A Villainess pulled out the Sword instead of the Hero.

 

The child was apparently a literal thief, but from the first collapse, Kellive had been categorizing the stranger as a scavenger.

 

He would have been free to use his magic to choke them out if it weren’t for the watchful gaze, but Morgana was surprisingly sensitive.

 

‘I’m surprised he could recognize a human from the sound of a tumble.’

 

Kellive ran his thumb across Gawain’s armor. He ran a hand through his hair as he looked at himself in the cleaned armor.

 “This is a very important day for me.” “Is my armor… a mirror substitute for yours?”

grunted Gawain.

 “Never mind, I hope you didn’t bring any trinkets or anything useful.” “I’m sure you’ll get plenty of stares, given your striking appearance.” “That’s what I thought, but I guess not.” 

Kellive swept an embarrassed hand across his face.

 

Morgana’s acceptance into the palace would further distance her from him.

 

He couldn’t even invite her to Avalon. The timing was difficult.

 

If he wanted to, he could just kidnap her, like the Duke of Fay had done.

 

But that wasn’t the type of man Morgana wanted.

 

A mocking smile crossed his face, his golden eyes contorted.

 “I need someone who will stand up for Avalon.” 

Someone who would fight to the death, not because they were threatened.

 

For whatever reason, be it wealth, power, or whatever.

 

He gestured to the wizard with his head.

 “See if you can find any evidence of Duke Fay behind this. We’ve been dragging this out too long.” “Yes.” 

The moment Gawain’s answer fell out, the man’s blurry eyes cleared.

 

Blood-drawn magic circles quickly formed on the floor.

 

Kellive stretched out his hand and his sword, Tyrving, appeared from subspace.

 

With a clang, it sliced through the center of the magic circle. It crackled and flashed as if it was about to continue casting.

 

He pulled Tyrving out of the ground, and the circle shattered with a resounding crack.

 

The cast failed, and the mage was drained of energy, picked up, and stunned.

 

At the sight, Kellive brushed his hands off. His leather gloves were scorched from the effort of suppressing the last of the magic.

 

Through the torn leather, he could see the wounds on his hands. He looked down at his bloodied hands and muttered.

 “Ah, the lady said she liked pretty things.”  

Lights were brightly lit in the mansion’s reception room, untimely.

 

Morgana smiled at the boy, who sat curled up on the large sofa, his chin propped up by his hands.

 

The boy’s mouth was clamped shut, trying to keep his eyes off the bread in front of him.

 

The mercenary standing behind him whispered in disbelief.

 “He tried to break in, are you sure it’s okay?” “I’m fine.” 

Strictly speaking, Lord Caradoc’s arm had been healed by power, not herbs.

 

Herbs that had similar effects on simple wounds that weren’t actually curses couldn’t heal so quickly.

 

‘It’s because so few people know the various herbalism.’

 

The boy realized this at once.

 

At least he knew what herbs were doing what.

 

The boy was not a wealthy man, dressed in old-looking black robes and a grizzled appearance.

 

When Morgana stared at him, the child’s eyes flickered with fear, before finally filling with tears.

 “Ple— please help me.” “It’s not poisoned or anything. I just thought we could get something to eat and talk.” 

Before Morgana could finish her question, her stomach gurgled and rumbled.

 

If I had a chef, I’d have made him something decent.

 

Still skeptical, Morgana popped a piece of bread in front of him and into her mouth.

 “Mmm, delicious!” 

Relieved, the boy gobbled it down in one gulp. He hadn’t eaten in days.

 “What’s your name?” “Per… Percival.” 

Percival.

 

Wait…?

 

That Percival?!

 

Percival, the apothecary who burst onto the battlefields of Britain and Avalon.

 

Though young, he was recognized as a genius, and no one knew where he came from or what region he was from.

 

For some reason, he got himself into trouble in Britain for helping Avalon in the original story.

 

He was not threatened by anyone, and he had only one word for those who tried to lure him to Britain.

 

‘This war is not right, my mom taught me that.’

 

By the end of the war, he had disappeared into obscurity.

 

Rumor had it that he had been assassinated by someone in Britain for being a nuisance.

 

‘Where did he come from, living in the mountains as a hermit!’

 

The gold nuggets had rolled in.

 “Hmph, who taught you herbalism?”

 

 

Morgana said calmly, trying to keep the corner of her lips from twitching.

 

Seeing no danger, Percival blurted out the answer innocently.

 “My mom.” “So your mother knows herbs well?” 

Percival nodded, glancing and squinting at the mercenaries.

 

He was wary of them, perhaps because of the way they’d snarled at him when he’d first been captured.

 

Leaning down slightly to get as far away from the mercenaries as possible, Percival spoke, still glaring at them.

 “My mom and I live in the mountains of Britannia, and every day she picks herbs because we have nothing to eat.” “Since when have you been living in the mountains, and your mother has no intention of ever coming down?” “Then we’ll run into the priests, and my mom hates them for not saving my dad.” 

In the original story, his father’s story was never told.

 

There are only a few priests in each temple, and they tend to see the wounded in order of urgency.

 

Percival’s father probably died in the process, untreated, and his mother took him with her and turned her back on the world.

 

‘Was your father a mercenary?’ 

 

In recent years, the temple hadn’t seen an increase in wounded beyond its capacity.

 

But I’ve heard that mercenaries are more likely to be injured from dealing with demons, and if they accidentally encounter one that’s stronger than they are, they could be annihilated.

 

‘With demons only in Britain, it’s no wonder he hates this place.’

 

In the original story, it’s unlikely that he chose Avalon because of a cause, but rather because he resented Britain for waging war on behalf of the Oracle.

 

Percival looked at the leftover bread thoughtfully.

 “Can I take this and give it to my mom?” “Of course. I will pack more on the way. Why did you come down from the mountain today?” “My mom is sick. She ate some strange grass and has been lying down for two days.” 

‘She ate the wrong poisonous grass.’

 

Morgana may have survived with her powers, but this was how most self-taught people die.

 

Percival had come down to try to save his mother’s life, but he had no money and was being chased from place to place, and the merchants had heard Morgana’s story.

 “Do you remember what kind of herb she took?” “A leaf as long as my forearm, and this many leaves?” 

He waved his arms wildly to demonstrate.

 

Leaves that big are often actually edible, so it’s easy to get confused if you’re not familiar with them.

 

Morgana slid the small pouch of herbs she’d packed from her arm across the table to him.

 

Without even opening it, Percival recognized what it contained at once.

 “This is a detoxifying herb, right?” 

He had a hunch. Maybe it’s because he’s been around herbs since he was a kid, or maybe it’s in his blood.

 “That’s right, take it to your mother. You can stop by the mansion again if you need to, but you have to come back within a week.” 

After that, it’s too late, because she’s scheduled to enter the palace.

 

Morgana stroked Percival’s head lightly, one hand clutching the little pouch of herbs like a lifeline.

 “Not for free, of course.” 

There was a pause, and Percival, who had just been biting into the bread, spat it out in silence.

 

He didn’t mean to spit out what he was eating.

 

Morgana crossed her arms over the table and asked him nicely. Trying to make it sound as non-threatening as possible.

 “If I ever open an apothecary, would you like to be an assistant?” “Me, you mean me?” “I need someone who knows herbs, and I can teach you. I’ll pay you generously, and I’ll give you room and board if you want.”