Robin's heart leaped into her throat, her muscles tensing as she braced for the expected fury or counterattack.
However, in the next second, Seraphilia only tilted her head slightly, as if the touch were merely a stray strand of hair.
Her movements in controlling the Cloud Mist didn't even pause. Her voice remained calm and gentle, with a hint of helpless indulgence: "Stop playing around, be careful not to get burned." It was as if Robin were merely frolicking with her in a novel way.
It wasn't a pretense.
Robin could feel that the touching arm hadn't transmitted back any aggressive muscle contractions or energy fluctuations.
Seraphilia's relaxation was genuine. It wasn't that she didn't fear death; she was using her life to tell Robin that she was defenseless.
Test One: Disregard for a lethal threat or absolute trust? Result: Incomprehensible, heart racing.
Another time, they shared a manuscript of notes Seraphilia had brought back regarding the architectural ruins of the Ancient Kingdom.
Robin intentionally steered the conversation toward a vague passage that might involve a description of the "ancient weapon's" energy system.
Staring intently into Seraphilia's eyes, she asked in a calm tone of pure academic discussion, "Do you think this description of Ley line energy could potentially share the same theoretical origin as later speculations about the power source of 'Pluton'?"
This was an extremely dangerous probe. Publicly discussing "ancient weapons," strictly forbidden by the World Government, was tantamount to putting one's neck under the executioner's blade, tempting the other to reveal their true intentions—if she were a CP agent, her eyes would surely flicker at this moment, she would press for details, or reveal some flaw.
Hearing this, Seraphilia looked up, her ice-blue eyes clear and open, containing only scholarly contemplation.
She examined the passage carefully and pondered for a moment. "Judging by the writing style and the logic of energy conversion, it's closer to the animistic descriptions of early 'natural force rituals,' focusing on resonance with the environment. Later speculations about 'Pluton' tend toward pure mechanical or thermal energy conversion, with a more 'modern' theoretical framework.
The two might stem from different stages of interpreting the same natural phenomenon, but there's insufficient evidence for a direct link." Her answer was entirely centered on the scholarship itself—rigorous, objective, and showing no special reaction to the taboo term "ancient weapon," as if they were discussing the weather or historical periods.
Test Two: Attitude toward taboo topics. Result: Pure academic interest, no intent to pry.
What shook Robin the most weren't these deliberate tests, but Seraphilia's lifestyle, silently displayed before her eyes day after day.
After Seraphilia was promoted to second class private, her stipend increased.
But Robin discovered that she turned almost all her surplus money into things for the small house: warmer winter clothes, more abundant food, and increasingly rare and hard-to-find books. As for Seraphilia herself? She always wore the faded Marine-issued uniform and ate the cheapest, simplest meals from the cafeteria. Any good dishes she occasionally "smuggled" back ended up entirely in Robin's bowl.
Her personal belongings were pitifully few; aside from her uniform and some undergarments, she had almost nothing.
Once, Robin even noticed that the soles of Seraphilia's standard-issue Marine boots had worn very thin, and the sound of her walking was slightly off, yet she never replaced them.
"She's almost harsh with herself, yet toward me... why?"
This lopsided, utterly selfless giving was like a silent, daily interrogation, heavily pounding on Robin's heart. It challenged her worldview more powerfully than any words—in her understanding, giving necessitated a return, and there must be a motive behind kindness.
She had tried to resist this unsettling "kindness."
Once, Seraphilia pressed a few newly issued silver coins into her hand again, telling her to "buy something you like."
Robin pursed her lips and pushed the silver coins back, whispering, "Keep them for yourself. You need new boots."
Seraphilia looked at the silver coins pushed back to her, stunned for a moment. Then she shook her head, grabbed Robin's hand, and placed the cold, heavy coins into her palm with no room for argument. She then used her own calloused fingers to carefully close Robin's fingers one by one, wrapping them around the coins.
"You need them more than I do," she said flatly. "I'm in the Marines; I won't go hungry or cold. Use this money to buy books or something you want to eat." She paused and added, "The boots can still be worn."
Robin clutched the cool silver coins in her palm, feeling the roughness and warmth of Seraphilia's hand enveloping her own. Looking at her calm, expressionless face and those boots—which could indeed still be worn but were clearly worn out—a nearly aching surge of warmth and deeper confusion welled up in her heart.
She couldn't understand.
She completely failed to understand.
This "lack of understanding," along with Seraphilia's nightly returns whenever possible, the warm food she brought back, her clumsy yet diligent care, and that Marine uniform—which she grew increasingly accustomed to but which still stung Robin's eyes—together formed the entire backdrop of the winter of Robin's eleventh year.
Her wariness remained, like thorns deep-rooted in frozen soil. But among those thorns, her heart—shaken by the sweetness of that first crude cake, the indulgence when she touched the other's neck, the openness during their academic discussions, and especially by that almost self-sacrificing lifestyle—could no longer return to its initial state of pure coldness and suspicion.
She still didn't know who Seraphilia was or what her ultimate goal might be.
But she began to vaguely feel that this puzzle might not be a black-and-white matter of betrayal or deception.
The answer might be hidden in a deeper, darker, and more painful place, like the scar beneath that collarbone—a language she had yet to fully decipher.
At night, when Seraphilia fell into a deep sleep with steady breathing, Robin would involuntarily reach out and lightly tug at the corner of her nightgown again.
This time, it wasn't just about finding an anchor or confirming an existence.
Her fingers clutching the nightgown tightened slightly, as if silently conveying a complex inquiry she hadn't even voiced to herself.
Just who... are you?
And how should I treat this... "kindness" that is so heavy it frightens me?
------------------------
I've posted 70+ chapters in advance on Patreon.
Webnovel updates will still be daily, as usual.
It might not seem tempting right now but who knows what the future holds?
[email protected]/SolyuraMT
"And If you're enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!"