[The Spacetime That Might Exist] The Day Before the Ball

I accidentally posted the same chapter twice during the update, so I'll add two more chapters.

The morning light streamed through the windows, cutting out several clear, bright stripes on the floor of the outpost's living room.

Sense stood in front of the table, his long brown hair cascading down his shoulders, almost touching the ground. On the table lay a detailed map of the Imperial Capital and several handwritten notes, the ink and handwriting neat and orderly.

"Today is the last day of National Day. Tonight, a ball will be held in the palace. Lady Serie will be attending as a state guest, and we will accompany her as her bodyguards."

She raised her eyes, her gaze sweeping over the people gathered around the table.

"Mission objective remains unchanged: Prevent the Shadow Warriors from assassinating Lady Serie."

Fern stood by the table, his pale purple eyes fixed on the palace area markers on the map.

How do we sneak into the ball?

A sound came from the sofa.

"Is there even a need to think about it?"

Serie sat back in the large sofa, her left leg propped up on the sofa surface, her right leg casually crossed. In her hand, she held a gorgeous invitation card with gold lettering, its edges reflecting a shimmering golden light in the morning glow. A familiar, flamboyant, and unrestrained smile played on her lips.

Here's an invitation. Enter through the main gate openly and honestly.

Falsh stood to the side and behind the sofa, pushing up his round-framed glasses.

"Indeed. This was originally part of the plan. Operating under the public identity of a state guest escort would allow for more effective execution of escort duties, while also serving as a deterrent to potential attackers."

Serie waved the invitation in her hand.

"Oh, by the way. Does this list specify how many attendants I can bring?"

"The exact number wasn't specified," Falsh replied, his tone as steady as ever. "Given the usual practice for state guests, I believe the number of people brought is irrelevant, as long as it's not impolite."

"Then there's no problem."

Serie leaned forward, resting her elbows on her raised knees, her gaze sweeping over everyone in the room with a kind of intrigued scrutiny.

"Let's all go together. We should properly thank that magnanimous Emperor."

Lanto leaned against the wall and adjusted his glasses upon hearing this.

"Ubel and I are already being watched by the Magical Special Forces. After all, we're 'escapees.' Going through the main gate is too risky. Let's sneak in via another route."

Sense nodded.

"Yes. Having a team maneuvering on the perimeter and providing guerrilla support is a good option; it would offer more tactical flexibility."

At the other end of the room, Ubel was straddling a chair backwards, her arms crossed over the top of the backrest, her chin resting on her forearms. Hearing this, a slightly wicked and playful smile curled at the corners of her lips.

"When we're on guerrilla warfare—can I cause a huge ruckus?"

Serie leaned back on the sofa, a smug, indulgent smile on her face.

"Do whatever you want, make a scene however you like."

Lanto was silent for two seconds.

"... How is that possible?"

His voice was lower than usual, mixed with an inscrutable emotion, like loneliness, or something else entirely.

Ubel turned his head to the side, his purple eyes looking at him.

"What's wrong, Glasses Guy?"

Lanto didn't look at her; his gaze was fixed on a spot on the floor.

"Nothing."

He paused for a moment, then turned towards the sofa.

"Serie, I have a question."

Serie picked up the black tea from the low table next to her and calmly took a sip.

"Rejected. I won't listen."

Lanto ignored her refusal and continued talking to himself.

Why was I paired with this guy?

He pointed at Ubel.

"It's obvious that we're not a good match, isn't it?"

Serie put down her teacup, the porcelain bottom gently touching the wooden tabletop with a soft "click".

"Yes, I understand what you mean." She said casually, "But think about it from another angle—if someone else approached you and invited you to participate in this mission... would you agree?"

Lanto didn't answer. He just stood there, his eyes behind his glasses staring into the void, his lips pressed into a straight line.

Serie waited a few seconds, and seeing that he remained silent, she continued. Her tone was still casual, but for a moment, a very faint glimmer of understanding seemed to flash in her eyes, though that light was quickly covered by her usual smile.

"Ha, whatever. What you think is your business."

She leaned back, sinking into the soft sofa cushions.

"But I think you two are a good match for each other."

Her gaze darted back and forth between Lanto and Ubel.

"If you want to leverage your cautiousness, you'd better have a firm grip on that guy's reins first."

Lanto and Ubel, who was leaning against the back of the chair, turned their heads almost simultaneously to look at each other.

Their eyes met in mid-air.

Then, they spoke almost simultaneously.

"... reins?"

Lanto was the first to look away, glancing casually to his side.

"Where are the reins?"

Ubel tilted her head, her green ponytail sliding down to her shoulder. The smile on her face deepened, and her purple eyes narrowed slightly.

"Maybe I've already lost it?"

The room next door.

Sein tugged at the collar of his dark blue tuxedo, the crisp fabric making him feel a little uncomfortable. He adjusted his bow tie in front of the large mirror in the room.

"Ugh... I'm really not used to wearing this kind of dress."

He sighed, but his hands didn't stop moving, striving to straighten the bow tie to its most upright position.

"Oh well, there's nothing I can do about it. This is what you have to wear to the ball."

He turned around and looked at the red-haired man sitting on the edge of the bed. The red-haired man had also changed into a relatively formal outfit, but he still chose a dark-colored style that would allow for easy movement, with his tomahawk leaning against the wall beside him.

Red Hair lowered his head, looking somewhat forlorn, his fingers unconsciously stroking a crease in the fabric on his knee.

Sein looked at him for two seconds, then walked over and sat down in the chair next to him. The chair legs scraped against the floor, making a slight sound.

"Speaking of which, Red Hair..."

Red Hair raised his head.

Sein's expression turned serious, and he stroked his goatee.

"There's something that's been bothering me. But the atmosphere over there just now wasn't suitable to talk about it."

Seeing Sein's unusually serious expression, Red Hair straightened his shoulders slightly.

"Sein would also feel uneasy being suddenly dragged into something like this."

His voice was steady, with a hint of understanding.

"Go ahead and say it, I'm listening. What do you want to tell me?"

Sein leaned closer, lowered his voice, and his expression was 100% serious.

"Will there be any gentle and beautiful older sisters at the dance?"

Red Hair: "..."

The other room was used as a dressing room in the bedroom.

Fern stood with her back to Sense in front of the dressing table. She had already changed into the prepared dress—a simple, dark purple long dress, made of soft fabric and with a good cut.

She took a slight breath, her back ramrod straight.

Sense stood behind her, a few strands of long brown hair slipping from her shoulders like nimble, living tentacles, wrapping around the intricate ties at the back of her dress. The hair moved smoothly and precisely, weaving and tightening.

"Miss Sense," Fern's voice carried a barely perceptible hint of insistence, "Please make sure you get to the bottom of this."

Sense kept her eyes downcast, a few strands of brown hair deftly weaving between the ribbons and buckles, her movements steady, but the force she exerted was clearly carefully controlled. Hearing this, she raised her eyelids, meeting Fern's gaze in the mirror, her expression calm.

"No. Too tight a strap will affect your breathing and movements during combat." Her tone was flat as she controlled a strand of hair to thread the last strap through the metal buckle, gently tightening it to make the dress fit snugly but not excessively. "You don't want your dress to suddenly burst open halfway through a fight, do you?"

"... In short, please help me receive it as tightly as possible."

Sense looked at her, paused for a second without saying anything, but the force he used to control her hair seemed to become more refined and firmer. He slowly and steadily tightened the crisscrossing ribbons inch by inch, allowing the soft fabric to better outline the lines of her back.

At that moment, the door to the room was pushed open a crack.

Frieren peeked in halfway. She had changed into a pure white dress, elegant in style, with delicate silver embroidery adorning the hem. But her long, silvery-white hair was still loose and unkempt.

"Fern," she called out, her voice casual and matter-of-fact, "Help me comb my hair..."

Fern turned away from the mirror.

She looked at Frieren, who was peeking out of the doorway, and her eyes darkened, becoming somewhat frightening.

"Can't you see that now is not the time for that kind of thing?"

Frieren's casual expression froze instantly. She blinked, her emerald eyes meeting Fern's gaze, then her shoulders slumped, her lips unconsciously pouting slightly, her whole face revealing a mixture of guilt and grievance.

"Fern is so scary..."

She muttered to herself, slowly shuffling into the room and sitting down on the bed. Her white dress was spread out on the dark sheets. She swung her dangling legs, placing her hands on her knees, looking like she was saying, "I'll wait patiently."

Serie sat at the other end of the bed. She wore a white and gold dress, its elegant style highlighting her snow-white skin. She leaned against the headboard, one leg bent, her elbow resting on her knee, in a relaxed posture.

Seeing Frieren's expression, she curled up her lips into a smile that was clearly mocking and smug.

"How embarrassing, Frieren," she drawled, "You can't even comb your hair properly without your disciple's help."

Frieren turned her face, her emerald green eyes clearly saying, "You're the same."

"We're both equally bad, aren't we?"

Serie leaned back leisurely, sinking into the soft pile of pillows. She picked up a silver comb that had somehow ended up beside her, twirled it between her fingers, and a haughty smile played on her lips.

"My disciple did that out of respect and affection for me. It's not like you."

She waved the comb in her hand at Frieren.

"Frieren, if you absolutely want someone to do your hair—I can do it for you myself."

Frieren stared at her, uttering three words expressionlessly.

"Go to hell."

Serie's smile froze instantly. Her hand holding the comb stopped in mid-air, her eyes widened slightly, her haughty and arrogant expression vanished, and her elven ears drooped, revealing an unexpected and aggrieved look.

"... That's a really harsh way to put it."