The Paranoid Elf Queen Turned Me Into Her Sister

Volume 3, 29 ~ The Homeward Road

“Grudges are actually the root cause behind the constant spawning of cultists??”

After Teresa led Yimi away, Gran stared at the flower bud in his palm, which still held a trace of the Elf girl’s warmth, and thought deeply.

The meaning she had conveyed—stripped of preconceived notions—wasn’t hard to grasp.

Gran wasn’t one of those rigid, outdated nobles. His thinking was agile. In fact, he had been researching the question of why cultists kept appearing for a long time.

If it was truly the Empire’s corrupt officials driving desperate people into corners, forcing them to turn to cults—it didn’t quite add up.

After all, no sane person would willingly pin their hopes on some cult with a filthy history and unclear origins. Moreover, the Empire had a zero tolerance policy for cultists. Even if you gave those peasants ten times their courage, they wouldn’t dare openly worship such a thing—this was a topic that couldn’t even be spoken of.

After investigation led nowhere, the Empire’s official stance remained vague. Unable to find an answer, Gran had to set it aside and throw himself into his duties, running all over to suppress rebellions.

Now, with Teresa’s words, Gran began to consider a new possibility—if the rise of cultists wasn’t a conscious choice by the people, but rather stemmed from some ever-generating supernatural force, then suddenly everything made sense.

Gran had once theorized that the “mutations” of cultists were caused by a spreading virus. He had even dissected cultist corpses himself.

But there was something strange—if it really were a virus, how did it spread?

In the same city, even the same family, one member might become a cultist, yet many others remained unaffected. That meant it wasn’t spreading through the air or water like a typical contagion.

Dissecting cultists’ bodies, he found their organs nearly identical to humans’. No major structural changes. Experiments with condemned prisoners showed their blood carried no contagion either.

This brought Gran’s research to a standstill.

Even if this “doctrine” that turned humans into monsters was a virus—since it had no contagious properties, you couldn’t rightly call it a plague.

“If it’s grudges, then… but…” He stared at the flower bud in his palm—light as it was, it felt scalding hot.

“Can mere grudges really turn humans into something that terrifying?”

No one could give him an answer. But his instincts told him that an Elf girl wouldn’t lie, and certainly wouldn’t lie about something like this.

If the true culprit was indeed human grudge, then a lot of things suddenly lined up—but as a traditional Imperial man, Gran still found it hard to accept that mere resentment, built up grain by grain, could lead to such upheaval.

The Empire’s high council wasn’t made of fools—if they were, they couldn’t have ruled this long.

Gran thought about it. With so many top alchemists, magicians, and court physicians, there was no way they hadn’t noticed the root cause.

It wasn’t that they didn’t know—likely, they just hadn’t chosen to pursue it.

Gran thought so to himself. No matter what, he didn’t want to assume the worst of his Emperor or his country.

But if Teresa had been there, she would’ve told him something she’d learned in the other world she’d once lived in:

“The noble are often the most foolish; the lowly are often the most clever.”

“Mot, take everyone back to the city first. Pick two uninjured personal guards and come with me.” Gran called his personal aide.

“Lord Gran, where are you going?” Mot blinked in surprise.

They had just fought a brutal battle. Even though their contribution was limited, over half their number were dead or injured, morale was low—and now the commander was leaving the unit? It felt improper.

“Don’t ask so many questions.” Gran glanced at the flower bud, which had started to swell slightly. “Just remember—pick two you absolutely trust.”

“Yes, sir.” Mot didn’t know what Gran intended, but as a soldier, obeying orders was his duty. He immediately assented.

***

“Hey… you really don’t need this thing?”

Two figures, one tall and one small, walked down a rural path. Yimi kept turning over in her hands a strangely-shaped item—something that looked suspiciously like a “helmet.”

It was the thing Teresa had pulled off earlier and tossed to the ground. Yimi had been the one to pick it back up later.

“I just think… if I’m going to be myself, then hiding like that doesn’t really suit, don’t you think, Yimi~?”

“Can you not use that face with that voice? It’s disgusting.”

Yimi’s expression was blank, but there was a flicker of distaste in her eyes—she looked exactly like one of those cold, sharp-tongued loli from certain anime specials, the kind who step on you with a bored expression while calling you pathetic.

“Didn’t you just say you despised disguises?”

“That’s when I’m being myself. Sometimes, a disguise is necessary.” Dylin smiled sweetly as he ruffled Yimi’s little head. “Right?”

“Take your hand off me. Who said you could touch me?”

Though Yimi said that, she didn’t actually move to stop him—tacitly allowing Dylin’s “head pats.”

This woman—something definitely changed about her.

When she first took this human disguise, she was pretty quiet. At least she didn’t smile like this—this disgustingly smooth, effortless grin.

She’s completely cut loose now, hasn’t she?

And then…

Because Yimi tolerated it, Dylin only grew bolder. From Yimi’s head, to her hair, finally even her cheeks weren’t spared—those hands roamed, rubbing and kneading.

If Yimi didn’t know the body beneath that disguise belonged to a woman, she would’ve already decided this person was an irredeemable pervert and loli-con.

…Actually, that didn’t change the fact she was a pervert.

Tsk. Perverted woman. And to think she’d been moved by her emotional state earlier—only to find out she had this side.

“Hey, keep rubbing me and I’ll scream for help—get you arrested for being a pervert.”

Yimi’s face remained mostly expressionless, but irritation—and the little “anger veins” in her head—were obvious.

“Oh? Scream? Scream to whooo~?”

Dylin shaded her eyes dramatically with one hand, pretending to scan the horizon.

“Look—do you see anyone around in this wilderness to hear you scream?”

“Go on—scream all you like. Scream until your throat breaks—nobody’s coming to save you.” She even put on the tone of a street thug, a mock villain.

“… Bastard.” Yimi muttered. “I’ll kill you someday.”

“Heh.” Dylin ignored it, and kept rubbing Yimi’s wonderfully soft cheeks.

Like old men who love to “polish” walnuts, some people just had to fidget with something.

Dylin didn’t have that habit—until now.

Yimi’s cheeks were the perfect thing to fidget with—soft, with a little bounce, like cotton candy, irresistible.

And this wasn’t just any cheeks—this was a pure-blood Gold Elf face. What collectible could compare?

A poke here, a rub there, a pinch, a pull, a… lick—

…Ah, no, that one would actually make her a pervert.

“You sadistic woman—let me go.” Finally, Yimi’s patience snapped. Whether from rubbing or from embarrassment, her cheeks were now flushed red.

“Oh? What did you just call me?”

“…”

Dylin spoke, and Yimi opened her little cherry mouth—but then shut it again.

Even without looking at her, Yimi could feel Dylin’s expression. That odd smile—not just a smile, but something darker—was terrifying.

Gold Elves don’t let themselves be humiliated.

Remembering Dylin’s past methods, Yimi yielded.

This hateful woman—her fists might be weaker, her words less sharp—but still, she bullied Yimi endlessly.

“My sweet little Yimi, don’t make that pitiful face. You look like a little girl being bullied by some creepy uncle.”

Dylin patted her cheek from behind, smiling.

“When you slapped me earlier—it felt good, didn’t it?~”

“?!”

Yimi froze.

She’d almost forgotten—this woman held grudges.

“That slap—what a good one. You must’ve put some personal feeling into it, huh? Left a cute little hoof-print on my face, and I didn’t even say anything. And now you’re mad that I’m rubbing your face?”

“You… petty little thing. That was an uncontrollable force.”

“Uncontrollable or not—you hit me, didn’t you~? Felt good, didn’t it?”

“No. Stop twisting things. I only struck you because I had no choice.”

Yimi spoke dead serious—too serious. Her whole body was stiff, taut like a drawn bowstring.

“Really? Then I should be thanking you, huh.”

He didn’t need more words—he could feel her emotions.

“I wonder what you were thinking then. Maybe: Ah, finally—I left a red handprint on that annoying Teresa’s face. That slap felt so good! That’s what you really thought, right?”

“No! Don’t project your weird thoughts onto me!”

“If that’s not it, why so tense? Look—your back’s tighter than a bowstring.”

“Well, whatever you were thinking, I told you—anything that harms me comes with punishment, right?”

“Normally you try to assassinate me, but you never left a mark. This time’s a little different, isn’t it?”

Dylin’s eyes narrowed. “You slapped me. On my face. Do you know—nobody’s ever slapped this face before?”

Even her useless elder sister only smacked her butt, never her face.

And yet, this little blonde brat who barely reached her chest dared to slap her cheek.

Yes, it had been “uncontrollable”—but the first slap on her face had been given away, and Dylin wasn’t happy.

“…”

Yimi stayed silent.

“Hmph.” Dylin didn’t speak further—she just kept “polishing” Yimi’s cheeks, even humming a lullaby.

Listening closely, Yimi realized—Dylin was still singing Swan’s Elegy…

…but the tune and style were completely different.

The once-sacred, noble Swan’s Elegy was now butchered—sung in a lazy tone, in a man’s voice, not a single line on key.

Yimi wanted to cry.

Stop singing. Stop. People usually sing for money. You sing for blood.

She cursed Dylin a thousand times in her heart, begging the Mother of Earth to send someone—anyone—to rein her in.

But then she realized she’d prayed to the wrong goddess.

The holy Mother of Earth couldn’t rein in a demon.

To subdue this demon… you’d need an even worse demon.

“Are you thinking something rude right now?”

“No,” Yimi shook her head.

This woman could sense her emotions—Yimi felt like every little thought was laid bare to her.

The danger of the Corpseblossom was temporarily resolved, and Dylin had also found what she came for—pieces of her memory.

But there were still many things she didn’t understand.

Like that laboratory in Ruglian—who had founded it?

Somehow, Dylin felt all these events were connected.

And the Moon Elves’ attitude would matter, too.

She’d decided the next journey would be to the Elven Forest—the Forest of Sages.

Now that she had accepted her identity, she would no longer hide her race.

If any Moon Elf elder dared to try to imprison her or anything like that, Teresa would try to reason with them.

After all—they were still her kin.

But if reason fails… she would still “reason” with them.

It would just be a… different kind of reason.

If they wouldn’t see sense, she’d show them why, out of hundreds of thousands of Elves, only she was called the Elf War Goddess.

Her power was tied to her memory. She hadn’t fully recovered yet—but what she had was enough.

Aside from that useless Bilodis, no one in the Elf Tribe now could match her.

Speaking of Bilodis—what was that cow woman doing now?

Though their travel was delayed for various reasons, they finally boarded the carriage home.

Sitting in the cart, Dylin gazed at the scenery outside, and memories of her childhood stirred.

Though time had worn them thin, and some were incomplete—many remained.

Memories of her elder sister—many were embarrassing black marks.

How, as a child, if she teased her sister’s weight or broke rules, she’d be punished by that smiling elder sister—punished in all sorts of creative ways.

But still, Teresa wondered—how was that cow woman doing now?

Was she well?