From Pawn to King: Ruling a Harem of Chaos
Chapter 195: The Princess’s Lament—Everyone’s Watching, You Can’t Do This (4)

Chapter 195: The Princess's Lament—Everyone's Watching, You Can't Do This (4)

“You don’t have to be shy about admitting it. Let me help you analyze this properly,” Rong said, her voice calm and precise.

Violet’s heart raced with a mix of fear and bewilderment. 'I don’t want to hear this!'

She tried to cover her ears, but Rong calmly pried her hands away.

“First,” Rong began, counting on her fingers, “today, when Master praised me and patted my head, you stared at us with that look in your eyes. It was something between jealousy and indignation. And then, he noticed you and patted your head as well.”

“Second, when Master didn’t fight, nobody else said anything. But you made a point to show off your kill count to him. You worked so hard to stand out, to get his attention, to show him how impressive you are.”

“Third, everyone else was eating together, but you deliberately stood off to the side, acting like you didn’t fit in. Wasn’t that to attract Master’s concern? To make him come over and take care of you?”

Rong paused briefly, letting her words sink in. “And you succeeded. He came over, taught you how to grill, and gave you his attention in front of everyone.”

“Look at the pattern, Violet. Everything you did today was aimed at getting his attention. And it worked, didn’t it?”

Each point landed like a hammer blow. Violet’s face turned increasingly pale as Rong continued her calm, unrelenting analysis.

Violet wanted to deny it. She opened her mouth to argue but struggled to find the words.

“I… I just hate that guy. Don’t you get it?” she blurted, her voice trembling.

She insisted she didn’t want his head pats, that she was merely scoffing at him freeloading, and that she refused to eat his food out of principle.

But her eyes reddened as she spoke, her frustration manifesting as she began pacing in circles like a cornered animal. Her agitation grew until it seemed she might lash out at anyone nearby.

Sensing the need to defuse the situation, Rong shifted her tone slightly.

“Mm, I understand. I dislike him too,” she said softly.

Violet froze mid-step, turning to stare at Rong.

Rong’s expression remained composed, but there was a hint of melancholy in her voice as she continued, “My family is really strict with me. I had to sneak out just to come to this academy.”

She hesitated for effect, then added, “And he took advantage of that. He forced me to be his maid.”

Rong lit a mental candle for herself. 'Sorry, Master, this is for the greater good.'

Violet’s eyes lit up at those words, as if she’d found a kindred spirit. Her earlier thoughts about liking Shia were momentarily forgotten as she grasped Rong’s hands, her words tumbling out like water from a burst dam.

“Exactly! He’s the worst!” Violet exclaimed. “He stole my top spot, constantly bullies me, and even seduced my sister Aph!”

The floodgates were open, and Violet poured out her grievances, her words growing more animated as she vented.

Yet, the more she spoke, the clearer it became how much attention she paid to Shia.

Rong quietly listened, occasionally nodding or prompting her with a soft “Mm,” “Is that so?” or “What happened next?” Her steady responses only encouraged Violet to share more.

As Violet rambled on about Shia, her emotions fluctuated—indignation, confusion, and even moments of fleeting joy flitted across her face.

Rong rested her chin in her hands, silently observing. 'For someone who claims to hate him, she sure spends a lot of time thinking about him.'

This high-and-mighty princess, so proud and aloof, was even more clueless about her own feelings than Rong had expected.

Her gaze softened as she looked at Violet. 'She’s so smart and talented, yet so oblivious to herself. Compared to her, I’m just…'

Rong’s thoughts trailed off, a faint sadness flickering in her eyes. 'I don’t expect to be the only one by Master’s side. I just want to have a small place in his life, to matter even a little, to not be forgotten.'

Her social anxiety and self-doubt intertwined with her determination, shaping her quiet resolve.

Meanwhile, Shia, unaware of the little succubus’s inner turmoil, was elsewhere, delivering food to a different person.

The Sword Saintess, Sistine, renowned as the academy’s untouchable high flower, was patrolling nearby. Her presence alone was enough to leave most of the students awestruck and intimidated.

Recognizing how uneasy her juniors were around her, Sistine chose to step away from the lively camp, opting to patrol the surrounding area in solitude.

The dense forest grew darker as night fell. Even in the blackness, the fluttering white figure of Sistine stood out, her movements graceful and precise.

Shia stopped three meters away, watching her from the shadows. The moonlight filtering through the canopy above illuminated her, casting her in a divine glow. She looked like a lone dancer on an ethereal stage, her swordplay resembling an elegant performance.

Yet, unlike before, her movements were stiff, her technique unrefined.

When she finished her routine, Shia approached, greeting her casually. “Senior, it’s time to eat.”

Sistine’s breath came in short, uneven gasps. She could feel the stiffness in her movements, sensing she was just a step away from grasping something profound. Without sparing him a glance, she shook her head.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied, her tone dismissive as she prepared to practice again.

Frowning, Shia stepped forward, stopping her mid-motion. “Overtraining is counterproductive, Senior. You need food and rest.”

Ignoring him, Sistine turned back to the clearing, gripping her sword tightly. But just as she raised it, Shia reached out and pressed her hand down, halting her once more.

“You need to eat,” he said, his voice firm.

His authoritative tone and unwavering gaze left no room for argument.

“Senior, remember your duty. You’re here to protect us. Depleting your strength through stubbornness won’t help anyone.”

A faint blush crept onto Sistine’s flawless face. Turning her head slightly, she mumbled, “Fine… I’ll eat. Now, can you let go of my hand?”

Her earlier focus had been entirely on her swordplay. Now, with her wrist held in his grip, an unfamiliar string within her seemed to snap.

Had anyone else witnessed this scene, they would have been utterly shocked. The notoriously stubborn Sword Saintess, who even her revered master couldn’t easily sway, had been convinced by Shia—a mere student.

Only when he was satisfied that she wasn’t brushing him off did Shia release her hand.

Sistine felt a chill as a gust of wind passed. It wasn’t until now that she noticed the state of her body—drenched in sweat, her thin white gown clinging to her curves. The damp fabric outlined her toned abdomen, the result of years of rigorous training, and her modesty was barely preserved by the translucent material.

Her expression shifted to one of quiet embarrassment.