The mercenary's night began in chains of unease. Kur, the dragon maid, had dragged him into the secluded villa of her master, Myael. What should have been a proud noble's residence felt strangely hollow—its hallways silent, its servants absent. Only Myael's soft footsteps led the way deeper inside, her every movement carrying an elegance both captivating and dangerous.
The air was heavy with unspoken tension. Though Kur's prank had been cruel, it was clear that beneath Myael's smile lay something far more intricate than petty revenge. Even her choice of attire carried strange meaning. Nobles of the Hercules Empire never bared their backs lightly, for in that war-scarred land, the back was seen as the most vulnerable part of the body. Yet tonight, Myael's gown was deliberately cut low, its fabric slipping dangerously close to revealing everything. To show one's back in this empire was either a gesture of deep trust—or a silent signal of courtship.
The mercenary could not decide which truth weighed heavier on his chest.
At last, Myael paused before a locked door, her voice calm but laced with gravity. She wished to show him something before revealing what he could never do. With a simple twist, the lock yielded, and a suffocating air spilled out. The room beyond was not a treasury of jewels nor a vault of imperial secrets—but a chamber overflowing with paintings.
The smell of aged canvas and wet oils filled the lungs. Countless works leaned against walls and cluttered the floor, yet none resembled art. Thick, misshapen strokes clung like wounds upon the canvas, colors bleeding with no harmony, shapes distorted beyond recognition. The mercenary could not hide his confusion.
When Myael placed one piece into his hands, he studied it with all his focus. Amid tangled lines, he discerned faint traces of a circle, patches of green, and a crooked beam of brown. With hesitation, he guessed it resembled swamp ruins. But Myael revealed the truth—it was meant to be Trinity Academy's main hall.
Shock rooted him in place. The brushwork was not the creation of a nameless child, but of Princess Myael herself.
She admitted it with a small laugh, her expression serene despite the humiliation of her own confession. The genius princess who excelled in sword, magic, and learning, the one who crushed obstacles as if ordained by the heavens—could not paint. No matter how much she practiced, her skill never improved.
For her, this flaw was not a shame, but a strange comfort. Drawing was the only act in which she could stumble like any ordinary person. While others called her unique, eccentric, or expressive, she only felt loneliness, for none dared to speak the truth. Only two ever had: her dragon maid, Kur, and her childhood friend, Connor.
Now, he too had joined that narrow circle.
Yet there was more to her failure than mere clumsiness. With quiet grace, she lifted the hem of her gown and spoke of her curse. Every cultivator and noble within the empire bore some secret curse, a mark of imperfection hidden by power or lineage. Hers was the Curse of Lost Aesthetic Sense. To her eyes, beauty meant nothing. Flowers, jewels, paintings—things that made others marvel—stirred no feeling within her. Instead, she found herself drawn to sights others ignored.
Her current attire, even the revealing gown, had been chosen by Kur. She herself could not tell whether it was beautiful or vulgar.
But there was one thing, one moment, that had pierced through the curse. She remembered the mercenary's final charge during their duel—his fearless advance, his eyes unwavering even as her storm bore down upon him. That unyielding resolve, that defiance, shone to her as the most beautiful sight she had ever known.
The painting she pressed into his hands was not of a building, nor of ruins, but of him.
Dinner that night blurred into warmth and strangeness. The taste of food lingered like a dream, though details of conversation slipped away. By the time he returned to the academy's dormitory, guided once more by Kur's cold glare, he carried the princess's painting in his arms like a treasure.
Alone in his room, reality finally pressed down upon him. He had dined in secret with a noble princess. He had received a personal painting—one born of curse and sincerity. And he had been called beautiful.
The words of his cultivation instructor echoed now, heavy with meaning. In the three great kingdoms, the act of revealing one's curse was sacred. Among nobles, among cultivators, among lovers—it was a ritual most often reserved for the night of marriage. To bare one's curse was to bare one's soul.
The mercenary sat in stunned silence, heart pounding, unable to escape the echo of her words.
She had shown him her weakness. She had painted him. She had called him beautiful.
And by the law of their world, such things were never done lightly.