The Nerd Next Door Turned Out To Be The Magic Tower Master - Chapter 16

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 16
[The Relief Festival will be starting soon. The festivals held among commoners begin earlier than the official ceremonies, you see. So around this time, merchants gather from all over.]
Cecilia recalled the geography of the empire she’d recently studied.
The Weberdine Territory lay at the southwestern edge of the Continent. Moreover, true to its ancient standing as a strategic stronghold with the holy lands within reach, one side of it was formed by a waterway—the sea itself.
For the Relief Festival, merchants came seeking profit through the waterway, and priests arrived from all directions to attend the ceremony, flooding in by the thousands.
“It’s such a grand festival that it rivals what’s held in the Capital, so I’d imagine it’s even more spectacular than you can picture?”
“Is that so?”
A festival in another world, no less.
To be honest, when she thought of festivals, she pictured the campus the morning after—that air thick with the reek of alcohol and half-digested food wafting from students’ stomachs. But in a novel world of dreams and hope, wouldn’t things be different?
Yet that budding anticipation was swiftly and ruthlessly crushed.
“Since you must attend the Relief Festival, I’m afraid you won’t have time to look around, what with all the preparations you’ll need to help with.”
Setting aside the fact that outings had become even more difficult since the recent accident, the Weberdine bloodline had no time to spare gawking at commoner festivities when there was the Relief Festival to prepare for.
‘Unless there’s a prince—no, wait, a partner in crime—willing to smuggle me out of here.’
Wait.
Wasn’t there one person perfectly suited to be that accomplice?
Cecilia easily recalled a certain lover of fine robes who would be only too happy to help her with such a request—to be an excellent collaborator.
She should go coerce—no, ask—him at once. That was the moment she resolved to do it.
Noticing her master fidgeting in her seat, Melanie suddenly placed a letter from the silver tray into her hands.
“What’s this……?”
“A letter from the Temple.”
An envelope so spotlessly white it felt almost oppressive.
The sender was none other than the Pope.

She read through the neat handwriting, which matched his upright and warm character, slowly and carefully.
The essence of the sparse letter, which didn’t even fill half the white page, was this:

In short, there was much to prepare before the Relief Festival began, so she should report to the Grand Temple at once—or rather, enter it immediately.
‘I didn’t even receive a conscription notice in twenty-first-century South Korea, and now I get one here? Is this real?’
Rather than filling her chest with grandeur, the notice made it feel small and petty.
Cecilia barely managed to reach the end of the letter.
<P.S. Regrettably, all the ceremonial robes to be worn during the Relief Festival ceremony have been tailored to my body.
Suddenly, a gleam returned to her eyes.
'That's it—if I use that as an excuse to refuse the ceremony……!'
But it was a futile hope.

The light in Cecilia’s eyes dimmed once more as she asked weakly.
“When is the twentieth of the Month of Life?”
“Today.”
…….
Surely she was allowed to swear at this, wasn’t she?
Cecilia gazed at the flower vase with distant, hollow eyes.
Yes, smashing her own head with it really did seem like the better option all around.
* * *
Unfortunately, Cecilia failed to smash her head with the flower vase.
What’s more, she also failed to escape before the visitor from the Temple arrived.
And so, having failed at both attempts, Cecilia found herself greeting the visitor with resigned composure.
“Miss Cecilia, your guests have arrived.”
“Show them in.”
The moment permission was granted, two tall men filed in behind Melanie. Both were so tall that their faces appeared above her head immediately.
‘Hmm?’
One of the faces looked oddly familiar.
“We are honored to meet the Saint.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The first voice belonged to Miguel, while the second came from a priest she didn’t recognize.
Cecilia studied the priest, whose presence was as distinct as Miguel’s.
‘He must be a priest, right?’
The man in the black cassock had wavy black hair that fell past his forehead, nearly obscuring his eyes, and the skin beneath them was dark as if he’d gone four nights without sleep.
His skin, meanwhile, was pale as if he’d never once felt the sun, with eyes that held a strangely unfocused quality.
Could he be a priest of a different faith? One who served death or curses, perhaps?
Yet the Temple Badge gleaming at his chest matched Miguel’s exactly.
She straightened her gaze and greeted Cecilia in return.
“I’m Cecilia Weberdine. Thank you for taking the trouble to come to the residence.”
Still, the pairing of people meant to help with fitting Ceremonial Robes seemed rather unexpected.
Miguel, who had occasionally passed through the Weberdine Residence, was one thing, but that man hardly looked like a tailor by any measure.
Instead of the man who seemed to have little desire to greet her, Miguel spoke up.
“This is the High Priest of the Grand Temple—or rather, a priest.”
“God’s slave, Kiar. You may simply call me Kiar.”
‘…Isn’t the usual expression God’s servant?’
Rather than point out his unusual introduction, Cecilia asked Melanie to bring cool tea and simple desserts.
Then she guided them to a sofa she had recently switched to summer coverings.
Miguel, seated with perfect posture on the fabric that was appropriately rough and cool, spoke with measured care.
“You’ve had no health troubles since then?”
“No. I wasn’t injured in the first place.”
“It seems Knox wasn’t lying after all.”
Miguel’s eyes creased faintly as if smiling.
What on earth had that father’s son been saying? Most of it had been nonsense—she could have staked Charles’s snacks on it.
“I’m afraid of what stories you might have heard.”
It wasn’t until Melanie arrived with perfect timing and set teacups before them that Cecilia broached the main subject.
“By the way, I heard that the Pope was sending people to help with fitting Ceremonial Robes…”
Why hadn’t a tailor come instead of a knight and a priest?
At her oblique question, Miguel glanced sideways at the man beside him with an uncomfortable look.
The man—Kiar—sat with his waist and shoulders hunched, unlike Miguel’s upright posture.
Only after tens of seconds had passed did he notice that both were looking at him, and he answered slowly.
“I’m the tailor.”
“Pardon? But didn’t you just introduce yourself as a priest?”
“I’m a tailor as well. Though my skills are abysmal.”
“…I beg your pardon?”
‘Why would they send a tailor with abysmal skills?’
“Are you wondering why a priest with abysmal skills has come?”
Though his observation was painfully accurate, she shook her head, trying her best to hide her discomfort.
“Surely not. You must be someone His Holiness selected personally. I have no doubt you possess excellent skills.”
“No, I can assure you. I will certainly ruin the work entirely.”
The man spoke with absolute conviction. Whether it was confidence or lack thereof was impossible to discern.
And Cecilia, too, became certain of something: he was no mere tailor. He was decidedly, utterly mad.
Her judgment proved correct.
Whatever nonsensical image had taken shape in her mind—now undoubtedly filled with dark thoughts—her already pale face drained of color entirely.
“It seems I’ve disturbed Your Holiness’s disposition. I knew I would bungle things before even starting.” “No, my disposition is perfectly fine.”
“That’s not true. A fool like me ought not be trusted with such important work—I should atone with my life instead.”
The man spiraled into denial, rummaging through his sleeves. What emerged from his black priest’s robes was a rope.
A very sturdy one at that—perfect for hanging.
‘What is he trying to do with that?’
And why in heaven did he carry such a thing around?
As he moved to tie the rope around his neck, a startled Cecilia swatted the back of his hand sharply.
‘There are limits to throwing yourself into something!’
She had struck hard enough for her own palm to throb, so his hand surely ached as well.
Yet Kiar merely cupped his hand, his eyes wide, and showed no anger toward her.
He simply gazed blankly at the rope lying crumpled on the floor.
“The Lord was calling me…”
“No, He wasn’t.”
“…Oh.”
Even at Cecilia’s firm refusal, Kiar answered weakly.
After scanning the high ceiling, the bright outside, and the shadow beneath his feet in turn, Kiar picked up the rope piece by piece. Then he approached her.
‘Wait, what—he’s not planning to tie me up and beat me for slapping him, is he?’
She had just clenched her fists behind her back.
He stretched the rope in a straight line and placed it alongside her arm, then began scribbling numbers into a notebook from his pocket.
It appeared to be a measurement of her arm length.
‘So that rope was serving as a tape measure.’
Looking closely, she could see marks etched at regular intervals along the rope. At such ingenuity, she was left momentarily speechless in astonishment.
Yet the man himself, with an air of clear reluctance, proceeded only to measure the length of her legs.
“Your limbs are shorter than they appear. Hmm, I’ll need to take in quite a bit of the Ceremonial Robes.”
Muttering such nonsense.
‘Perhaps I should just strangle him with a rope.’
Cecilia, insulted to her face, shot him a look of disdain. What infuriated her most was that he seemed utterly devoid of intention or malice.
Then Miguel, who had been observing the situation, offered a quiet remark.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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