MTO C28

Chapter 28

“So you finished everything I asked of you, then spent the rest of the night amusing yourself, is that it?”

“…Pardon?”

Michel was caught completely off‑guard by Kaidan’s sudden question. He had been drifting in thought and didn’t catch his meaning immediately. Only when the Duke’s black eyes narrowed sharply did the memory return of the prayer he had torn his hair out composing the night before.

“Here.”

Michel retrieved from his robe a sheet of paper, wrinkled and creased from being folded again and again. Kaidan snatched it with a swift, cutting motion of the hand, and began to read.

Michel’s face glowed with pride; Kaidan’s grew steadily darker.

“What is this?”

“What do you mean? It’s a prayer.”

“You’re serious?”

Kaidan’s severe expression made Michel snatch it back, half worried he’d brought the wrong slip. But no—it was indeed the page he had agonized over the night before:

Hello, God? This is Michel.

Today in Valois we’ll be holding the relief festival. I hope all the people can gather together and share a joyful time, and that the day ends safely with no one harmed.

By the way, the winters here in Valois are terribly cold. But spring will be warm, won’t it? Please, could spring come just a little earlier this year so the children can run and play outside?

Anyway, I wish You a lovely day Yourself! And please let all who gather here be blessed by Your grace.

Thank You!

Even re‑reading it, Michel felt certain it was a fine prayer. He had wasted reams of paper and ink before finally settling on this. It was only after agonizing at his desk that he remembered what the old nun had once said: “A prayer is nothing more than a letter to God.”

Thinking of it that way—addressing a respected elder—words had flowed at last. And he had not forgotten to end with blessings for the people of Valois. Surely, even if not brilliant, it was good enough not to be scorned.

“…Which part is wrong?”

He frowned, wondering if the problem lay in asking for spring to come sooner so the children could play. It had struck him as a bit personal, but wasn’t cold winter pain everyone felt, not just the orphans? Unless spring never grew warm in Valois?

While Michel fretted, Kaidan abruptly snatched the page away again—and ripped it in half, then quarters, until only shreds were left fluttering.

“My prayer! What are you doing!?”

“Write it again.”

“…Excuse me?”

Kaidan brushed off his hands with satisfaction. Michel felt hot anger rise. He had done exactly as instructed—yet now Kaidan was acting like a sulky three‑year‑old rejecting everything set before him.

“How am I supposed to just ‘write again’ if you won’t explain what’s missing? Don’t you have an example?”

“Were you not born a priest? Shouldn’t writing prayers be as natural to you as breathing?”

“Well…”

Michel fell silent. The original Michel, perhaps. But the soul currently inhabiting his body had never written anything of the sort—more like sleeping through hymns every Mass, using the choir as a lullaby.

And really—was there any proof the drunken, gambling headmaster himself knew how to draft prayers? The man spent more time in taverns than the chapel.

The thought spurred a sudden suspicion. Michel looked at Kaidan closely.

“Brother Kaidan—before, you said I was struck by lightning right after we’d spoken. …What were we talking about then?”

Kaidan’s eyes narrowed. “…About the orphanage allowances. You wanted an extra stipend to mark Saint Pablo’s feast.”

Michel’s cheeks burned instantly.

So the original man—shameless as ever—had tried to use the holy day merely for squeezing more gold. Embezzling existing donations wasn’t enough; he had even begged for more, effectively selling out the very children he starved.

If so… maybe Kaidan didn’t entirely know what kind of rot the man was. But still Michel couldn’t look him in the face, the shame of crimes not his own searing his skin.

“…And did you give him anything?” he asked weakly.

“No. The orphanage already received ample funds. There are countless poorhouses across Valois that deserve as much. Why should your children alone be afforded special favor?”

Kaidan’s tone was wooden, but the contempt was unmistakable.

At once, childhood memories crashed back: the humiliation of being offered pity‑coins, of holding out a meal ticket to a disinterested clerk, of hearing his master and mistress argue if they could cover his tournament fees. Each had branded him as a beggar.

And now, because of the headmaster’s deceptions, the orphanage children were tarred the same way—presumed parasites. His heart twisted with fury. No one chose to be born poor. None of the children were guilty of anything.

“You’re right. Still—thank you for all you’ve given the orphanage already.”

Michel forced brightness into his tone. What use for pride here? The Eglence family’s donations mattered desperately. And besides, this time no one would siphon it away—what came now would reach the children directly.

“You’ve supported us… allow me to repay with honor. I want to do the relief festival properly. But—my memory is incomplete, you know that. I’ve forgotten how to draft prayers.”

Michel straightened. This was no plea of humiliation but business. They were two parties in transaction, nothing more.

“So I ask you: would you help me?”

His request was bold. Kaidan’s brow twitched in surprise.

“The shelves on the west wall of the first floor hold the religious texts. Writings of saints and collected examples of prayer. Use them.”

Kaidan led him to the castle library. The shelves loomed, rows upon rows until Michel’s eyes dried just staring.

Kaidan eyed his slack‑jawed wonder with suspicion.

“I trust you can manage finding and reading a book unsupervised.”

“Of course I can.”

“Then you will remain here until tomorrow—with a completed prayer. Do not think of leaving until then.”

“…Sorry?”

Before he could protest, the heavy doors slammed shut with an echo. Michel leapt to wrench the handle, but it had been locked. The door didn’t budge.

Tricked!

Not long ago, Kaidan had insisted he no longer confined Michel, and Michel had felt relief. Yet here he was again, imprisoned under the pretense of help. He considered shouting, but gave up quickly.

This was Kaidan: soft spoken at moments, but cloaked in iron. Better to yield. Besides, the festival was imminent—time was short.

So Michel sighed, and turned instead to surveying the shelves.

He had never been fond of libraries. Instead of the sweaty musk of a training hall, here was only the dry scent of old paper and lingering dust. Still, he ran a finger down a spine, then another, not sure which might actually help him.

Probably the thicker the better, he decided, pulling down a massive tome the size of an encyclopedia. It weighed easily over a kilogram. Absentmindedly, he curled it a few times like a dumbbell before catching himself and setting it on the table.

Not a martial artist now—a scholar. For once, he would have to be.