The queen slept later than her husband. She had to finish writing four letters, carefully worded and deliberately sealed

  By the time dawn crept through the tall windows, as soon as she rose, she quietly reread them again. Satisfied, she summoned a servant and gave them specific instructions for the letters to be delivered by bird, posthaste. Some matters could not afford delay.

  Only then did she allow herself to prepare for the day.

  At breakfast, Lord Vi arrived last, hobbling into the hall with effort. His right side seemed to still hurt, with his right eye still a bit red, but he seemed fine enough that he managed to arrive without support. Still, his friends were quick to pounce.

  “Look who decided to show up,” Lord Arthur called out.

  “Back from the dead already?” Lord Trayn added.

  “Bruv, you still here? I thought you went back home,” Lord William snickered.

  The comments and laughter bordered on irreverent, but no malice lingered in them. Lord Vi responded in kind, in a snappy snarky way.

  “What? And miss any of you getting bruised and maimed? Not a chance.”

  The queen expected this, as she judged from their interaction yesterday. Now, the somewhat familiar rhythm of their banter was settling easily into the room. Yet the queen’s attention lay elsewhere.

  For the first time, she truly observed her niece—not as a patient freshly recovered from illness, but as a young woman returned to herself. Fully healed now, she moved with renewed confidence, her expressions brighter, her laughter unguarded. The queen watched how she interacted with the heroes and how they responded to her in turn.

  It did not escape her notice that more than a few were interested in her. That realization only strengthened her resolve. Her plan would work. She will find one among them. She must. Else risk not just the security of her country, but of her family.

  As the meal continued and the noise of conversation swelled, the queen set her utensils aside. The subtle shift was enough. Gradually, attention turned toward her.

  “Everyone,” she said, her voice measured yet warm, “I find myself curious.”

  The hall quieted and all the attention went to her.

  “About who you all were before you became heroes, before your titles, before being summoned,” she continued. “So, I would like to make—a request.”

  She paused just long enough to invite anticipation from her audience.

  “I would like each of you to cook.”

  Murmurs rippled through the tables.

  “What you prepare, and when, will be entirely up to you to decide,” the queen said smoothly. “Those who do not wish to participate may decline without consequence.”

  She let that settle before adding, almost casually, “Those who do participate however, will be rewarded with one gold coin.”

  The reaction was as the queen predicted—surprise, curiosity, excitement, and in a few cases, visible calculation. The queen smiled to herself. This, she thought, would be most enlightening.

  “A single gold coin,” Celestia brightly explained, “is roughly equivalent to a year’s wage.”

  The heroes stared at her, astonishment rippling across the table. “For a common family of four,” she went on, “a sum like that would be enough for them to eat three meals a day for an entire year without needing to work at all.”

  “That’s—a lot,” Arthur said frankly.

  Celestia nodded, unfazed. “Considering you would be cooking for the queen and royalty, it is a perfectly normal reward.”

  Takashi raised a hand, curiosity overtaking disbelief. “What else could we even use that kind of money for?”

  Celestia’s enthusiasm only grew. “Spell scrolls, potions, enchanted swords, enchanted armor—other equipment. Perhaps even a horse. Since you haven’t yet been allowed into the city, there are many things you haven’t seen. You’d be surprised how quickly gold finds a purpose.”

  That did it.

  Excited chatter broke out among the heroes. Lord Trayn and Lord William immediately began discussing what kinds of armor their classes could wear. Lord Takashi and Lord Arthur debated the merits of bows and whether it might be possible to invest in trained pets. Lord Shunsuke and Lord Yuuto wondered whether their classes would allow them to ride horses at all, with Lord Hanzo interjecting comments whenever the discussion strayed too far into speculation.

  Her dearest was content to watch as the hall buzzed with energy.

  From her seat, the queen observed it all with quiet satisfaction. A small incentive, carefully framed, had shifted the mood entirely.

  Again, the queen smiled to herself. Pocket money, she thought, was an effective motivator.

  But if she wanted honesty—true insight into who these heroes really were—she would need just a little more.

  “Of course,” the queen added playfully, “Celes always had a fondness for those who can cook delicious food. Isn’t that right, Celes?”

  The remark carried easily across the hall. Conversation slowed, then stilled. More than a few of the heroes were listening now—some with casual interest, others with sudden, unmistakable focus.

  “Uhm, of course, Your Majesty,” her niece replied, uncertainty flickering across her face. Then, true to her sharpness, she caught on quickly. Her eyes narrowed just a fraction. “May I ask what this is about?”

  “I received a letter from your mother,” the queen said smoothly. “It contained several matters—but mostly, she wished to know how you were faring with your—matchmaking problem.”

  “It’s not a problem!” Celes protested, half-bellowing, her face flushing red.

  The queen remained perfectly calm. “Then perhaps you would like to reply in my stead?” she suggested gently, a serene smile curving her lips. “You could include a few details, like there is a gentleman that caught your attention because of how good he is at the kitchen or something along those lines.”

  The implication needed no explanation.

  Those who managed to impress would not merely earn coin. Their names would reach her sister’s ears—spoken with approval, framed as suitable prospects. Simply put, prestige and the offer of power. Those came naturally when dealing with nobles, let alone being a suitable match for a duke’s daughter.

  The queen inclined her head to herself, satisfied. Another incentive dangled freely. Now, she thought, she would see what the heroes truly brought to the table. The task might have appeared simple on its surface, but the queen knew better.

  This was never about cooking.

  It was a test of problem-solving when presented with unfamiliar constraints. A test of coordination—both with strangers and among themselves. A measure of how well they could navigate people as much as tasks. How they planned, adapted, compromised. These were merely the preliminaries.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  And the true trial still lay ahead.

  Her principal test would reveal who among them possessed spine—who could endure pressure without breaking. Who carried not only wit, but one of the true currencies upon which kingdoms were built. The kind that did not falter when praise vanished and burdens grew heavy.

  Those who failed would not be discarded outright.

  They would be pushed.

  Because to be a hero required more than strength or talent. It demanded the willingness to shoulder weight that most would shrink from—again and again.

  As these thoughts settled, the queen’s gaze drifted to a particular individual.

  Lord Vi was simply—eating.

  While excitement buzzed through the hall, while speculation and ambition flared among the heroes, he returned to his meal with unhurried focus. No spark of interest. No calculation. No visible reaction at all.

  It unsettled her.

  Even the adults present had shown at least mild curiosity. Anyone summoned from another world should have been drawn in—by coin, by prestige, by opportunity. And yet, from what she had observed the previous day, Lord Vi had shown little interest in anything of the sort. Not wealth. Not status. Not even relationships—despite Lady Reika’s hints, blatant as they were, failing to move him.

  If anything, he looked bored.

  The queen prided herself on her insight. This scheme had been crafted to encompass the desires of most people. Heroes or not, they had been ordinary once. Such incentives should have worked. Yet with him, they did not.

  She needed to evaluate them all. No one was exempt. If money, prestige, and affection were all off the table for him… then what remained?

  The queen pondered this as her niece continued to grumble through breakfast, face still flushed with embarrassment. At last, her gaze shifted again—back to Celes, then to Lord Vi.

  Perhaps, she thought, they shared something in common.

  Knowledge.

  If so, she would find out soon enough.

  But first—she would need to be certain.

  After breakfast, the queen called for everyone to retire to the drawing room under the pretext of allowing those who wished to participate time to plan. In truth, she wished to talk to lady Anna.

  Still the queen could sense the restlessness beneath the polite obedience. Their guests had been confined to the castle since their summoning, and novelty had begun to wear thin.

  “Do not worry,” the queen assured them as they gathered. “Come tomorrow, you will have an interesting day.”

  Most complied at once.

  Lord Vi did not.

  Lady Anna glanced toward him with quiet concern. “Will you be all right?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” he replied easily. “I’ll be fine. I just need to grab something I forgot. I’ll be right back.”

  With that, he limped away, leaving the queen watching his retreating figure with measured curiosity.

  Once everyone had settled, conversation naturally divided into clusters. The queen observed without interruption. Who suggested practical ideas. Who suggested ideas and merely spoke to be heard. Who took it upon themselves to structure plans, to assign tasks, to bring order from enthusiasm. She committed each detail to memory.

  At the same time, she struck up a casual conversation with Lady Anna.

  “Lady Anna,” the queen began, her tone gentle. “I am relieved to see your son walking again. But are you certain it is wise for him to be moving so much already?”

  “Oh, thank you for your concern, Your Majesty,” Lady Anna replied looking grateful. “I can’t say for sure—but after being confined to bed for nearly three days, I imagine a little movement will do him good.”

  “I see,” the queen said thoughtfully. “He seemed… unfocused during breakfast. Is that typical of him?”

  What followed was unexpectedly illuminating—and strangely perplexing.

  Between his parents, praise and criticism came in equal measure. They spoke of his brilliance and his foolishness, his kindness and his sharpness, his recklessness and his restraint. Lord Vi, it seemed, was a bundle of contradictions.

  Wild, yet tame.

  Kind, yet harsh.

  Intelligent, yet capable of astounding idiocy.

  It was so much that, he received titles that contradicted themselves. The queen listened, quietly assembling the pieces.

  Her initial impressions were proving accurate. Every version of him she had witnessed was genuine.

  That, more than anything else, made him difficult to predict.

  And therefore—interesting.

  By the time the discussion reached its midpoint, the heroes had finished planning. Only a few of the heroes had opted out entirely—Lady Shizuku and Lady Reika among them.

  In Lady Reika’s case, the queen was a bit surprised. Because lady Reika’s grandmother objected to it. Very strongly. Lady Reika argued but, her grandmother was adamant. Lord Sora had also withdrawn.

  The queen allowed it without comment. Participation, after all, was voluntary. The queen then turned her attention back to the ongoing conversation.

  “He likes to brag?” the queen repeated sounding uncertain. “But only to those he is close to?”

  Lady Anna nodded sadly. The queen however was surprised for she had another card to play. Pride.

  “But does he—like—do anything normal?” Lord Spencer asked, brow furrowed.

  “Other than eating and breathing, you mean?” Lord Kazehiko replied dryly. “Can’t think of any.”

  “Wait,” Lord Terrance interjected. “What about sleeping? That’s normal, right?”

  “Terry,” Lord Kazehiko said, deadpan, “he can sleep for an entire day. He once bragged he could go for a whole week.”

  “There’s got to be something,” Lord Spencer insisted. “Fears? What about fears? Everyone’s afraid of something normal.”

  At that, both of Vi’s parents exchanged a look—heavy, tired, and far too practiced.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Lady Anna said slowly. “At least, not in how he reacts to them.” She hesitated, then continued, “He’s afraid of spiders. Cockroaches.” Another pause. “And getting his picture taken.”

  The queen blinked. The first two required little explanation, though the specifics of the creatures were unfamiliar. The last, however, required elaboration.

  A picture, it seemed, was a sort of captured image. In this other world, portraits could be taken in the span of a single heartbeat using a device called a camera. The idea astonished her—here, even the quickest portrait demanded hours of stillness.

  “He tried to kill a cockroach once, using a contraption that is a combination of a meter stick, lighter and bug spray. Essentially, he used fire, or tried to,” said Lord Kazehiko. “He was screaming profanities and curses at it at the top of his lungs, still aiming the thing from a meter away but can’t seem to actually do anything.”

  “He was terrified,” Lady Anna went on. “Once, his uncles, my older brother threatened to take his picture as a joke. He hid behind a papaya tree.”

  PFFT!

  Every head turned.

  Lady Shizuku sat cross-legged on the floor, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking as she fought—and failed—to suppress her laughter.

  The queen watched her carefully.

  Interesting, she thought. Very interesting indeed.

  Before long, the conversation drifted, and the queen found herself sharing a few memories of her niece—small anecdotes, carefully chosen, that painted her as human rather than fragile but also extolled her virtues and her brilliance. Laughter came easily. Even the tension lingering from earlier had softened.

  Then Lord Vi returned.

  As casually as if he were late to tea, he limped into the room and set two rectangular devices onto a nearby table. From somewhere on his person—somewhere the queen was beginning to suspect defied logic—he produced a thin blue cord. He unfurled it, then a slim black-and-white device, flat and unfamiliar.

  Casually and without ceremony, he connected the cord to the base of the two rectangular objects, angled the thin device toward the sunlight streaming in and positioned it with deliberate care. Only then did he hobble over to an empty chair.

  It was only after settling that he seemed to notice the silence. Every eye in the room was fixed on him.

  “What—uh,” Lord Arthur ventured, squinting at the table, “whatcha got there?”

  “A phone?” Lord Vi replied with a shrug.

  “I believe,” his father said sharply, irritation bleeding into his voice, “he meant why do you have a solar charger. And why you have a Gameboy? Where were you even keeping them!?”

  “I’ll never tell,” Vi said cheerfully. “And it’s not a Gameboy, Father. It’s a 3DS.” He grinned. “Gods, you’re old.”

  The last remark was unmistakably teasing.

  Lord Kazehiko’s temper flared instantly. He lunged.

  But his son was already moving—he stood and dodged as best he could in his injured state, nearly losing his balance as he staggered aside.

  “Okay,” Lady Shizuku said brightly, raising one hand. “All in favor of commandeering the solar charger?”

  The smile she wore was unmistakable. The queen recognized it immediately. It was the kind of smile every woman wore when plotting a subtle revenge.

  Every hand went up.

  “Back! Back!” Vi shouted, hopping in front of the table. “Get back, you savages! This is my charger! Get your own!”

  He raised his good hand dramatically swatting the air as if fending off wild beasts.

  “If this Isekai is gonna turn into some Crazy?Max shit nonsense then I’ll take you all on!” he declared, “For Chrome-Plated Glory and other bad ideas! Ever Shiny! I may be a cripple, but I’m still the most powerful cripple here!”

  The room erupted.

  Laughter, protests, renewed arguments—all crashing together at once as two women stood up smiling and eager.

  From her seat, the queen watched the scene unfold quietly.

  After a brief—but chaotic—struggle with Lady Reika and Lady Shizuku, Lady Reika, in her desperate attempt to grab the solar charger, accidentally yanked at Lord Vi’s clothing and sent the waistband of his pants sliding down.

  He froze, one hand resting on his waist. Thankfully, his shirt hung long enough to preserve a shred of modesty.

  “So… sorry?” Reika said, her voice cracking with suppressed laughter.

  Around the room, the heroes snickered, though the women averted their eyes.

  “Go ahead and laugh it up!” Lord Vi snapped, glaring at Reika, as a vein on his forehead pulsed.

  Interesting, the queen mused.

  This one had a different kind of armor. One that no coin, no praise, and certainly no teasing could penetrate—and perhaps, she thought with a small smile, that made him all the more… fascinating.

  Yes, she thought.

  This one would not break easily.

  Still the queen, observing quietly from her seat, slowly retracted one earlier thought about him.

  Pride? This one had no pride, and maybe even shame.