How Could the Villainous Young Master Be a Saintess?

Just when Vinny, weaponless and cursing his luck, was weighing whether he had to turn into Vanessa to break the stalemate, the black-robed assassin charging his flank with an alchemic bomb was bowled aside like a bowling pin.

Vinny thought for an instant that the soldiers patrolling around Camella’s capital had finally arrived—but then reconsidered. Did ordinary city guards have destructive magic this potent?

He turned—and froze.

Head bowed, wordless, Shicodale hid his eyes from view. Behind him, at some unknown moment, a gigantic Monstera Bloom had grown forth; its vines coiled up the black-robed men surrounding him and, like bowling balls, hurled them into their comrades.

The sudden turn shocked not only Vinny, but the assassins as well. Before striking, they had roughly assessed the two targets’ threat levels. Obviously, Vinny ranked far above Shicodale; the timid silver-haired elf looked like he didn’t even know how to hold a knife.

Of course, you can’t judge by appearances alone. He was, after all, a student of Carillian Academy; without real ability, one doesn’t cross Carillian’s threshold.

But once the fight began, watching Shicodale’s meek refusal to hit back, the assassins only felt more certain the silver-haired elf was a pushover ripe for the picking.

Attempted assassinations on the outskirts of the capital carried extreme risk. Camella’s capital had far more defensive strength and watchtowers than other cities; linger even a little and you’d be discovered.

Seeing that Vinny’s Spirit Soul was like a turtle shell—poisoned blades couldn’t penetrate, toxins were useless—and that he kept tracking the flanking comrades tossing incendiary potions, they traded looks and shifted tactics: take Shicodale hostage first to pin down Vinny, then finish him off.

They were just about to succeed when the “soft persimmon” suddenly bowed over the burned bundle of clothes, silent. The black-robed man at his side reached to seize him—then felt his feet leave the ground. Dazed, he looked up and saw a towering, terrifying plant, higher than two men stacked atop each other, hoisting him into the air—then smashing him away.

Other assassins hemming Shicodale in were snared by vines that burst from the earth. Barbs bit into their flesh; like roots sucking nourishment, the vines drank their life force at speed. The killers’ spirits sagged by the heartbeat. They understood that these dreadful plants were draining the vitality from their bodies.

If they didn’t break free fast, they’d be sucked dry into husks!

But most of these assassins held one-star or two-star Spirit Souls and were merely sorcerer-class, with scant magical offense. They couldn’t even harm Vinny without alchemic elementals; naturally, they had little means to escape such thick, constricting vines.

In short order, they were shriveled into withered human husks, eyes bulging—skin seemingly the only thing still wrapping what was left of their flesh.

What—?

Realizing they had underestimated their targets, the assassins blanched. Vinny, for his part, stared, dumbstruck.

Was this Shicodale’s magic?

It could only be his, right?

Vinny was honestly shaken. In his eyes, Shicodale had always been a harmless, ill-fated, fallen-nation elf prince—like a timid little rabbit, startled even when a stranger approached.

With that personality, even with talent, once dropped into real combat—especially kill-or-be-killed—he ought to be frozen stiff with fear.

So Vinny had never expected Shicodale to help; he’d assumed he’d be dead weight, and that, stumbling into this mess, Vinny would have to carve a bloody path out on his own.

If it went badly and Shicodale fell into danger, Vinny would shoulder the huge risk of turning into Vanessa to save him.

This reversal was nowhere in Vinny’s plans.

That kid Shicodale dared to kill—and the magic he used, compared to his soft, gentle persona, was downright cruel. Completely outside Vinny’s expectations.

No—something felt off.

Vinny looked toward where Shicodale stood. The other kept his head lowered, hiding his face and eyes.

Having spent so long with him, Vinny felt this state was all wrong—nothing like Shicodale’s usual self.

What was going on? Was he too frightened?

Vinny didn’t understand.

The few black-clad men by Shicodale who had escaped the initial binding reacted at last and swung their blades down at him.

Shicodale didn’t dodge. He simply stood there. When the edges were a hair’s breadth away, several thick vines rose to block, then—like the others—the men were trussed up and sucked dry on the spot.

The cold efficiency of the kills made Vinny doubt whether this was Shicodale’s doing at all—Shicodale hadn’t moved a single step since the start.

But it could only be him.

After those men were smashed back like trash, the remaining assassins flipped from hunters to prey; in a blink, the field was a rout.

They hadn’t managed Vinny to begin with; they’d relied on ambush and hostages. Now the hostage-to-be was gone—and had turned into a man-eating Monstera Bloom. Pounded by a duo, the situation collapsed.

One assassin, quick on the uptake, saw the magic was nature-aspected. He whipped out an incendiary potion—counter-measures for the counter—and hurled it at the Monstera’s tendrils.

Nature magic most often creates natural constructs; for all their power, the majority of such constructs cannot move from their origin points, and their greatest bane is fire-element magic.

The response was correct.

The Monstera’s vines snapped at the vial in time, shattering the glass. The potion burst, flames roared, and fire ran across the Monstera. Its force dwindled fast.

But before the assassins could exhale in relief, Shicodale bent low, both palms touching earth—vines erupted again, racing toward them.

Several who failed to react in time were flung skyward by the sudden surge from below, thrown toward Shicodale’s position.

Lacking wings, they couldn’t control their fall; spikes of vine lanced up from the soil near Shicodale, impaling them in midair. They died before they hit the ground.

Blood sprayed everywhere, splattering the killing vines—while the elf youth below remained unmoved, unheeding.

“What the—” Vinny gaped, a reflexive curse slipping out.

This silent, decisive killer—was this really the same soft, adorable Shicodale he knew?

He’d sometimes wondered how such a gentle thing had gotten into Carillian Academy on luck alone. Now it was clear—without real ability, who gets in?

Hadn’t Vinny himself only made it in on a cheat? Without Vanessa, he might’ve already been done in by some stray mutt.

Still—what exactly was happening to Shicodale right now?

Vinny frowned, expression turning odd.

As for the survivors, they were lucky mid- and low-tier nature magic doesn’t usually reach far. They were just far enough from Shicodale; otherwise they’d have shared their comrades’ fate.

They had no time to be grateful. Shicodale wasn’t going to wait for them to close and fight fair.

Wind-tossed silver bangs veiled the elf youth’s face, but the assassins could sense, beneath that fringe, a pair of eyes cold and gleaming like a ravening beast—charging straight at them.

Shicodale snapped his arm up. A thick vine burst from the ground, rising in sync with his motion—then slammed down on a black-clad man.

Smack! One assassin was pulped. The others, agile as they were, fared little better.

It was only the beginning. The real storm was yet to come.

Shicodale kept swinging both arms; several vines moved in perfect unison, unleashing a downpour of blows—a wild, battering rain.

Watching from outside the fray, as blood spattered in sheets, Vinny suddenly pictured something—yes: swatting flies.

It wasn’t a perfect analogy, but those vines against those men really were like a fistful of flyswatters hammering a cloud of gnats. Get swatted, and you turned to paste.

It was a one-sided slaughter.

Encased in [Armor Fortress], Vinny gripped a knife he’d wrested from one of the men, jaw hanging as he stared.

So that’s how Shicodale got into Carillian Academy.

Some people are protagonists for a reason.

By all rights, Shicodale’s current rank should be about the same as his. And yet the magic he was casting—

Vinny didn’t know much about nature magic; among humans, few have high affinity for natural elements, and nature magic has long been synonymous with elves.

But even with his ignorance, anyone could tell: to summon vines and a Monstera that massive, Shicodale’s compatibility with his Spirit Soul had to be extremely high—his affinity with nature magic, too.

He’d always thought Shicodale was a flower vase. Turns out he was a flower vase—only the flower in the vase was a Monstera that eats people.

Maybe Shicodale’s combat power ranked near the bottom among the fated heroines—but that was in comparison with other heroines. Among ordinary people, even among Carillian Academy’s students, he was genius among geniuses.

Still—what on earth was going on?

In a split second, Vinny had caught a look on Shicodale’s face: a crazed hysteria, and the catharsis of vented rage—the sort of expression that should never appear on someone like Shicodale.

Vinny hated to say it, but honestly—this Shicodale was... a little frightening.

The assassins had been pounded into quail. Nameless dead men though they were, seeing comrades you’d trained with turned to mince in under a second would make anyone quail.

Fear made their minds slip; reactions slowed; the vines caught up—and that was it. Dead on the spot.

Only when there was just one left did Vinny snap out of it. He shouted, “Dale—brake! Wound the last one—leave a tongue!”

But the elf standing there didn’t seem to hear him at all. He gave no response, said not a word.

Smack! Vinny watched, eyes wide, as the last living assassin turned into mosaic like the rest.

“This...” Vinny’s voice died. He opened his mouth, but said nothing.

As suspected—Shicodale’s current state was abnormal. In this state, if he stepped in, Shicodale might even hit him.

Forget it. He’d wanted a live one to interrogate, but there was no keeping one now. The scum were all literally scum. So be it.

Only—it wasn’t over.

Vinny had thought that once the assassins were handled, Shicodale would stop. Instead, he showed no sign of stopping, and kept smashing at what was already assassin confetti.

What are you doing—making paste?

By the end, the mud was streaked red and white. The scene was unbearable. Even Vinny, a capital-branded scoundrel, couldn’t look; he averted his gaze.

What isn’t he smashing to bits?

Vinny took a few steps back, face twisting at the stench.

This... was a lot.

Unsurprisingly, such a commotion drew the patrol soldiers near the capital. They, too, were stunned at the sight of several colossal vines threshing the ground. They were about to approach when Vinny shouted them down.

“Stay back! I’m a noble of the Kingdom of Camella. I’ll explain the situation in a moment—just don’t go over there right now!” Vinny feared that in Shicodale’s current state, anyone who approached would be seen as “hostile” and a “threat,” and then who knew what would happen.

The soldiers hesitated when they recognized Vinny.

Only when their officer ordered them to hold position did they give up on advancing.

Maybe he’d hit enough. Maybe his magic had run dry. In any case, after a while, Shicodale finally seemed satisfied that the unsightly “pigments” could not revive, and ceased channeling.

Then—he turned around.