Love Ultimately Requires Real-World Experience

The next day, Elia attended a marquess’s wife’s tea party, ready to turn as many ladies as possible into Luke-fangirls per her plan.

Meanwhile, hearing the Saintess was out, Luke visited the Royal Guard Knights’ camp.

“Luke, perfect timing!”

Charlie, rushing over, slung an arm around him and dragged him to the training field.

“Another spar?” Luke asked, knowing the answer.

“Of course, but not today. Today, I want you to school these little punks.” Charlie jerked a thumb at a line of ramrod-straight young knights.

The power of love the house, love the crow was on full display in Charlie.

He harbored little patriotism for Messiah; he stayed for hope in Elia. Yet that hope gradually deepened into affection for the nation—he did more and more for it.

Even distrusted and seen as a threat, he fought for it. This was just the tip.

When sent to war, he’d eliminate corrupt nobles stirring trouble, carving survival paths for the oppressed who’d turned rebel.

Stuck in the capital, he recruited and trained talent.

After dueling masters, he’d memorize lessons and pass them to his men.

If they taught willingly, he’d invite them to camp for broader instruction.

When the crown feared his growing influence and reassigned his prized protégés, he’d only wish them luck—hoping they’d use their skills to protect and build the kingdom.

Whatever his original motives, Charlie’s dedication earned Luke’s genuine respect. So he didn’t refuse.

His only worry: when Charlie learned the scummy pinkette’s true face, would he fly into rage or suffer faith collapse?

[Speaking of which, what’s that scummy pinkette up to?]

Luke’s mind-reading radius was 100 m; locked on a single target, 500 m max. Elia was outside range.

Running away? Unlikely.

But with her vindictive streak, she was definitely scheming.

He didn’t fear her petty tricks, but controlling her every move was safest.

After an hour of coaching knights, an odd thought entered range:

[Already buddies with Charlie… How to ditch him? Or use the connection to befriend Luke? But I’m a woman—men won’t open up to me, right?]

Luke casually glanced over.

Behind a pillar, a golden-haired, emerald-eyed elf maid peeked at them.

[Spotted?]

Catching his gaze, she yanked her head back.

[Such sharp senses—worthy of a Hero. This is tricky…]

Honestly, three years of experience told Luke her reaction was lightning-fast—far beyond ordinary.

Yet she wasn’t satisfied and prepared to retreat.

Luke locked on, activating “Face from the Heart”. Her full appearance and basic intel surfaced: Personal maid and bodyguard… As expected, the pinkette’s spy.

He smirked inwardly, continuing to coach knights, planning to confront Iris later.

But halfway gone, she turned back.

[No, I can’t retreat. For Lady Elia, I must try harder.]

That pinkette really ruins lives.

Luke sighed internally.

Without mind-reading to strip the filter, most would fall for that angelic face and holy aura—instinctively siding with her, rationalizing every lie.

No matter.

Anyone worth saving—and who’d mentally wound the pinkette upon waking—Luke would help. He’d clear the fog, restore a bright sky to Messiah.

“You lot keep drilling. I’ll take a break.”

Asking Charlie for the rest area, Luke feigned thirst, grabbed water, then lounged on a bench—bait set.

With Charlie rare-gone, the elf maid steeled herself and approached.

“Um… Lord Luke?”

No. Luke’s reflex answer to uninvited guests.

Since arriving in this Dickden-like capital, everyone was a drama queen—even amateurs put on shows.

Case in point: Iris, inwardly on high alert, outwardly forcing a shy, seductive act.

“Yes, what is it?” Luke stood briskly, all cheerful sincerity. (He wasn’t much better—hiding constant prank urges behind a straight face.)

“I-I…”

Despite his cooperation, self-proclaimed romance expert Iris—drenched in novels and gossip—forgot her lines. No, she was too nervous to speak.

Theory vs. practice was brutal.

A rookie skipping sweet romance straight to seduction? Impossible.

Her mind blanked—every love tip, every gossip nugget, gone.

But resolve for Elia won. Deep breath—she prepared to confess—

“Huh, Iris? What brings you here? Did Lady Elia send you?”

Charlie returned.

Iris froze, then snapped: “Why’d you barge in?! And why expose me?!”

Luke’s doing.

Mind-reading wasn’t just reading. If he could read thoughts, subtly tweaking perception was child’s play.

He could grimace and shout in someone’s face—they’d ignore him, psychologically invisible.

Conversely, skip class yet convince the teacher he’d attended, answered questions—psychologically present.

Just now, he’d made Iris miss Charlie’s approach.

Thanks to that, he witnessed: Iris berating Charlie with razor-sharp fluency—while the hulking warrior shrank like a scolded wife, head bowed.

[These two… more than meets the eye.]