A few minutes had passed since the interrogation. Not long in actual time, but everything had been so intense and compressed that Rydan and Sandra were left speechless.

“Let’s go. Clair is waiting,” Marianne said, leading them away. The two followed in silence, still trying to process what had just happened.

The walk brought them to the beach, where the sun dipped into the horizon. Warm lamplight flickered between poles adorned with ribbons, shells, and hanging flowers. It was a party, open-air and lively, with food laid out on long tables, drinks in coconut cups, and mats over sand warmed by the day. Music and laughter mixed with the crashing of waves.

At the center of it all sat Clair, her long, wavy blonde hair catching the light like threads of gold. She sat in a decorated wheelchair on a raised dais of smoothed driftwood. She waved cheerfully at the approaching guests, glowing with energy.

Marianne’s steps slowed as she spotted the girl at the center. Her face softened—surprisingly so. Rydan tilted his head, catching the subtle shift. It was a talent of his, reading the smallest changes in a girl’s expression—too bad it was useless against a certain someone’s blank face.

“Happy birthday, Clair,” Marianne said with quiet sincerity.

“Thanks, Marianne!” Clair beamed. “Did anything exciting happen on your latest adventure?”

Marianne opened her mouth, hesitating. “…I—”

But before she could finish, Rydan gently tapped her shoulder, stepping forward with a conspiratorial grin.
“I hate seeing a girl lie to her best friend,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear. Then, with a casual spin of his surfboard and a wink to the crowd:
“Actually, we’ve got way too many stories for one sunset.”

And just like that, the moment turned. Rydan launched into tales of wild sea beasts, collapsing cliffs, and “a friend who controls sand but refuses to admit she likes the ocean.” His delivery had the perfect balance of bravado and humor. One by one, curious guests—especially the girls—began to gather, drawn in by his effortless charisma.

Marianne watched, momentarily speechless, before finally letting out a quiet sigh and stepping back. For once, she didn’t mind being outshined.

However, as she began to relax, a thought struck her—she wasn’t here anymore.

***

Back at the banquet hall, the warm glow of lanterns flickered over long tables heaped with food. Sandra stood near one of the platters, steadily transferring grilled skewers onto her plate with quiet determination.

“P-please leave some for the other guests!” a young maid stammered beside her, attempting to shield the next tray. Her hands trembled slightly, as if afraid Sandra might empty that one too.

Sandra blinked slowly, unfazed, and reached for the next tray anyway.

“Waaa!” the maid’s protest barely rose above a squeak, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Are you really that hungry?” she asked, tilting her head as Sandra just nodded—her mouth already full.

The maid giggled and patted Sandra’s head. She wasn’t that tall and had to tiptoe just to reach it. For some reason, Sandra didn’t hate it. Maybe because the girl was feeding her, she felt a faint connection. After all, it was all about her stomach.

“Fine, I’ll refill it—just… please don’t eat everything again, okay?”

Sandra nodded once, her voice calm as she spoke around a mouthful of meat. “Take care.”

The maid smiled and hurried off with the empty trays, leaving Sandra to resume her quiet feast.

The party carried on around her—Rydan charming the crowd with exaggerated tales and laughter, the music soft and lively under the lantern glow. Plates clattered, wine flowed, and for a while, everything felt light.

Then—he arrived.

Arwan Vince, a noble from the capital and a self-important D-rank adventurer, strolled across the sand with a practiced swagger, a small entourage flanking him as if the beach itself were his red carpet. He was overdressed for the occasion—polished leather boots sinking slightly into the sand, and a pristine coat that had clearly never known a day of labor.

He stopped short of the crowd gathered around Rydan, eyes narrowing at the attention being lavished on someone else.

He hated it.

The laughter, the sparkles in the girls' eyes, the effortless way Rydan commanded the moment—Arwan’s jaw tensed. That should’ve been his spotlight. He had the rank. The title. So what did a no-name surfer have that he didn’t?

He clicked his tongue, squared his shoulders, and raised his voice for all to hear.

“Clair,” Arwan called out smoothly, masking his bitterness with a forced smile. “Surely you don’t actually believe the stories these people are telling?”

He swept a smug glance over the crowd and landed his gaze on Marianne.

“I did some digging. Your little ‘observer’ here? She’s just an F-rank. She doesn’t even go on quests. It’s laughable to think someone like her has anything real to say about adventuring. Unlike us D-ranks, who’ve earned our stripes.”

A hush fell over the immediate circle as all eyes shifted to the new spotlight. Marianne stiffened. Her posture, always so upright and composed, turned rigid. Her hand curled tightly by her side as she looked around—first to her left, then to her right—searching for someone, anyone, who might meet her gaze. Everyone was looking at her, yet not a single pair of eyes met her own.

One nobleman she had once helped file a guild report quickly looked away, pretending to sip his drink. A pair of girls who had smiled at her earlier turned their backs with forced chatter, clearly uninterested in being caught in the middle.

Then came the laughter—soft and stifled, from somewhere just behind her, just beyond her sight. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. It pricked like needles. She could feel the weight of eyes, the silent judgment hanging in the warm beach air.

The fire in her chest surged. Her throat tightened. She hadn’t chosen this life, not really—but she had accepted it. Endured it. And though she’d never resented it before, standing there under those stares, the decision not to fight, not to climb ranks, had never felt so small… so pathetic.

And then—

“Marianne is my friend,” Clair said suddenly, her voice firm and clear.

All eyes turned to the girl in the wheelchair at the center of the stage, her wavy blonde hair catching the moonlight. She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t need to. There was power in her calm.

“Marianne has always done more for me than most adventurers ever would. You don’t need to fight monsters to have courage. You just need to stand up for someone, especially when no one else does.”

Arwan scoffed. “Is that really the standard here? I forgot—this is the beachside. Everything's more… casual.”

He smirked again. “Maybe that’s why you ended up in a wheelchair, Clair. If your protectors are just F-ranks with nothing to show for it.”

That hit.

Marianne’s breath caught. Her eyes went wide with disbelief. She took a step forward, rage tightening her jaw—

A hand clamped down on her shoulder—firm, unyielding.

“No need to dirty your hands on trash like him,” Rydan said, stepping between them with ice in his voice. “People who shame girls in public are mine.”

He let go of her shoulder and stepped forward. The crowd parted instinctively.

“I’m actually a B-rank,” he said casually. “So even if she hasn’t taken quests, she’s been around the kind of company that has. Firsthand experience counts too, doesn’t it?”

He tossed his surfboard into the air—smooth, almost lazy. It flipped, caught the light, then landed in his hand with a spin.

“Want to test if I’m telling the truth?”

Arwan stared at him. Something in Rydan’s stance—the easy posture of someone used to real fights—made him think twice.

“Tch.” Arwan clicked his tongue, spinning sharply on his heel and storming off, his lackeys scrambling to keep pace with his long strides. In his rush to leave the embarrassing scene behind, he collided hard with someone carrying a tray of meat.

The tray wobbled, skewers tumbling, sauce splattering across his pristine coat.

He froze for a moment, eyes flicking to the girl he’d bumped into.

A young maid trembled on the ground, their eyes meeting. Without warning, Arwan yanked her hair.

“This guy—” Rydan was about to step in and give Arwan a lesson, but she was already there. Of course she was—Sandra was waiting for her. Every time she emptied a tray of meat, this young maid would refill it for her. Clumsy and a little slow, maybe, but Sandra still found her more likable than anyone else.

Sandra watched the girl fall. She didn’t understand why it twisted something inside her—but maybe that’s just what it felt like when someone fed you more than food.

She stepped forward, slow and silent. The sand she kicked up along the way didn’t settle—it hung suspended in the air, swirling around her like a whisper of power. The crowd’s chatter dimmed as all eyes turned to her.

Arwan’s smug expression flickered for a moment before hardening. Still clinging to his superiority, he spat out, “What are you looking at, peasant?”

The words hung in the air, sharp as glass. Sandra didn’t blink. She stepped forward, and the sand rose with her. The party, the noise, the music—all of it faded.

Something was about to break.