Yuuta walked out of Velvet Crumb Bakery with a paper bag in his hands, the smell of fresh bread warming the cold morning air. Inside, two Kaisersemmels—star-shaped white rolls, the most iconic breakfast in Libeus Country—and two Kornspitz, grain-rich rolls that Miss Clara had pressed into his hands with a knowing smile. She had asked about his wife. She had asked about his daughter. She had asked when she could meet them. He had told her soon, and he had meant it, and now he was walking home, and his heart was pounding.
He was not afraid of the bread. He was afraid of Erza.
He had run from her. He had fled down the stairs like a rabbit escaping a fox. He had told her he was going to buy breakfast, and he had run, and now he was coming back, and he did not know what she would do when he walked through the door. She might freeze him. She might hit him. She might read his mind and find all the secrets he had been hiding, the hope, the love, the plan to leave something of himself behind.
He turned the corner. His apartment building came into view.
And then he felt it.
A strange feeling, like a dog sensing its owner from across a field. Like a child sensing its mother from a distant room. His hand trembled. His heart beat faster. He walked faster, his feet carrying him toward the building without his permission, his eyes fixed on the white car parked outside.
It was a church car. He knew it from the symbols painted on its side, the cross in gold, the holy markings that had been there since before he was born. Sisters in white robes stood beside it, their faces calm, their hands folded, their eyes watching the street. They were from his church. From the place where he had grown up. From the people who had raised him.
He ran toward them, excitement building in his chest. "Sisters!" he called. "Sisters, it is me! Yuuta!"
They looked at him. Their faces did not change. Their eyes did not soften. There was something in their gaze—disgust, contempt, the particular look of people who had decided long ago that he was not worth their time. He had seen that look before. He had grown up with that look. He had hoped, somehow, that after all these years, it might have changed.
It had not.
One of the sisters looked away. Another stepped back, as if he might contaminate her. A third whispered something to the woman beside her, and the woman whispered back, and they both looked at him with the same cold, empty eyes.
"Shit," one of them said, loud enough for him to hear. "My eye needs holy water now. I saw that cursed boy."
Another nodded. "I wonder why Sister Mary still favors him. We told her he was a devil. We told her he would bring nothing but trouble. But she kept supporting him."
"I am surprised he is still alive," a third added. "I thought he would have killed himself by now."
They did not whisper. They did not try to hide their words. They stood in the morning light, in their white robes, with their holy symbols, and they spoke about him like he was not standing right there, like he could not hear, like he did not matter.
Yuuta stood still for a moment. The excitement drained out of him. The hope faded. He had expected this. He had always expected this. He had grown up in that church, surrounded by people who looked at him like he was something broken, something wrong, something that should not exist. Sister Mary had been the only one who looked at him differently. Sister Mary had been the only one who loved him.
He walked past them without a word. He did not look back. He did not give them the satisfaction of seeing him hurt.
He climbed the stairs. His heart was pounding again, but not from fear now. From hope. Sister Mary was here. His godmother. The woman who had raised him. The woman who had loved him when no one else would. He had not seen her in a year. He had not called. He had not visited. He had been too busy surviving, too busy trying to be a father, too busy trying to keep his family alive.
She was there.
Sister Mary sat on the living room floor in the traditional seiza position, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, her face turned toward the door like she had been waiting for him. She was wearing the white robes of a saint, simple and clean, and her hair was gold, falling over her shoulders like a waterfall. A white cloth was wrapped around her eyes and ears, hiding what no one had ever seen. She was not blind—he knew that—she was sensitive to light and sound, and the bandages protected her from a world that was too loud and too bright.
She was his godmother. The woman who had raised him. The woman who had loved him when no one else would.
He dropped his bag. The bread spilled across the floor. He did not care.
He ran to her and fell into her lap, his head pressing against her knees, his arms wrapping around her legs, his whole body shaking with something he could not name.
"Sister Mary," he said. "I missed you."
She patted his head. Her touch was gentle, familiar, the same touch that had soothed him when he was a child, when he had woken from nightmares, when he had been afraid of the dark and the cold and the people who looked at him like he was a monster.
"I missed you too, Yuuta," she said. "Look at you. So big now. Like a real man." She paused. "But still such a crybaby."
He laughed. It was a wet laugh, half sob, half joy. He had missed her. He had missed her so much.
Then she grabbed his ear.
"Y-OW!" He yelped, trying to pull away. "What was that for?!"
She twisted. Her grip was iron, the same grip she had used when he was a child, when he had stolen bread, when he had lied, when he had done something she did not approve of. She had not lost her touch.
"Yuuta," she said, her voice calm, sweet, terrifying. "Who is that woman?"
"Huh?" He blinked, his brain still rebooting from the pain. What women???
He turned his head.
Erza was sitting on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a cup of tea in her hand. She looked perfectly relaxed, perfectly comfortable, perfectly at home. She was watching him with an expression that might have been amusement or might have been something else.
Beside her, Elena sat with her legs swinging, her eyes wide, her face curious.
"Papa," Elena said, "are you crying?"
Yuuta's soul left his body.
He had forgotten. He had completely, utterly, disastrously forgotten to tell Sister Mary about Erza. About Elena. About the family he had somehow, impossibly, found.
He opened his mouth. "You see, Sister Mary, this is—I mean, actually—"
She twisted his ear harder.
"Ouch! It hurts! Sister Mary!"
"You are married?" Her voice was sharp, the voice she used when she was about to get the truth out of someone whether they wanted to give it or not. "You have a wife? And you did not tell me?"
"It was an accident!" he blurted. "That is all! An accident!"
"An accident." Her voice dropped to a terrifyingly calm whisper. "What kind of accident?"
"Well... I... uh... you see..."
She leaned closer. Her grip tightened. "I am waiting, Yuuta."
He looked at Erza. He looked at Sister Mary. He looked at Erza again. He begged her with his eyes to help him, to save him, to do what she had done at the academy and tell a story that would make everything make sense.
Erza set down her teacup. She stretched her arms. She looked at Sister Mary, then at him, and a smile spread across her face. It was not a kind smile.
"Oh, Sister Mary," she said, placing a hand dramatically on her chest. "It all happened on a full moon night. I was at a party. I was drunk. I went to bed early, thinking I would be safe."
She sniffed. She pretended to hold back tears.
"Then Yuuta came into my room. He assaulted me. He said, 'If you do not marry me, I will make sure you carry my child.' He threatened me. He forced me. And then he did it. I was helpless."
"LIES!" Yuuta jumped to his feet, his face burning. "She is lying, Sister Mary! She is making it sound like I am some kind of villain!"
Sister Mary's aura darkened. Her blindfolded eyes somehow locked onto him with deadly precision.
"So," she said, each word dripping with ice, "she is lying, Yuuta?"
"Well, some of it is true," he admitted, his words tumbling out in a panic. "But it is all out of context! Not the part about forcing! Definitely not that! I did not force anything! I did not even know she was drunk! I just—"
Her grip tightened. She pulled him down to her eye level.
"So it is true," she said. "You assaulted a pure soul. You married her. You made her carry your child."
"NO! Please, Sister Mary, you have to trust me!"
Erza took another sip of tea. She looked every bit the smug, scheming villain she was pretending to be.
"Oh," she added, a playful smirk on her face, "and then he promised to raise our child as a warrior princess who would kill church believers. Just like in those medieval anime stories."
"THAT NEVER HAPPENED!" Yuuta shrieked. His soul was leaking out of his ears.
Sister Mary's grip turned bone-crushing. His knees buckled.
"You and I," she whispered, her voice colder than a winter wind, "are going to have a long, very long conversation about this."
Yuuta's spirit collapsed in on itself like a dying star. He was dead. He was so dead.
Elena watched from the couch, her legs swinging, her eyes wide.
"Papa is in trouble," she said.
Erza patted her head. "Yes," she said. "Yes, he is."
The afternoon sun was merciless, turning the small stone balcony into a divine frying pan. There was no shade here, no escape from the heat that radiated off the concrete and bounced off the walls of the apartment building, trapping Yuuta in a pocket of endless, suffocating warmth. His knees had long since lost all feeling against the rough stone, the initial sharp pain giving way to a dull numbness that spread up his thighs and settled deep in his bones. His black shirt was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his back like a second skin, and he could feel the fabric growing darker with every passing minute.
Behind him, standing like an angel of judgment with her arms crossed and her white robes fluttering in the hot breeze, was Sister Mary. She had not moved from that spot for over an hour. She had not spoken except to correct his prayers, to remind him of his sins, to ensure that he was properly begging for forgiveness from a God he was not entirely sure still listened to him.
A simple cloth blindfold covered her eyes, yet Yuuta could feel the weight of her disappointment pressing down on his spine harder than the sunlight ever could. She had raised him. She had loved him. She had taken him in when no one else would, had fed him and clothed him and taught him to read and write and pray. And now she was making him kneel on a concrete balcony in the middle of a heatwave because he had forgotten to tell her he had a wife and a daughter.
"Ask forgiveness from God," she said. Her voice was calm, absolute, the kind of calm that preceded a thunderstorm, the kind of calm that meant she was not going to let him up until she was satisfied. "For insulting His blessing and straying from His teachings."
Yuuta swallowed hard. His throat was dry, his lips cracked, his tongue felt like sandpaper. He had been kneeling for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like to stand.
"Y-yes, Sister Mary," he managed.
"Say it."
He took a deep breath. The air smelled like heated stone and his own regret.
"I am sorry, Lord," he recited, staring into the blinding white sun. "Forgive my sins and guide me back to Your path."
Sister Mary did not soften. If anything, her posture straightened. She was waiting for more.
"Don't forget to ask for a blessing for your child."
Yuuta's eye twitched. Child. Right. The one I didn't plan for.
He clenched his fists against his thighs. "And... please bless my child, Lord. May she walk in Your light."
Silence followed. The kind of silence that should have been peaceful but was instead loaded with unspoken chaos, with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid, with the presence of the woman who was standing in the doorway behind him, watching, enjoying every moment of his suffering.
Then—a whisper. Sly. Low. Absolutely wicked.
"And wife, also."
Yuuta did not need to turn around. He already knew who had spoken. He could feel her gaze on his back, could feel the amusement radiating off her like heat off the concrete, could hear the smile in her voice even without seeing her face.
Erza leaned against the doorframe leading inside, one shoulder propped lazily against the wood, her arms crossed, her posture relaxed in a way that suggested she had all the time in the world and was not afraid to use it. Her silver hair caught the sunlight like a challenge, bright and wild and untamed. A grin—slow, satisfied, and dangerous—curved her lips. She did not even try to hide it.
Sister Mary, ever the obedient servant of the Lord, nodded thoughtfully.
"Ah, yes," she said. "And for your wife as well."
Yuuta's jaw tightened so hard he heard a faint creak in his teeth. His hands, clenched into fists on his thighs, trembled with the effort of keeping his mouth shut.
From behind the glass door, Erza caught his eye. Her grin widened into something almost predatory. She raised one hand, fingers wiggling in a mock wave, and mouthed three words with deliberate slowness, making sure he could read every single one of them on her lips.
Good luck, my dear husband.
Inside Yuuta's mind, something snapped. Not broke—snapped. Like a rubber band stretched too far, like a rope pulled too tight, like the last thread of his patience finally giving way under the weight of everything she had put him through.
Damn you, Lizard Queen. You did this on purpose. You are enjoying this. You are standing there in my doorway, drinking tea, watching me suffer, and you are enjoying every second of it. Just you wait. I will have my revenge. I do not know how. I do not know when. But I will have it.
But outwardly, he said nothing. He could not. Sister Mary would probably add another hour for backtalk, and his knees were already screaming.
Time lost all meaning on the balcony.
The sun crawled across the sky like it was mocking him, each minute stretching into an hour, each hour blending into the next until he could no longer tell how long he had been kneeling there. His knees had gone from pain to numbness to a strange, floating sensation that he was fairly sure meant nerve damage. His back felt like grilled meat, stiff and hot and wrong. His dignity was a distant memory, scattered somewhere between his third prayer for forgiveness and his fifth plea for mercy.
Inside the apartment, Sister Mary and Erza sat across from each other at the small dining table. Steam rose from two cups of tea, curling into the warm air and disappearing. They spoke in voices too low for Yuuta to catch, their heads bent together, their expressions hidden from view. But every few minutes, Erza would laugh—a sharp, victorious sound that cut through the glass door like a knife, that made Yuuta's shoulders tense and his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists on his thighs.
And every time, his left eye twitched.
He tried to listen. He strained his ears, leaned toward the door, tried to catch any word that might tell him what they were discussing, what they were planning, what new torture Erza was inventing for him. But the glass was thick and the distance was far and the only thing he could hear was the occasional clink of teacups and the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears.
At one point, Sister Mary rose from her seat. Yuuta braced himself, expecting her to come to the door, to slide it open, to deliver another lecture or assign another penance or add another hour to his sentence.
Instead, she walked to the balcony door, slid it open, and—to his absolute shock—bowed.
Not to him.
To Erza.
Yuuta's brain short-circuited. He stared at the scene before him, his mouth hanging open, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Sister Mary—his godmother, the woman who had raised him, the woman who had never bowed to anyone—was bowing to Erza. The Dragon Queen. The woman who had threatened to kill him a hundred times. The woman who was sitting on his couch, drinking his tea, wearing his ring.
"I am truly sorry," Sister Mary said, her head lowered, her voice heavy with sincerity. "It is my fault for not teaching him proper morals and values. Please forgive me for his transgressions."
Yuuta blinked. He opened his mouth. He closed it. He opened it again. No sound came out.
Wait. What?
Erza placed a gentle hand on Sister Mary's shoulder. Her expression was the picture of compassion—soft eyes, understanding smile, the whole performance. She looked like a saint, like an angel, like someone who had never done anything wrong in her entire life.
"No, no, Sister Mary," she said, her voice dripping with theatrical kindness. "It is not your fault. Not everyone is born to honor God's path."
Then she glanced over her shoulder at Yuuta.
Her eyes sparkled.
And she smiled.
It was not a kind smile. It was not a grateful smile. It was the smile of someone who had just won a game he did not even know he was playing, who had checkmated him ten moves ago and was only now letting him see the board.
Yuuta's teeth ground together like millstones. His hands, still clenched on his thighs, trembled with a rage he could not express and a frustration he could not voice.
Queen of Disaster. Lizard Queen. Absolute menace. Just you wait.
I will have my revenge.
To be continued...