Louis opened his status.
A transparent, light-blue screen unfolded before his eyes, floating just close enough to read without obstructing his view of the hall.
His gaze moved quickly.
Name.
Class.
Rank.
Level.
Druid.
He paused.
For a moment, he simply stared at the word, letting it sink in.
Druid…?
Images surfaced unbidden—his childhood, sitting beside his father as nature documentaries played on an old television. Vast forests. Herds moving in silence. Predators waiting patiently, not out of cruelty, but necessity. Back then, he had liked it. More than liked it, actually.
He had just… stopped thinking about it after high school.
Louis had expected something else. A warlock, maybe. Something destructive. Something fitting for someone who preferred solitude, who kept people at arm's length, who sometimes just wanted to vent everything pent-up and burn it away.
Yet here it was.
Druid.
Before he could dwell on it further, his eyes moved down the panel.
Unique Skill: Resilience
He selected it.
The description that appeared was… sparse.
Vague.
So vague that it almost felt deliberate.
Louis let out a silent breath.
The vaguer the description, he thought, the more room there is to exploit it.
That had always been the rule with systems like this. Clear limits were chains. Unclear ones were doors.
When he dismissed the screen, the hall had grown quieter. The counselor—already prepared, it seemed—had motioned, and a crystalline device was brought forward. Its surface shimmered faintly, runes flickering along its edges.
A tool.
One meant to read and record.
Louis' eyes narrowed slightly.
Aren't status screens supposed to be private?
The Goddess' words echoed faintly in his mind.
He was just beginning to consider how to raise the issue—carefully, without drawing attention—when a voice spoke.
"Excuse me."
A girl stepped forward from among the heroes.
Her tone was calm, her posture composed.
"The Goddess told us our statuses aren't meant to be revealed to others," she said. "That they're private."
For a moment, the hall was silent.
Then the counselor laughed.
It wasn't loud or mocking—just a soft, controlled sound, touched with amusement and calculation. As though he'd just discovered something worth remembering.
"So you were paying attention," he said mildly.
With a casual gesture, the crystalline device was withdrawn.
From the throne, the Emperor watched the exchange with visible interest.
"Good," he said. "It would seem the Goddess did not send us fools."
The matter was closed.
Louis exhaled quietly.
Good.
He hadn't wanted to be the one.
As the tension eased, his gaze drifted naturally across the hall.
The eldest prince leaned forward slightly, his attention fixed on the girl who had spoken. Not infatuation—interest. Measured and deliberate.
The second prince looked displeased, though he masked it quickly.
The crown princess remained composed, her eyes quietly reassessing the summoned heroes as a whole.
Then Louis' gaze drifted past the Emperor and briefly settled on the Queen.
Purple hair.
That alone was enough.
Southern bloodline, he concluded almost immediately. Either directly from the Duke of the South's house or a closely tied branch family. The color was too distinct to be coincidence.
His attention lingered—not out of fascination, but acknowledgment.
The Queen carried herself with practiced elegance, her posture straight, her presence composed and refined in a way that spoke of years spent at the heart of power. There was strength there, not loud or imposing, but disciplined and assured.
The Princess beside her mirrored that grace in a younger form. Slender, poised, and well-trained in courtly bearing, she held herself with a quiet confidence befitting her station.
Royal blood, unmistakable.
Having noted that much, Louis looked away.