Chapter 9
Somewhere in the mountains of the Marquisate of Hiohne, a woman carrying a black parasol was walking.
The woman was wearing a rose-colored dress wholly unsuitable for hiking in the mountains. A showy rose hair ornament adorned her unruly red hair.
After letting out a series of rough, wheezing breaths, the woman, whose sharp features were covered in heavy makeup, plopped down on a nearby stump.
"Ah, I'm exhausted... Honestly, secret research or whatever, they shouldn't have planted a field in a place this remote."
Her destination was the field where the House of Hiohne and the 〈Thorn Witch〉 were conducting secret research into imbuing plants with magic.
However, the woman was not interested in the research itself.
The woman folded her parasol and let an evil grin spread across her lips.
"I wonder if that idiot little brother of mine has used the fertilizer by now... Without realizing that I replaced some of what I mixed into it! He must be making a complete fool of himself in front of the Marquis of Hiohne right about now!"
The woman's name was Melissa Roseberg.
The former 〈Thorn Witch〉 and elder sister of Raul Roseberg, the fifth-generation 〈Thorn Witch〉, had come hiking through the mountains for one reason alone: she wanted to see her little brother look troubled.
The fourth-generation 〈Thorn Witch〉 had a thoroughly dishonorable title attached to her name.
Namely, "The Seven Sage Who Was Fired in the Shortest Time in History."
Melissa had become the fourth-generation 〈Thorn Witch〉 at the tender age of twenty. She put her exceptional talent to use making potions and selling them, then making more and selling them, and finally making and selling them like mad, until she incurred her family's wrath.
The hidebound members of the family had all condemned her, saying, "Potions are the family's most closely guarded secret. How dare you sell them so casually?" But in Melissa's opinion, the matter could be summed up in one sentence: "If they can be sold, why not sell them?"
Money was never something a mage with expensive research could have too much of. Besides, dealing with her hated freckles and unruly hair took money.
...Don't be tactless enough to point out that this had nothing to do with research. Dealing with her unruly hair and freckles was a lifelong research project for Melissa.
And so, after using the money from selling the family's secret potions to buy every beauty potion she could get her hands on, Melissa was driven from her position as head of the Roseberg family after only a few months. Her younger brother Raul became the fifth-generation 〈Thorn Witch〉 in her place.
That younger brother, Raul, had absolutely no endearing qualities.
His talent was said to be a throwback to his ancestors, and his magical reserves were the greatest in the country.
On top of that, he had a face reminiscent of the first 〈Thorn Witch〉, and despite doing nothing but farm work, he didn't have a single freckle. Melissa, meanwhile, couldn't get rid of her freckles no matter how much she carried a parasol, applied beauty potions, or caked on powder!!
To make matters worse, she hated his hair texture. Even though they both had red hair, Melissa's was somehow coarse and dry, while Raul's was praised as glossy, beautiful rose-colored curls.
Ah, what an infuriating little brother! He had talent, a beautiful face, and, to top it all off, none of the worries Melissa had about freckles and unruly hair!
(That idiot little brother deserves to be humiliated.)
Just thinking of her little brother's carefree face made irritation boil up inside her.
Melissa gave a derisive snort, sprang to her feet, and started walking again, all for the sole purpose of seeing her little brother's disgrace.
By now, Raul was probably at his wits' end, unaware that Melissa had tampered with the fertilizer.
The mere thought of her little brother floundering in confusion made her feel better.
"Go ahead and struggle all you like. Serves you right, you idiot little brother! Ah-ha-ha-ha! ...Hmm?"
Melissa cut off her peal of laughter and focused on what lay ahead. Something green and writhing was visible between the trees.
The green, writhing thing stretched rapidly, growing higher and higher until it towered over the trees around it.
Despite her disgrace, Melissa had once been one of the Seven Sages; she could tell what it was at a glance.
It was a plant that had grown grotesquely large from being infused with too much magic.
"Th-those are peas, aren't they?"
Melissa had more than enough reason to recognize what was happening, and her cheeks twitched.
Melissa had indeed tampered with the fertilizer. But the substance she had added shouldn't have caused the peas to grow this enormous.
Having no idea that Raul had gotten two decimal places wrong, Melissa stood there in a daze, still clutching her parasol.
(Come on, come on, come oooon! What on earth did that idiot little brother do?!)
In Melissa's line of sight, the peas—the culmination of the Roseberg siblings' petty scheme and careless mistake—were about to grow even further.
＊ ＊ ＊
Cyril gritted his teeth while maintaining the defensive barrier.
Thanks to the defensive barrier he had thrown up in an instant, he had somehow avoided being caught by the pea's vines. But he couldn't move freely while maintaining it, and even when he cut through the vines with ice spears, they immediately grew back.
"Can't you do something about this, Lord Roseberg?!"
When Cyril shouted, Raul scratched his head and murmured, "Hmm," in a thoroughly unconcerned voice.
"If only we had a rose..."
Cyril had absolutely no idea how a rose could turn this situation around, but all he could do was pin his hopes on a miracle from one of the Seven Sages.
"...Would a rose really be enough to turn this around?"
"Yeah. Just one cut rose will do. If necessary, something processed, like a dried flower, would work too."
This field was mainly used to grow vegetables and medicinal herbs; they did not grow roses.
Even so, Cyril had one possible solution.
(...But that...)
His hesitation lasted only a moment. Rescuing Monica was the top priority.
Cyril grimaced as he told Raul,
"...There is a winter-solstice wreath in my bag. It should have several roses preserved as dried flowers on it."
In the Kingdom of Ridill, people had a custom of decorating their homes with wreaths during the winter-solstice break. Wreaths were said to possess the power to ward off evil; hanging one on the front door drove away calamity and invited happiness in the new year.
Wreaths were generally made by decorating a woven base of tree branches with fir, pinecones, hawthorn berries, and the like. The wreath Cyril had prepared, however, was decorated with several dried white roses.
"Where's Cyril's bag?"
"...In the cart."
The cart loaded with tools needed for farm work had been left a short distance from the pea field. It would take less than five minutes to reach it at a run—assuming the pea's vines had not blocked the way.
The two of them were already surrounded by the pea's vines. Reaching the cart would be no simple matter.
Cyril steeled himself and removed the brooch from his collar. The brooch was also a magical tool that absorbed excess magic from his body and expelled it.
If he was going to use magic at full power, he would be better off without the brooch.
"...I'll buy you some time. Head for the cart."
"Are you sure?"
Whether it was good or bad was beside the point. They had no other choice.
Cyril glared fiercely at Raul and shouted in a voice that boomed from deep in his gut,
"Just so we're clear, if this situation gets any worse, you won't be setting foot through the gates of the House of Hiohne ever again!"
Even a crying child would fall silent at Cyril's roar, yet for some reason, Raul's face lit up.
"That's a declaration that we're breaking off our friendship, right? Awesome! It sounds so much like something friends would say!"
Cyril grimaced and clicked his tongue at Raul, who remained absurdly carefree even at a time like this.
But there was no time to waste on any further retort.
Maintaining the defensive barrier, Cyril recited a somewhat longer incantation. Then he turned his gaze behind him, toward the cart.
"...Go!!"
The instant Cyril snapped his fingers, blades of ice sliced through the pea's vines.
Though the vines quickly regenerated and tried to encroach, Cyril held them back with a wall of ice.
"Don't just stand there! Run! Raul Roseberg!"
When Cyril shouted, Raul, who had long wanted Cyril to call him by name without an honorific, ran off cheerfully, shouting, "Leave it to me!"