The Protagonist's Party is Too Diligent

Crowfield.

Despite its name, Crowfield wasn’t actually a place swarming with crows. At least, it wasn’t called that simply because there were a lot of crows. There was a wide meadow, and until autumn, it was a beautiful stretch of green. Even in autumn, it didn’t turn ugly; it just shifted from green to a golden hue. It never became a barren wasteland.

The city was reasonably modernized compared to other territories. While there weren’t towering chimneys belching massive clouds of smoke, there was still a distant factory district where black smoke rose. Even though Crowfield wasn’t a particularly large territory, the security wasn’t bad despite the presence of factories.

People who visited, often feeling uneasy about the grim-sounding name, would find themselves asking the same question after touring the beautiful landscape:

"Why is this lovely place called ‘Crowfield’? It sounds so sinister."

Crowfield had originally been part of the Kingdom of Belbur. Specifically, it was a border region between Belbur and the Azerna Empire.

During the war between the Empire and Belbur, the largest battle took place here, with both sides repeatedly capturing and losing the territory. Many lives were lost: Imperial soldiers, Kingdom soldiers, and civilians who were massacred by the Empire for simply being from the Kingdom, or those killed by the Kingdom for allegedly collaborating with the Empire. Corpses piled up, covering the land.

Bodies were left to rot in the fields, scattered across the meadow and thrown carelessly into the forests. And soon, crows swarmed the area, feasting on the dead. The skies were filled with their black wings and the air with their harsh cries.

Over time, people began referring to the area as ‘Crowfield.’ Its original name was seldom mentioned anymore, as most of the original inhabitants had been killed or displaced.

Despite the countless deaths, the Empire continued its expansion, eventually solidifying the current border. Crowfield was no longer a border region itself, as a small territory had been established between it and the Kingdom of Belbur.

It seemed that Crowfield would never see the accumulation of bodies again. It was expected to continue developing, eternally enjoying prosperity.

Until a single explosion killed the Earl.

"...Mia."

Not long after her father’s funeral, the Countess called for Mia.

After gently wiping the tears from Mia’s face and hugging her, patting her back, the Countess spoke.

"This was the work of the Emperor."

"...What?"

The official report claimed that a gas line explosion beneath the carriage had killed the Earl and his entourage. Such incidents were not unheard of, and until her mother’s words, Mia had assumed her father’s death was a tragic accident.

"The Emperor... or maybe even those children," her mother said quietly.

She wasn’t certain, but it seemed that was what she believed. Mia didn’t fully understand why.

"Mother?"

"Mia, my daughter," her mother whispered, holding her tight, close to her ear.

"Never forget this. There is nothing we can do for now, but..."

In a voice so low that no one else could hear, her mother continued, speaking only for her only child to hear:

"Until the day the Imperial family becomes the next ‘Crowfield.’"

The gathering of information wasn’t about the pursuit of truth—it was about ensuring her hatred never faded. And perhaps, if they could rally others, they might even find allies for their cause.

For Mia, this hatred was a constant, a fire that never extinguished. She studied diligently, ensuring she would never forget.

One rumor in particular circulated widely:

"Whenever a powerful figure in the Empire dies, one of the Emperor’s children goes missing."

This rumor alone wasn’t much, but it was widely believed among the nobles. Lists had even begun circulating among the upper echelons, tracking the names of children who had disappeared on the day of a noble’s death. Although the evidence was purely circumstantial, the theory gained traction, especially as certain traits of the missing children seemed to match those of the assassins.

The Emperor, however, made no effort to suppress these rumors. In fact, if the list were true, he was likely aware of it circulating.

This only made Mia hate the Emperor even more.

It felt as though the Emperor, sitting high upon his throne, was daring someone to come and challenge him. As if the death of her father hadn’t even bothered him.

The one who disappeared on the day of the Earl of Crowfield’s death was a twelve-year-old girl, the same age as Mia: Sylvia Fangriffon.

Some nobles didn’t believe the list for this reason. After all, how could a twelve-year-old child bypass heavy security, infiltrate the Earl’s estate, plant a bomb beneath his carriage, and successfully assassinate him? It seemed absurd, a wild conspiracy theory forced to fit the facts.

Even if some of the information had been gathered from maids and servants within the Imperial Palace, it could still be inaccurate. Dates could be mistaken, and the child in question could have simply been away or in hiding.

Some nobles on the list had even died of natural causes.

But...

During the first day of class sparring, Sylvia Fangriffon had used explosive weapons. Even in close-quarters combat, where firearms would typically be a disadvantage, the Emperor’s daughter calmly dodged every attack and countered with precision.

It wasn’t the kind of movement taught in a standard training manual.

She moved as if she already knew her opponent’s every move.

Would it really be so difficult for someone like her to infiltrate an Earl’s estate?

That wasn’t the only strange thing.

When Sylvia Fangriffon entered the student council room, Mia had directed all her killing intent toward her. Yet, Sylvia hadn’t even flinched. Perhaps Mia’s magical power wasn’t strong enough, but that didn’t explain why Alice Fangriffon and Princess Charlotte of Belbur, both seated nearby, seemed slightly unsettled.

It had been clear hostility directed at the Emperor’s daughter. Not reacting to that would have been odd, but Sylvia remained calm, as if it were entirely natural.

A small frame stood there. Inside was a black-and-white photograph of three people.

Mia, her mother, and her father.

Nobles typically preferred portraits over photographs. Portraits were considered more “elegant” and “noble-like.” Taking a photograph was something only those without time to wait for a portrait or the money to commission a painter would do.

Besides, portraits usually depicted a more idealized version of oneself compared to photographs. Portraits involved the artist’s interpretation, and that interpretation was often influenced by the patron’s preferences.

That was why Mia didn’t hang a family portrait in her room.

She remembered the father from her childhood.

He was often absent at night, working tirelessly for the people of his territory. His gaunt appearance was a reflection of his dedication. Mia remembered that look, how her father always worked hard.

She recalled Sylvia Fangriffon’s face, staring directly at her, without a hint of guilt.

Sylvia Fangriffon, drinking tea with hands undoubtedly stained with blood.

“...I can never forgive her.”

Mia muttered to herself, reaffirming the hatred deep in her heart.

Sylvia Fangriffon would die. She would pay for her sins with her life.

Even if Mia had to sacrifice her own life in the process.

Of course, despite their conversations, Sylvia’s expression never changed. No matter how long Alice spoke, Sylvia’s replies were always short.

Yet, there was a strange warmth between the two. Neither princess smiled often, both maintaining stern faces at all times.

How could Sylvia remain so calm?

Did she think that Mia Crowfield was too naive to ever seek revenge?

"...Ah."

But today, things felt different.

Alice Fangriffon’s face showed a slight change when she looked at Mia. It wasn’t the same expression from yesterday. Yesterday, she had merely been surprised by Mia’s hostility toward Sylvia.

But maybe... that’s why Alice looked more conflicted today.

Even without a staff, Mia knew she would be easily subdued if she attacked Alice. The princess was an exceptional swordsman.

So she wasn’t scared of Mia’s killing intent.

Could it be guilt?

"Mia Crowfield."

"...Your Highness."

For today, Mia decided to hold back her hatred. After all, constantly exuding hostility toward even a hated foe would only lead to failure.

But could she succeed?

"..."

Sylvia Fangriffon stared at Mia with that same cold, expressionless face.

Her gaze conveyed nothing. It was as if Mia Crowfield, standing before her, held no value, as though she felt nothing toward her.

"Are you hungry?"

Suddenly, Alice Fangriffon asked Sylvia a question.

The cold gaze shifted from Mia to Alice.

"..."

Sylvia didn’t answer.

"Let’s go then. You should have breakfast. You tend to eat a lot in the morning, don’t you?"

"..."

Still, Sylvia remained silent.

Did Alice deliberately distract Sylvia?

Why?

"Well, we’ll be off. You know, you need three square meals a day to function properly."

"Ah, yes..."

Mia’s expression faltered at Alice’s words.

But the fire in her chest reignited quickly.

"..."

In the end, Sylvia didn’t even care.

That’s fine. I’ll just have to show her that this righteous anger will eventually pierce her with a blade of vengeance.

Mia Crowfield stood still, glaring at their retreating figures.

Had my stomach growled? There was no reason for Alice to make that observation otherwise.

"It was written all over your face. Why?"

My face?

"...No, I don’t think so..."

I stared at Alice, who seemed embarrassed and looked away.

Does she have vision like a microscope? How else could she have noticed micro-expressions in my face that not even I was aware of?

"...And just because someone shows hostility doesn’t mean you always have to respond."

"I don’t intend to always respond."

Alice gave me some advice, and I replied calmly.

"I just thought the anger was understandable."

She was angry because I killed her father.

And she didn’t even know the full truth. Even after yesterday’s events, it wasn’t something she could easily accept, no matter what I told her.

It would be better to let her figure things out herself.

"..."

Alice stared at me quietly as I mused.

I wasn’t expressionless, but I couldn’t read her face either. Her expression was a blend of emotions, a mixture too vague for me to understand.

...It felt a little unfair that Alice could read my expressions, but I couldn’t read hers.