The big Tanker swallowed hard, staring at Kian's frozen expression. "No. Look at his footing. He hasn't moved a single millimeter. He is taking the full, panicked force of her adrenaline grip, and his posture is absolutely flawless. He is like a mountain of pure steel. The physical density of his body must be terrifying."
This crazy woman is going to snap my spine in half! Kian screamed in his mind, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. Let go! I am dying! If I yell at her, the Adventurer's Association will hear rumors that I abuse traumatized Adventurers. I have to stand here and take it.
He forced his face to remain completely stoic, adopting the cool, uncaring expression of an infamous Adventurer, while his lungs screamed for oxygen.
Lexi casually walked over after taking care of the remaining hounds. The three Thieves stiffened, desperately pretending they were not terrified of the pink-haired monster standing near them.
Mirelle remained quietly on the driving board while watching the scene unfold.
After a full minute of bone-crushing pressure, the young female Healer finally sobbed out her gratitude. "Thank you. I can see my daughter again. Thank you."
She stepped back, suddenly realizing she had just assaulted the highest-ranking Adventurer in the capital. Her face flushed completely red. She bowed frantically, deeply embarrassed by her rudeness.
Kian took a shallow, shaky breath. Without saying a word, he just nodded slowly, hiding his agonizing chest pain behind his blank mask.
He literally could not speak. His diaphragm was completely paralyzed from the crushing force. If he opened his mouth right now, he would not speak words. He would just emit a high-pitched, embarrassing wheeze.
Seeing his absolute, silent nod, the young Swordsman in the dirt began to weep again.
"He didn't even push her away," an Archer sobbed, wiping his dirty face. "He absorbed her emotional trauma with perfect grace! He truly is a merciful saint!"
A few minutes later, the Adventurers were already settled. The injured were healed.
"We are camping here," Kian declared flatly. He did not want to travel anymore today. His ribs hurt too much.
The raid team quickly agreed. Setting up their tents near a Level 8 Adventurer and the Silent Shadow felt safer than sleeping inside a royal fortress. They began clearing the monster corpses away from the road to make space.
Mirelle climbed down from the carriage.
Normally, Kian would bark five different unreasonable orders at her the moment they stopped. But today, he just walked over to a clear patch of grass and stood there, rubbing his chest.
Mirelle did not wait. A strange, unfamiliar sense of gratitude pushed her into motion. He was a lazy jerk, but he had let his terrifying maid save all these people.
She walked to the carriage storage and pulled out his heavy canvas portable chair, carried it to the grass, and snapped it open.
Kian saw the chair. He sat down heavily, entirely relieved.
Mirelle grabbed a wooden basin and a bucket. She walked to the nearby stream, filled the bucket with cold water, and hauled it back. She placed the basin on a flat rock right next to his chair.
"Wash your face," Mirelle said. Her tone was not sarcastic this time. It was just an objective instruction.
Kian blinked. He leaned forward, splashing the cold water over his face to wash away the road dust. When he looked up, Mirelle was already holding out a perfectly clean, dry towel.
He took it. He wiped his face.
Mirelle did not stop. She gathered dry wood and struck the flint and steel with her callused hands, sparking a fire on the first try.
She placed the iron kettle over the flames. Once the water boiled, she steeped the leaves and poured the steaming liquid into his wooden cup. She gripped the cup by its carved handle, standing perfectly still beside his chair.
She waited patiently, watching the thick steam thin out in the cool air. When the heat radiating against her knuckles felt warm instead of scalding, she stepped forward and handed it to him.
Kian took a sip. It was perfect.
Mirelle found a smooth stone and dragged it over and sat down directly in front of him. While Kian drank his tea, she grabbed his left boot. She used a damp rag to wipe the dust and monster blood off the heavy leather. When she finished, she grabbed his right boot and repeated the process until they were entirely clean.
Kian finished his tea and handed her the empty cup.
Mirelle took it. She walked to the basin, washed the cup, and immediately started cutting wild roots and dried meat for the stew pot. She stayed right beside his chair, silently tending the fire until the food was ready.
Kian stared at the twelve-year-old girl. His internal alarm bells were ringing loudly.
I didn't give her a single command. She just did it. All of it. The fire, the tea, the boots. She even nailed the exact water temperature. A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. This is a scam. It has to be. I've seen grifters pull this exact trick in the capital slums. They run up, polish your shoes without asking, hand you a hot towel, and then suddenly scream that you owe them a gold coin for 'premium unsolicited labor.' She is building a mountain of hidden fees! She wants me to drop my guard and get addicted to this luxury so she can trap me in a verbal contract! I looked down at the empty wooden cup in my hands. I drank the tea. I accepted the service. I fell right into her trap. If I don't dump this terrifyingly competent extortionist at an orphanage by tomorrow morning, she is going to hit me with a massive invoice. I am not paying a kid.
He ate his stew in complete silence, deeply stressed about his finances.
When he finished, he stood up and walked straight into the black carriage to sleep. The heavy wooden door clicked shut.
Mirelle let out a long, heavy sigh of relief. Her shoulders slumped. Her duty for the day was finally over.
She sat on her stone near the dying fire, staring into the embers.
Footsteps approached. The senior Mage from the raid team walked over to her. He looked at her simple brown clothes and her callused hands.
"Excuse me, little miss," the Mage asked politely. "Are you a servant of Thousand Strings?"
Mirelle froze.
Thousand Strings?
Her twelve-year-old mind violently ground to a halt. The strange name echoed in her head, completely shattering her established worldview.
Deep in her memories, the puzzle pieces finally clicked. She had actually heard that exact title twice before. A syndicate boss had screamed it near a muddy ditch, and a terrified bandit had shrieked it across the open plains days later.
But during both encounters, the heavy pulse in her chest had completely distracted her with pure survival panic, making the words simply wash over her as meaningless noise.
Now, sitting by a quiet fire with a steady pulse, the reality of the alias finally registered.
Nobles did not use titles like that. Dukes and Earls possessed ancient family names and strict territorial designations. 'Thousand Strings' sounded like a cheap mercenary alias. Or an underworld syndicate moniker.
She stared at the spotless black carriage.
He isn't a noble.
The realization hit her like a heavy punch, instantly making her lungs tighten. She had built her entire survival strategy around the assumption that he was a corrupt, politically motivated lord who orchestrated her kidnapping.
If he wasn't a noble, who exactly was sleeping inside that wooden box? A criminal kingpin? A wandering demon?
The dying embers cast long, flickering shadows over her lap, highlighting the deep, angry red blisters she had earned by spinning a wooden stick for thirty agonizing minutes just to boil his water.
Technically, she was his servant. She wiped his boots. She served his tea.
But I am Princess Mirelle Vireldria.
Her chest physically ached. Her young brain agonized over the severely conflicting data. She had scrubbed a carriage wheel almost everyday. An Imperial Princess does not scrub wheels. She had accepted the humiliating role entirely out of a raw, desperate survival instinct to avoid execution.
But nothing about him made logical sense.
He complained about lukewarm tea and dusty shoes like a spoiled royal. Yet he possessed the terrifying, dark authority to make thousands of armed bandits sprint for their lives without drawing a blade. He let his monster of a maid slaughter wyverns, but he didn't demand a single bronze coin from the people they just saved. He just went to sleep.
If I tell him who I really am, Mirelle calculates frantically, her breathing turning shallow. Would a terrifying underworld boss actually take me back to the Imperial Palace? Or would he instantly realize my political value and lock me in a prison for a big ransom?
Her hands trembled. She did not know. The math was completely blank.
The outside world was a meat grinder full of dropping wyverns, rogue dark mages, and kidnappers. The only place on the entire continent where she felt absolutely, undeniably safe from death was sitting on the wooden driver's bench of that black carriage. The title of 'servant' was no longer a royal humiliation. It was her physical armor.
She looked up at the senior Mage. He was waiting patiently for her reply.
"Yes," Mirelle said softly, her small, callused fingers curling into tight fists. "I'm his servant."