Became the Villainess’s Guardian

The root causes of ruining one’s life can typically be narrowed down to either gambling or alcohol.
Today’s tale also begins with the courage potion that inflates groundless self-confidence: alcohol.

“Welcome. What would you like? Your usual?”

“Wine… No, on a day like this, I can afford to get a bit more intoxicated. Give me that whiskey instead.”

The man was a prosperous businessman in Londinium.
Merely half a year prior, he had been an ordinary individual until he was ‘chosen’ – or so he believed himself.

The man harbored no doubts about his remarkable status.
While not at the pinnacle yet, he had undoubtedly secured a respectable social standing. At this rate, he sensed the eventual possibility of vying for the highest echelons.

And the man wished to flaunt his eminence.
By the time such thoughts had arisen, the face that had initially resolved to keep its lips tightly sealed until the first glass was drained had already flushed crimson.

Seizing the wavering moment, petty vanity reared its head, eager to bolster self-esteem by boasting secrets.
Within that pleasantly giddy, floaty emotional state, judgment had long since become clouded.

‘I was instructed to maintain strict secrecy… but revealing it to just one person should be fine, right?’

Trivializing notions like copyright, a true Londinium businessman unhesitatingly decided on spontaneous, unauthorized distribution, untroubled by plagiarizing others’ ideas.

“You alone must know, hic! About this.”

“What might you be referring to?”

“You seemed curious about the secret behind my success before. Well, now I can share it, hic, with you.”

He proceeded to divulge the answer to a question no one had outright asked but was undoubtedly pondered, interjecting ‘just for you to know’ between every sentence, occasionally punctuated by hiccups in an otherwise smooth delivery.

And the aftermath was utterly predictable.

“Allow me to be frank.”

“Yes, go on.”

“While I’m well aware you’re not one to speak falsehoods… it’s rather difficult to believe.”

After all, being unaware of both the contact methods and the boss’s identity, the only statement he could make was, ‘I have an informant providing me with valuable information.’

Shaking their heads in disbelief, the skeptical reactions stung the businessman, who vented his frustration by kicking random roadside pebbles on his way home.

“You’ll see! The results will prove whether I’m truly a blowhard or not!”

“Fools, unable to comprehend such precious information… Tsk.”

And the following day.
It was already noon by the time he finally stirred from his hangover-induced stupor, staggering out of bed to find a letter lying on his windowsill.

Not on the table or the doorstep, but the windowsill.

“…Who could have brought this here?”

“It wasn’t me.”

Even inquiring with the household staff yielded an adamant denial.

Belatedly recalling the previous night’s events, the former businessman opened the envelope with trembling hands.

[You have been expelled from the organization.]

Those succinct words were all that was written inside.

The contact who had previously approached him with information did not appear at the promised time, and the man was forced to return home consumed by utter despair.

Fearful that a hooded assassin might show up in the dead of night, knife clenched between teeth, he had tripled his security detail. But the true crisis erupted from an entirely unexpected quarter.

Barely two days later, police officers barged through the door and hauled him away.
Ordering his guards to retaliate would have amounted to an outright coup and treason. His pitiful frame was promptly thrown onto the cold stone floor.

-Thud!

“This is an injustice!”

In the heavily guarded underground detention center of the Londinium Metropolitan Police Department’s East Precinct, having found his new lodgings behind bars, he rattled the cell while shouting in protest.

The investigating officers, sporting bemused expressions, waved documents before him as they spoke.

“How is this an injustice when the charges are clearly listed here?”

“My, my, look at all those zeroes… You’ve been quite the busy bee, haven’t you? Unpaid taxes, embezzled goods, bribery – quite the colorful array.”

He had been caught.
Uncertain how, but he had been caught.

The former businessman, now simply a man, decided to change tactics.
Putting his social reputation aside, he opened up about the shadowy dealings he had previously indulged in, if only to preserve some possibility of a comeback.

“This is, well, someone’s conspiracy.”

“Hey there, Superintendent Baldor! Any interest in a more constructive dialogue?”

“I buried a jar of gold coins in my backyard! Care to join me in retrieving it?”

The evidence did not appear fabricated.
While Superintendent Baldor sensed the familiar handiwork of a certain individual behind the man’s ravings, which sounded like the cries of a madman, he ultimately turned away.

After casting one final glance at the note requesting the arrest of some anonymous individual – not an order from his metropolitan superiors – Superintendent Baldor promptly tore it into shreds and let the wind scatter the pieces.

Through this series of events, a vague outline emerged of who had belonged to the organization.
The key players behind the public interest tips seemed to have rendezvoused at a secluded tavern that evening, as if by prior arrangement with the arrested drunkard.

Habitually ordering drinks, they froze upon recalling the morning’s events.
The sight of five full-grown adults sipping beverages barely qualifying as wine, more akin to grape juice, in a tavern was quite an odd spectacle.

And how long did they silently fiddle with their glasses, letting time slip by?
Unable to bear the awkward silence any longer, one gentleman finally broke the ice, clearing his throat.

“I presume… we all understand why we’ve gathered here.”

“Indeed, we share a common thread.”

“It would seem we all find ourselves in similar circumstances.”

Once the conversational dam had burst, the ensuing torrent rapidly gained momentum.

“I had merely forwarded a few requested documents to the metropolitan police headquarters……”

“My case was similar. Though being a banker, I was additionally asked to provide certain transaction records.”

While not denying the terror of contributing to the ruination of someone’s life in the blink of an eye, that would be a lie.

“He was a fool.”

“Well, the sum he had embezzled amounted to a small factory’s annual revenue, so there’s that.”

“A businessman, they called him. If operating at the forefront of industry, he should have set a proper example. This only serves to besmirch the kingdom and Her Majesty’s honor.”

And yet.

“…There was a sense of involvement, I suppose.”

A feeling of belonging, instead of solitude.
A sense of participation in something greater and more significant.

Despite being a boss who never even held a single meeting, let alone a year-end party, they felt a semblance of camaraderie.

Having simply blindly followed the motions like puppets in exchange for the benefitsthey had reaped, the job was already done.

The police, who had seemed likely to accept hush money and move on, had unexpectedly taken a hardline stance instead.
An indication that the matter could not be easily overlooked, but Superintendent Baldor’s adamance in handling the case hinted at potential collaboration within the metropolitan police department.

“So who is the true leader’s identity?”

“Unknown. But given the information capabilities, they could be a high-ranking official.”

“Or perhaps a well-connected general within the military.”

And the very individual they had been so fervently seeking was:

“Have you decided what you’ll do going forward?”

“Yes, I’ll study magic!”

A mere fifteen years old.
Still in the midst of career deliberations as a youth of the newfound Londinium Kingdom.

Throughout the winter, Ceres Palace’s vacuum cleaner sales remained robust.

However, the chimney sweeper vacuums they had painstakingly developed by working overtime fell short, with promotional half-price discounts failing to offset the irrefutable logic that pushing children into chimneys remained the more cost-effective option.

Morality? Had they cared about such trivialities, five-year-olds would never have crawled into mines in the first place.
Children’s social status straddled the line between beings deserving protection and cheap labor, skewing heavily towards the latter extreme. And it wasn’t outright illegal, so invoking the law’s severity was moot.

Ultimately, it was merely a case of transferring funds from one pocket to the other. But by earning some money through domestic vacuum sales and leveraging the burgeoning Edan Charitable Foundation’s support, we managed to offer a 50% discount.
Meanwhile, my research team and I periodically engaged in bare-knuckle wrestling matches against the Chimney Sweepers’ Union protesting for ‘child labor rights’ in front of the palace.

This madcap WWE spectacle only reached a tentative ceasefire, with my hard-fought victory, after a ten-year-old boy was lowered into a burning chimney to extinguish the blaze in an East End household, only to be burned alive.

On another note, while not quite a century-spanning prodigy dissociated from language itself like Edan, the second-timer,
Freugne, having belatedly commenced her studies, successfully obtained her graduation credentials alongside her peers.

“Next year will be your graduation.”

Even public schools managed a 50% progression rate to higher education.
Thus, the narrower path of advanced schooling was the true first step for aspiring intellectuals.

I posed the question to Freugne.
It was gradually time for such inquiries.

“Have you decided what you’ll do going forward?”

“Yes, I’ll study magic!”

“No, I’m not asking what you wish to study.”

To her tilting her head in confusion, I rephrased my query.

“That is merely a means, not the end goal. If you wish to study, you could become a researcher. If you have a knack for making money, you could become a businesswoman.”

“……”

“So I’ll ask again. What do you wish to do once you’re grown?”

Freugne, who had always answered promptly, now hesitated for the first time, slowly parting her lips.