well. Never underestimate him."

"I understand."

The name of the great noble of the northern kingdom: Zion El Larknoll.

He’s known as the strongest martial noble in the entire kingdom, and his prowess in battle echoes across the continent.

Well—his notoriety echoes even louder.

Like how, in his youth, he beat the then-crown prince (the current king’s father) half to death at a social gathering.

To think someone like that holds the title of duke… It's downright terrifying.

“…And this is?”

“From Lord Thor. Addressed to Lady Roselia.”

“I see.”

When I parted ways with Thor-kun, we had promised to keep in touch by letter. I had sent one soon after returning home.

This must be his reply.

I took the unopened envelope, broke the seal, and read the contents.

To summarize, the letter said: “I want to see you” and “I want to build a bridge of peace with you.”

…Hmm. How should I put it—it was a bit more affectionate than I expected.

Especially that line about “building a bridge of peace.”

Yes, I had said similar things during our talks, but that was in an informal, off-the-record setting—words meant to leave no trace.

To actually write something like that… that takes a certain boldness.

Still, from this letter alone, it’s clear what the level of intellectual sophistication is in the House of Larknoll.

In Thor-kun’s case, it might just be that he wrote his feelings honestly, without any deeper meaning behind them.

“…Well?”

“It wasn’t written by a secretary.”

I told my father that, and handed him the letter.

He wore a serious expression at first, but gradually a wry smile began to form on his face.

“…There’s effort, at least.”

After much deliberation, that was the verdict he settled on.

In short: a failing grade.

Still, you could see he tried. The handwriting had a kind of clumsy sincerity to it.

Personally, my favorite part was how the writing got smaller toward the end.

He must’ve realized mid-way: “Uh-oh, this won’t all fit at this size…”

And then, after finishing the letter, probably noticed he’d overcompensated and left a bunch of empty space.

To make up for that, he scrawled in big letters, “P.S. The rock oysters are in season and taste great right now,” filling in the gap—honestly, bonus points for artistry.

“Well, he seems to be aware of his shortcomings. I’m sure he’ll hire an excellent secretary soon enough. Both sides of the next generation are quite promising, eh?”

Of course, that was sarcasm.

Still, there was one thing the letter made absolutely clear.

“The handwriting matches.”

“So it really was him…”

At first, we had assumed Thor-kun to be a sort of “Mini Duke Larknoll.”

Even if it was in the name of winning the war, the idea that someone would “cut off a prisoner’s limbs and ship them back freight collect”—that had to be the work of a lunatic.

But the Thor-kun we met in person was a shy, earnest boy who blushed when speaking to a cute girl.

He was timid enough to flee the ballroom just to avoid dancing.

They couldn’t have been the same person.

So we theorized that maybe he was just a puppet, and it was his retainers who handled all the military decisions and operations.

Maybe it wasn’t Thor-kun’s will that led to the severed limbs being sent back. Maybe his retainers had gone rogue.

But now we know—he wrote the letter himself.

Which means he was directly involved in the key decision-making behind the psychological tactic of mailing back dismembered prisoners.

It’s hard to believe someone so cute would do such a thing… but the world is full of people who act completely different when they get behind the wheel.

Maybe when he leads an army, Thor-kun becomes someone else entirely.

…Honestly, I’m starting to feel like I don’t want anything to do with him.

“He has a position of responsibility. I doubt he would act like a brute… but stay cautious. Avoid being alone with him, and keep clear of places with no escape or poor visibility.”

Under the guise of “friendship,” it’s not uncommon in this world for someone to lure you out, then surround you, beat you, abduct you, imprison you—sometimes even rape or kill you.

Even in marriage, there are things like “bride kidnapping,” where once you abduct and impregnate someone, the situation is treated as a done deal.

That’s mostly among knights or commoners, and nobles rarely stoop to such barbarity—but we’re talking about Duke Larknoll and his son.

Don’t expect normal moral standards from them.

“I have no intention of letting my guard down.”

“Mm… and one more thing.”

My father looked me straight in the eye as he spoke.

“Unless something truly exceptional happens, I won’t allow you to be married off. So you can rest easy.”

Well, I’m supposed to be the one taking in a husband, after all.

Still, I’m sure that was just my father’s way of showing concern as a parent.

I gave a deep nod in response.

—

Back in my private room, I immediately set about writing a reply.

Since it was just correspondence between two kids, I kept the tone light and charming, steering clear of anything too formal. I finished it off with a cheerful touch, writing in large letters in the remaining space: “I’m looking forward to the rock oysters!”

With that momentum, I moved on to replying to the pile of other letters I’d been putting off.

—

There were tons—from the Second Prince, from guys I danced with at social events, and even a love letter from the crown prince of a neighboring country.

Once I finished writing the replies, I handed them all to the secretaries to check over. After they gave the okay, I copied them neatly onto parchment.

“…Haa.”

A sigh escaped me without thinking.

My father has a saying: “The quality of your letters reflects the quality of your house.”

And I get why.

If your letters are full of typos and mistakes, it screams, “Wow, this noble house must have a real sloppy bureaucracy.”

A house full of officials who operate on a “It’s fine if someone else checks it” kind of mindset.

They’d be easy to conquer.

On the other hand, a house that sends flawless letters probably has its administrative system in proper order.

That implies a certain level of centralized control and structure.

It’s a significant distinction.

The letter from House Larknoll wasn’t beautifully written, but there weren’t any misspellings or errors either.

In other words, they don’t have any of those “it’s fine” types on staff.

They’re not someone to be underestimated.

Honestly, I don’t need anything fancy like a smartphone, but it’d be nice if my reincarnation perks had at least included a word processor or a typewriter.

Anyway, with that, the bare minimum of urgent tasks was complete.

Negotiations and preparations alone would take at least two months, so my part wouldn’t begin until then.

In the meantime, I needed to catch up on all the lessons I’d been neglecting.

—

Thanks to my previous life, I had no trouble with subjects like math. But in this world, I had to start from scratch with things like history, language, etiquette, and royal studies.

My tutors had already told me I had more than enough education to be considered a proper noble, but I still wanted to learn as much as I could.

Besides, I enjoy studying… though I do have subjects I’m not so good at.

“Princess. Pardon the intrusion while you’re still tired, but the head maid has requested to conduct a lesson before bedtime.”

“I’d love to say ‘no’… but I can’t run away forever. Very well. Let her in.”

—

Not long after, the head maid arrived in my room.

She apologized and thanked me in her usual polite manner, but I could feel the unspoken pressure behind it: “You're not getting out of this tonight.”

“…Let’s get this over with.”

I made my unspoken feelings clear, and the head maid nodded with a serious expression.

Then she pulled out a thick textbook—and a model phallus.

Yes. A phallus. A wooden replica of a penis.

“Now then, Princess. Let’s begin your night duty sex education lecture. We’ll start with a review of the last lesson. …Please take it seriously, no fooling around.”

“Pfft…”

“Princess?”

“S-sorry. Give me a moment… pfft.”

I mean, seriously. How am I not supposed to laugh when she’s holding a wooden dick with that deadly serious face and talking about “night duties”…?

I burst out laughing several more times after that, and each time, I got whipped.

At this point, it was practically an S&M session.

…Pfft.

Ow! Don’t hit me!!