The Yellow-Haired Villain in Soaring Phoenix's Novels Also Desires Happiness Chapter 897: 89. Scene Reenactment

“The Church, huh?”

Lorne rode his horse at Celicia’s side, deliberately keeping himself half a step behind her.

“It’s been a long ti since I’ve had any dealings with them.”

“Lord Campbell doesn’t worship the Life Goddess?”

“Hah. My Campbell family has never believed in that sort of fancy nonsense. We only believe in our own muscles.”

Lorne slapped his sturdy arm and laughed heartily.

“My wife used to worship the Life Goddess, though.”

“Your wife?”

A flicker passed through Celicia’s cool gaze, as though so inexplicable tension had suddenly tightened there.

“And now...?”

“She doesn’t anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Well...”

Lorne’s old face suddenly turned red. Scratching his head, he said with a bashfulness utterly at odds with his bearing,

“It’s nothing much, really. My wife just said... she worshiped the goddess, but the goddess still wouldn’t help her catch all those little vixens outside, and she had to deal with them herself anyway, so what exactly was the point of worshiping the goddess?”

“...”

“Of course, that was only sothing she said in anger! I’ve never actually gone chasing after any little vixens outside!” Lorne hurriedly waved both hands, eager to prove his innocence, when the atmosphere suddenly froze for a beat.

“...Pfft.”

After another brief silence, a silver-bell laugh rang out from the shadows.

“Your wife really is wonderfully straightforward.”

“My wife’s always been like that. She can’t stand even a grain of sand in her eye, and what she hates most are those indecent, flashy won running around outside...” Lorne put on a stern face and said solemnly, “And let repeat, I have never had anything to do with won like that!”

“Hehe. You’re quite amusing too, Your Grace. Though you and a certain shaless philanderer are father and son, your temperants are very different.”

The voice from the shadows was rich with implication.

“If only he were more like you. Don’t you agree?”

“...”

Lorne did not dare answer at all. Sohow, any reply here felt like the wrong one.

“Heh. Laughable... It seems certain people still don’t understand their own place.”

Celicia glanced toward the shadows and suddenly let out a low, mocking laugh.

“Have they really lost all sha to this degree?”

“Who doesn’t understand their place remains to be seen,” the voice in the shadows shot back without yielding an inch. “These things are about first co, first served. They aren’t decided by so useless scrap of paper.”

“Hmph.”

Celicia gave a light snort, but did not continue the exchange.

Not because she was backing down, but because as they spoke, the Church’s procession had already drawn near.

Wooo—

The Holy Light cross banner stread in the air, and the solemn blare of horns echoed through the camp.

Under normal circumstances, a eting between the Empress of the Empire and the Saintess of the Church was the sort of event that would draw the attention of the entire continent. The reception alone would have required the highest standards, and the ceremony itself would have dragged on for nearly half a day.

But circumstances were special now, and with no outside third party present to observe, everything was simplified to the utmost.

The two sides exchanged only the briefest formalities, then cordoned off an area and used magic to erect a small temporary fortress shielded from prying eyes, which served as the site of the eting.

Celicia entered with only Anna and Lorne at her side.

On the Church’s side, there were only the current Saintess and the mysterious Judgnt Archbishop.

“A Saintess, huh... To be honest, I’m a little nervous.”

Lorne muttered uneasily under his breath.

“A rough old brute like would be in trouble if I sohow offended Her Holiness.”

“Don’t worry.”

Anna lowered her voice as well.

“Our Saintess has a very good temper... at least where Your Grace is concerned.”

“Hm?”

Lorne stole a glance at Anna’s aningful profile, puzzled.

Miss Anna knew the Saintess that well? Hadn’t the Empire’s Silent Bureau always hated the Church of Life the most?

But there was no ti to dwell on questions like that now. As those asured footsteps, almost musical in rhythm, drew near, the holy aura grew stronger and stronger. Lorne quickly adjusted the formal clothes he had hurriedly thrown on one last ti.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed sothing even stranger. Neither Her Majesty the Empress nor the acting Swordbearer looked the least bit solemn or proper for a eting with the Church’s Saintess. One wore an icy expression, the other a half-smile, as though this were not a high-level diplomatic conference at all, but a eting with so sworn rival atop the city walls.

What was going on here? Looking at them, could it be that—

“Oh my, you’re all here already?”

Before the voice fully arrived, holy radiance had already spilled across every corner of the place.

It was warr than sunlight, even more dazzling than sunlight, as if ant deliberately to heighten the pressure of the mont. In an instant, the entire space was as bright as day.

Lorne narrowed his eyes slightly, then quickly adjusted to the glare and got his first clear look at the newly appointed young Saintess.

She was a young woman whose beauty did not pale in the slightest beside the two won at his side, but her style was utterly different.

If Her Majesty the Empress was a snow lotus atop a high mountain, and Miss Anna a spirit beneath the moon, then this Saintess was like a little wild rabbit quietly poking its head up in a sunlit adow.

Cute, soft, harmless—

and yet with sothing deeply hidden beneath that appearance: a stubborn streak and a wildness of her own. Anyone foolish enough to underestimate her because of how she looked would probably find themselves getting bitten hard.

—So this one wasn’t easy to handle either.

Drawing on his rich life experience, Lorne reached that conclusion almost imdiately... Wait, no. Why was he making that kind of judgnt in the first place?

Lorne snapped back to himself, only to notice sothing else unusual.

The veil.

Ordinarily, as the holy and exalted proxy of the divine, a Saintess would wear a veil over her face when eting outsiders. It ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) was both protection against prying eyes and a ans of preserving the Saintess’s mystery.

But Her Holiness was not wearing a veil now, which ant...

In the eyes of the Saintess before him, everyone here... counted as soone close to her?

“So this is the fad Lion King—the Duke Lorne Campbell.”

While Lorne’s thoughts were running wild, Liya’s gaze had already settled on him, carrying a touch of respect, a touch of curiosity, and a perfectly restrained sort of discreet appraisal.

She did not greet the Empress of the Empire first. She passed right over the acting Swordbearer as well, and addressed Lorne directly.

“Ah... yes. I am Lorne Campbell. My na is hardly worth ntioning. Your Holiness is too gracious.”

Lorne did not dare show the slightest negligence. He placed a hand over his chest and bowed. In his eyes, the young woman before him was still an immature little girl, but her status already placed her among the highest and most exalted figures on the continent.

Who would dare behave rudely toward the Saintess herself? If word got out, a fool bold enough to do that would be drowned alive in the spit of countless believers.

“There’s no need for such formality, Your Grace.”

Liya’s bearing was flawless. After returning the courtesy in equal asure, she extended one hand toward him.

“Hm?”

Lorne did not understand, but he still followed her lead and extended one hand as well.

And then...

Just as Lorne was thinking Her Holiness was about to give him so uniquely sacred Church greeting, he suddenly felt warmth settling into his palm.

Lowering his head, he saw that sohow, from who knew where, the Saintess had produced a cup of tea. Holding it in both hands, she placed it into his with a shy, well-behaved little motion.

“Here, Your Grace, please have so tea.”

At that mont, the lofty Saintess seed instead to be seeking his approval, her face full of hopeful anticipation.

“I brewed it myself.”