How Could the Villainous Young Master Be a Saintess?

Vinny stared, stupefied, at the reflection in the mirror. Just a moment ago he’d been picturing how much of an eyesore he’d be in this getup—after all, saying he’d compete had been mostly an act of pique.

Yes, his looks and skin had grown increasingly refined under the nourishment of the Facilis bloodline, but Vinny had always considered himself a thoroughly masculine guy—overwhelming presence, the kind of yang energy that spills over the moment he steps close. That wouldn’t change.

But now—

Staring at himself in the mirror, Vinny could only feel an unspeakable earthquake behind his eyes.

Perfect legs, flawless skin, elegant lines—the delicate, pale-blue–haired maiden in the mirror... was that really him, the infamous Camella Capital delinquent, Vinny??

Even he found it hard to believe. It clashed completely with the self-flattering image he usually fantasized about.

The long extensions tied back blended seamlessly with his real hair, as if they’d always been one piece—probably thanks to the quality and dye job of what he’d bought.

“Vinny... you’re really... so beautiful.” Beside him, Shicodale admired the mirror image, hands over her lips, unable to hold back a sigh.

“...” Vinny opened his mouth, then closed it, at a loss for words.

Was he supposed to be happy about this? Because he wasn’t. Not at all.

He was a guy—and he was being praised as “beautiful” by a bona fide elven beauty like Shicodale. His feelings were... complicated.

“Dale, I’m a man,” Vinny said at last after a long silence.

“But your foundation is just too good, Vinny,” Shicodale couldn’t help adding. “In this outfit, you look better than a lot of girls. If you were a girl, you’d be stunning.”

“...” Vinny said nothing.

“Ah, I don’t mean anything else! I just mean—you really look good,” Shicodale hurried to add when she saw his silence.

“...Tch. This young master is doing this for victory, that’s all. For the final win, I’ll swallow my pride—what could be more manly than that?!” Vinny looked at the mirror, clenched his fists, and muttered, not even sure whom he was talking to.

“So, Vinny, are you going to that contest or not?” Shicodale asked, curious.

“...” Silence again.

He looked at his hands, a little helpless.

Was he really going? To stand on a stage like this before a crowd and perform?? Sure, no one would recognize him as Vinny.

If even he couldn’t tell it was him, how could anyone else? No one would ever connect this to the notorious capital delinquent.

As for Aesphyra?

Heh. She’d definitely calculated that she’d set him up, that he’d fume and then chicken out, tuck tail, and slink home. She was probably hiding in some corner right now, cackling that nutty laugh.

He could not let her have her way. Not her.

Vinny swore to himself.

Honestly, though, his earlier declaration had been anger talking—provoked by the registrar, salted by the thought of Aesphyra’s mockery. He’d acted on impulse.

He hadn’t held out any hope for his crossdressing and figured the whole thing was improper anyway. In his mind, even if he dared step onstage in women’s clothes, the audience would spew up breakfast from disgust; the judges would slam him with negative points; the contest would implode; and the squabbling spectators would chase him off with sticks.

Now it was different. He realized he could actually compete like this.

Say what you will—he’s a man; he knows what kind of girls men like.

Flat or not, some guys live for that girlish vibe. Why else is Aesphyra so popular on campus? (Though Aesphyra is, well, normal-sized.)

Which put him in a bind. Before, he’d thought this was impossible and was acting purely out of stubborn pride. Now?

Now that he knew he really could go, Vinny started to panic.

Stage fright crept in.

No—no way, right? That’s a no, right??

Even if Vanessa is truly a girl and he’s spent not a little time as one, it still felt like a no.

No matter how he looked, his real body was a bona fide guy, okay? This was already grazing the boundary of his bottom line!

“Um, Vinny... if you mind, maybe don’t go,” Shicodale suggested when he stayed silent too long. “Didn’t you say men shouldn’t fuss over trivialities? So maybe let this one go?”

Another silence. Shicodale knew how to comfort, all right—by using his own words as a blunt instrument. He knew she didn’t mean it that way, but every line hit like a crit.

“Enough. This young master is decided!” Remembering what he’d just preached, and looking at the flat-chested, shoulder-length twin-ponytailed, blue-haired schoolgirl in the mirror, Vinny felt he’d ridden a tiger too far to dismount. He gritted his teeth and braced.

“Eh—eh? But, Vinny... what about your voice?” Shicodale swallowed.

“...” Vinny went quiet again. After a long moment, he spoke—and what reached the ear was a bright, lively schoolgirl’s voice.

“This young master can manage a fake voice.” Don’t ask where he learned it. Isn’t disguise a delinquent’s specialty? Learning a falsetto is normal, right??

“Mm!” Hearing that pure schoolgirl lilt, Shicodale pressed her hands tighter to her lips.

[Virtue +80.]

[Current Virtue: 11004.]

She didn’t know why—but remembering Vinny’s usual self and then hearing this voice come out of this look—and hearing that “this young master” in such a voice—the violent contrast hit her senses so hard that, without realizing it, a strange new feeling bloomed in her chest, as if a door to a new world had cracked open.

Vinny watched her reaction in silence. To him, she was simply stunned.

Tch. Whatever. A man’s road is bound to be hard—and impossible for others to understand. Can’t be helped.

Since he’d come this far, none of the effort could go to waste.

He would bring the championship home.

From this moment, it wasn’t just about an Elemental Elixir—it was a battle staked on dignity.

He’d make that white-furred nutball—wherever she was snickering right now—pay him back a hundredfold for this humiliation.

Aesphyra, just you wait! Afterward, you’re going to admit defeat to me, properly!

Vinny brimmed with bravado—maybe to comfort himself, too.

That’s right. He might be wearing women’s clothes, but everything he was doing now was manly as hell. Find him another guy at Carillian Academy with the guts to do this.

Right—none. There was one girl disguised as a boy, sure. But boys disguised as girls? Zero.

Didn’t that prove he was the bravest, most masculine man of the lot?

For victory, leave no means unused. Go all-in. Don’t overthink. That’s the temperament a man should have.

With that self-hypnosis, Vinny told Shicodale to wait for his good news. He fastened the ice-crystal earring from [Frostfang] in the mirror—and took his bold first step out of the boys’ dorm.

And damn if [Frostfang]’s ice-crystal drop didn’t suit him perfectly—same color as his hair, and now, in this outfit, it was the ultimate match. A perfect accessory, style in total harmony.

I f— seriously.

Vinny felt helpless. He couldn’t shake the sense that someone had arranged all of this—that he was a puppet on strings in a drama, doing everything logically, yet against his will.

Ah, fate.

It’s fine. Don’t worry. Her presence is low; even walking down the street, no one will notice.

There are so many people in this world—who’s watching anyone else all the time? A person’s life doesn’t have that many spectators. Don’t overthink it.

Vinny kept telling himself that, head ducked a little, not wanting anyone to see his face. Rationally, he knew no one would recognize him—not even Fordy and the card-playing buddies.

Right. Exactly. He wasn’t Vinny now. Not Vinny. Not Vinny. Say the important thing three times.

What he was doing now had nothing to do with Vinny. No one would remember afterward.

He had to keep saying it; otherwise the flood of emotions—nerves, panic, shame, confusion, existential doubt—would wash his brain clean and leave him unable to think.

Still—

Say what you will—he kind of looked like he belonged in a girl band.

That said, why were Carillian Academy’s skirts so short?? Did he buy the wrong size??

He tried to act natural and calm, but his mood was boiling. His teeth were clenched; his expression wouldn’t cooperate.

And for some reason—when he’d worn this as Vanessa it had felt fine; as Vinny, it was problem city.

What if it rode up?

Nope. That would be beyond shameful and gross. Social death.

Ahhh, his brain was going to fry!

With all those emotions churning, Vinny had no bandwidth to notice anyone’s gazes on the street. Maybe that was a blessing. He forced himself along to the registration desk.

The scene was already buzzing. Luckily, with the grade restriction, there weren’t many entrants—just a huge crowd of spectators.

Vinny swallowed hard. He felt he couldn’t suppress the urge to yawn.

Were his legs shaking?

Were lots of people looking at him??

Ugh—this was torture. It was killing this young master!

If he’d known, he wouldn’t have come. What hero was he trying to be?!

But he’d come this far; he couldn’t just turn back.

And the toughest hurdle was still ahead.

He headed, stiff-backed, to the registration desk he’d visited earlier. The student there was sipping tea and reading the paper, not noticing him. Vinny swallowed and, with a trembling falsetto, spoke.

“Um, classmate?”

“Hm?” The student looked up—and met a neatly lovely, pale-blue–haired maiden. His pupils pinched; his tone grew markedly more polite.

The maiden’s manner was odd—stiff expression, stiff movements, one hand half-raised like a lucky-cat statue.

But with that face, the details were forgivable.

“Ah—sorry, classmate. Are you here to sign up?” The registrar straightened.

“Mm.” Vinny nodded.

“Great timing. Registration’s about to close. Please show your student ID. This is first-years only—thanks for understanding.” He explained.

“Uh...” Vinny hesitated. He tried to mimic Vanessa’s poised, unruffled composure—hands folded at his midriff—but it all felt off. Maybe he really was too nervous. He couldn’t match his Vanessa mindset.

“What is it? Forgot your ID?” the student asked when Vinny didn’t produce it. “That’s tricky. If you run back now—maybe you’ll make it?”

“No, I—I have it.” Vinny forced his tone steady.

“Oh, good. I thought you forgot. Take it out, fill in this form, and you can wait backstage.” The student suspected nothing.

He did feel a whisper of familiarity about the blue-haired girl—but it was so faint it might as well not exist.

Maybe she reminded him of someone. No big deal.

“Okay.” Vinny, dithering, reached toward the breast pocket.

Weird, the student thought. It’s just an ID check. Why so coy?

Still, beauty has privileges. If a pretty girl acts a little strange, people tend to be tolerant.

Here it was—the biggest hurdle.

Really hand it over??

Wouldn’t that expose who he was??

Did he really need to go this far??

As he wavered and, hands trembling, drew out the ID, another student hurried over, whispered a few words to the registrar, glanced at Vinny, and left.

“Okay, classmate—no need for the ID. Just fill the form and you can enter.” The registrar waved him off.

“Eh?” Vinny’s eyes widened.

Relieved, yes—but baffled.

Why the sudden change?

“Don’t worry about it. You’re clearly a first-year, right? Hurry—fill it out or you’ll miss the cutoff!”

“Okay, okay—thank you.” Vinny took the sheet and bent over it.

For the “Name” line, he hesitated a moment, then wrote a spur-of-the-moment alias: Vinnia.

As for “Gender,” naturally—female.