Instead of riding the military trains when heading back toward the Babel landship with Theresa, Jeanne and the others piled into one of the vanguard's smaller vehicles.
For the first time since her arrival, Jeanne truly understood what it felt like to be a public spectacle. She could feel everyone in the vehicle subtly stealing sideways glances at her. The worst part was that they weren't even trying to hide their curiosity, watching her with a totally unblinking, analytical focus.
What Jeanne didn't know was that a few days ago, while suffering from one of her classic mental sanity drops, the Doctor had been muttering to herself in her private office. Right at that moment, ACE happened to be walking past the door, accidentally overhearing the Doctor ramble about how Jeanne belonged to the exact same unique race as her.
Now, while ACE wasn't a malicious gossip by nature, a legendary secret like that was bound to slip out the moment he had a few beers with the other elite operators. After a couple of rounds at the bar, the rumor had organically spread until practically every elite vanguard member in Babel was entirely in the loop.
Of course, a critical piece of intelligence like this was kept strictly within the inner circle of the elite operators. They weren't stupid enough to go around broadcasting a top-secret classified mystery to the ordinary foot soldiers; they knew exactly how to police their own security clearance.
Besides, encountering a completely bizarre, unregistered bloodline wasn't exactly a shocking event on Terra. The sheer evolutionary lineage of the species on this planet was about as chaotic and messy as a house thoroughly demolished by a hyperactive husky, and certain ancient hidden races were known to conceal their true identities incredibly well.
Who was going to raise an eyebrow if a supposedly extinct race suddenly popped back into existence out of nowhere? It was exactly like the persistent rumors claiming the ancient Draco bloodline had completely died out—even though absolutely no one with a brain actually believed a ridiculous fairy tale like that.
It was blindingly obvious that the Victorian parliament simply used those fictional stories to pacify the lower classes, keeping the peasants from dreaming any useless, dangerous dreams about the legendary Draco returning to reclaim the throne.
What the elite operators actually cared about was a much deeper mystery: What exact race did their own Doctor belong to? The mysterious tactician famously refused to ever remove her heavy protective combat gear in front of another living soul. Forget her facial features—the operators had only been able to guess her potential hair color by analyzing a pair of loose strands they had scavenged from her desk.
Therefore, Jeanne's physical appearance was currently the single most valuable reference point they had for figuring out the Doctor's genetic background! In fact, ACE had been so incredibly confident in his own theory that he had boldly wagered an entire month's worth of his beer supply on the outcome, betting the house that the Doctor was secretly a short-eared Cautus.
From ACE's perspective, his logic was absolutely ironclad. How else could anyone explain why the Doctor showed such a bizarre, hyper-focused obsession with looking after little Amiya? Furthermore, the expert, incredibly practiced technique the Doctor used whenever she petted little Amiya's long ears was something you only ever saw in biological family members!
ACE had truly believed that it was a mathematical impossibility for him to lose this bet. But the moment his eyes scanned the absolute top of Jeanne's head—noticing the complete, total absence of any hidden rabbit ears or telltale physical traits—the hardened, stoic vanguard warrior felt his inner spirit sink into absolute despair.
A whole month's worth of premium beer, gone instantly into Logos's stomach! He internally cursed his past self, wondering why on earth he had been reckless enough to agree to a high-stakes gamble with that Banshee of all people. The sheer, overwhelming regret was eating him alive.
Jeanne silently observed the unmoving, rugged warrior sitting across from her. Wow, for a guy who looks like a total brick wall on the outside, his inner monologue must be running a full theatrical production, she thought. And judging by his tragic aura, it looks like this big tough guy just suffered a massive financial loss entirely because of me. Wait... don't tell me these idiots actually set up a betting pool regarding my arrival?
Even though ACE's rugged, stone-faced expression didn't show a single flicker of emotion, Jeanne could confidently piece together exactly what was going on in his mind flawlessly.
Meanwhile, ACE remained completely oblivious to the fact that his deepest, most dramatic financial woes had been fully mapped out (?) by the teenage girl sitting across from him. He simply sat perfectly still, maintaining the standard, unreadable mask expected of a Babel elite operator.
The rest of the cabin was still locked in an intense mental debate over Jeanne's evolutionary origins. The top of her head was entirely bare, lacking a single horn, feather, or animal trait common to the Liberi or Kuranta, and she didn't look like any known branch of the Ancients either. It was an absolute guessing nightmare.
It wasn't like they could just lean over and analyze her tail. Trying to drop their gaze to inspect a young lady's backside in a cramped military vehicle was crossing a major line, and the operators were far too disciplined to commit such an incredibly rude, perverted breach of manners.
However, a few of the scout operators distinctly remembered their very first encounter with Jeanne, recalling that she didn't seem to possess a tail of any description behind her armor. Then again, they reasoned she might belong to a rare sub-branch similar to certain Cautus models, whose tails were so remarkably short and flush against the skin that they were impossible to detect under heavy clothing.
But the moment their eyes drifted up to meet Jeanne's cold, pale golden pupils, a sudden, primal instinct tore through their chests. It felt exactly as if they had been targeted by an apex, prehistoric predator, causing their hearts to seize up in an involuntary spike of survival panic.
That specific aura... it strongly suggested that Jeanne didn't belong to the ordinary races of Terra at all. She felt far more aligned with the mythological classification the Doctor always loved to ramble about during her late-night briefings—what was that bizarre, alien term she used? 'Mythological Breed,' or something strange like that.
Following that specific line of logic, it meant their mysterious Doctor was likely a mythological being as well. Considering that chilling, reptilian intensity lingering in Jeanne's gaze, could their tactical commander secretly be a pure-blooded Draco? But if that were the case, where on earth were their massive, heavy dragon tails hiding?
For the first time in their long, violent military careers, a group of hardened Babel elite operators found themselves locked in a profound philosophical crisis over the existential placement of a tail. This was particularly ironic given that half the operators in the car routinely complained that their own animal tails were an annoying, useless burden during high-intensity combat operations.
Sitting in the corner, Kal'tsit watched the silent mental chaos unfold with a cold, detached amusement. She didn't feel the slightest urge to step in and shut down their internal theories; she knew full well that once a Babel operator's obsessive curiosity was fully provoked, trying to force them to stop thinking about it was an absolute exercise in futility.
Besides, she knew her elite guards would never cross the line into actually harassing Jeanne. Letting them mingle like this was an excellent opportunity for the girl to naturally integrate with the core leadership of the landship, which would make future diplomatic communications significantly smoother.
While the doctor chose to remain a passive spectator, Logos—who had been sitting perfectly silent while manipulating his specialized casting staff for the past ten minutes—suddenly paused. He slowly lowered his focus from his scouting array, lifted his head, and turned a polite look toward Jeanne.
"My apologies, Miss Jeanne," the Banshee master spoke, his voice remarkably soft and careful. He seemed genuinely concerned that if his tone sounded even slightly abrasive, the young lady might interpret his request as an intentional provocation or a lack of hospitality toward a distinguished guest. "Would it be a terrible inconvenience to ask you to shift slightly toward the opposite side of the cabin? I believe your unique biological field is currently causing a rather severe interference with my scouting arts."
Logos had reached a point where he simply had no choice but to speak up. Having Jeanne sitting directly adjacent to his position was wreaking absolute havoc on his delicate casting circles! Over the past ten minutes, his spatial detection spells had abruptly shattered into pieces multiple times, and the residual energy backdraft had almost snapped back to strike him in the face.
For a caster of Logos's legendary pedigree, a basic mechanical failure like that was completely unthinkable. As a master-level Sarkaz caster who had thoroughly perfected the ancient whispers of the Banshees, committing a fundamental casting error on a routine scouting spell was an insulting blow to his professional pride!
Yet, the failures kept happening right before his eyes. After thoroughly scanning the vehicle's structural wards, Logos was entirely certain that aside from Jeanne's close proximity, there was absolutely no logical, scientific explanation for his sudden magical incompetence.
The moment the other operators heard Logos's careful request, their attention snapped directly over to him. A wave of profound surprise rippled through the seats; they were deeply fascinated that a renowned, peerless Arts master like the Banshee executor would actively admit to a magical malfunction, let alone politely ask a guest to move away.
This was completely out of character for the notoriously aloof caster. Normally, even if Logos found himself sitting next to a deeply obnoxious or frustrating individual, his standard protocol was to simply ignore their entire existence in absolute silence.
"Please do not misinterpret my meaning," Logos began, raising his hand slightly to clarify his request. "The flow of my active incantations appears to be encountering a—"
"Oh! Yes, of course, no problem at all," Jeanne interrupted with a bright smile.
Before he could even finish his elaborate explanation, her eyes had already landed on the intricately carved casting staff held in his hands. She instantly put two and two together, realizing that her passive, high-tier Magic Resistance trait had been ruthlessly neutralizing his scouting spells every single time he tried to cast them near her.
Still, Jeanne felt a heavy wave of curiosity wash over her. Wasn't her Magic Resistance supposed to exclusively neutralize hostile spellcraft directed at her person? Why on earth was it causing a friendly, defensive utility spell to spontaneously implode? Given that her actual technical understanding of Terra's Originium Arts was practically zero, the bizarre mechanics of the situation genuinely fascinated her.
Seeing Jeanne cheerfully bounce up and swap seats before he could even finish his polite apology, Logos's hand froze mid-air for a brief, awkward second. He cleared his throat lightly, adjusting his robe as he offered a formal nod:
"You have my deepest gratitude."
"Don't worry about it at all! It sounds like my weird constitution was putting a major damper on your work," Jeanne replied casually, leaning back against her new seat. Her expression was entirely open and free of any offense. "By the way... what kind of spell were you actually trying to run just now?"
Logos blinked, slightly surprised by her casual curiosity. Realizing she didn't hold any lingering suspicion or resentment regarding his request, he chose not to hide his methodology, speaking in his usual calm, measured cadence:
"It is merely a minor detection weave I assembled myself. The spell allows me to map out the surrounding terrain by tracking the unique energetic resonance of active Originium inside living organisms. As you are likely aware, nearly every single frontline warrior within the Sarkaz factions carries some degree of Oripathy..."
Logos explained the theoretical framework without a single trace of professional secrecy. He could easily deduce that even if Jeanne memorized the exact linguistic principles behind his Banshee arts, she would never be able to duplicate the spell; her physical body was an absolute, literal dead zone for Originium energy.
She was a perfect, flawless void in the fabric of Terra's magic.
And, by extension, she was officially the single most terrifying counter-class he could ever face on a battlefield.