The Nerd Next Door Turned Out To Be The Magic Tower Master [Novel] Chapter 16

[The Relief Festival is coming up soon. The festivities among the commoners start earlier than the official ceremonies, so around this time of year, merchants gather from all over.]

Cecilia recalled the imperial geography she’d been studying recently.

Weberdin territory sat at the southwestern tip of the continent. And true to its past as a strategic stronghold near the Holy Land, one side bordered a waterway — the sea.

She’d read that with the Relief Festival approaching, merchants flooded in via the waterways to make money, while clerics arrived from every region to attend the ceremonies.

“It’s a festival big enough to rival what they hold in the capital, so just imagine how much more there’ll be.”

“Really?”

A festival in another world.

Granted, when she thought of festivals, what came to mind was the campus the morning after — reeking of alcohol and the smell of half-digested food rising from people’s stomachs. But if this was the dream-and-hope world of a novel, surely it’d be different!

Her budding excitement, however, was ruthlessly crushed.

“Since you’ll need to attend the Relief Festival, my lady, and there’s quite a bit to prepare, I’m afraid sightseeing won’t really be possible.”

Setting aside how the recent incident had made outings even harder than before, a Weberdin by blood was expected to help prepare for the Relief Festival — there was no way she’d be given time to wander the commoners’ festivities.

‘Unless I had some prince to sneak me out of here— ugh, no, an accomplice.’

Wait.

Didn’t she have someone who’d make the perfect accomplice?

Cecilia easily pictured a certain robe enthusiast who would happily accept her request and serve as an excellent co-conspirator.

She should go threaten— no, ask him right away. The moment she made up her mind—

As if sensing her master starting to squirm in her seat, Melanie thrust a letter forward from the silver tray.

“This is……”

“A letter from the Holy Temple.”

An envelope so immaculately white it was unsettling.

The sender was none other than the Pope.

<To the Saintess.>

She slowly read the neat handwriting, as orderly as the man’s upright and warm character.

The core message of the plain letter — which didn’t even fill half the white page — was this:

<As a proxy who conveys the word of God, I wish to cultivate a devout heart and a body of integrity; I respectfully request that you entrust yourself to God at the end of the Month of Life.>

In simple terms: there was a lot to prepare before the Relief Festival began, so get yourself to the Grand Temple quickly. Basically an enlistment— no, a summons.

‘I never even received a draft notice in twenty-first-century Korea, and now I’m getting one here. Is this real life?’

Far from making her heart swell with grandeur, the notice made it shrivel.

Cecilia barely made it to the end of the letter.

<P.S. Unfortunately, all the ceremonial vestments for the Relief Festival rites are tailored to my measurements.>

A glint suddenly returned to her eyes.

‘Yes — if I use this as an excuse to refuse the ceremony…!’

But that was wishful thinking.

<However, there is no need to worry. I will send someone on the 20th of the Month of Life to have new vestments fitted for you.>

The glint died from Cecilia’s eyes, and she asked weakly:

“When is the 20th of the Month of Life again?”

“Today.”

“……”

Wasn’t this honestly worth cursing about?

Cecilia gazed wistfully at the vase.

Smashing it against her own head really did seem like the better option all around.

Unfortunately, Cecilia failed to bring the vase down on her head.

What’s more, she also failed to escape before the visitor from the Holy Temple arrived.

And so, having become a failure on all fronts, Cecilia greeted her guest with wretched composure.

“Lady Cecilia, your guest has arrived.”

“Show them in.”

The moment permission was given, two tall men filed in behind Melanie. Both were tall enough that their faces were visible right over Melanie’s head.

‘Hm?’

Somehow there was a familiar face mixed in.

“I pay my respects to the Saintess.”

“A pleasure to meet you.”

The first greeting belonged to Sir Miguel, and the second to an unfamiliar cleric.

Cecilia studied the cleric, whose presence was as pronounced as Sir Miguel’s.

‘He is a cleric… right?’

The man in black priestly robes had curly black hair that covered his forehead and practically stabbed him in the eyes, and the skin beneath those eyes was so dark it looked like he hadn’t slept in three days.

Meanwhile, his skin was pale as someone who’d never once been touched by sunlight. And on top of that, those strangely unfocused eyes.

Could he perhaps be a priest who served a different god? Something like the god of death or curses.

But the temple badge gleaming on the man’s chest was the same as Sir Miguel’s.

Straightening the squint she’d unconsciously made, Cecilia returned the greeting.

“I’m Cecilia Weberdin. Thank you for making the trip all the way to the estate.”

That said, wasn’t this rather an unexpected combination for people sent to help fit vestments?

Setting aside Sir Miguel, who had visited the Weberdin estate from time to time — that man looked nothing like a tailor no matter how she looked at him.

On behalf of the man, who seemed to have little will to exchange pleasantries, Miguel spoke up.

“This is the Grand Temple’s hea— rather, a priest.”

“I am Kiar Luceteim, slave of God. You can just call me Kiar.”

‘……Don’t people usually say servant of God?’

Rather than pointing out the unusual introduction, Cecilia asked Melanie to bring cold tea and a simple dessert.

Afterward, she guided them to the sofa, which had recently been re-covered with its summer drape.

Seated with impeccable posture on the suitably rough, cool fabric, Miguel spoke carefully.

“Have you had any health issues since then?”

“No. I wasn’t even hurt to begin with.”

“So Nox’s words weren’t lies after all.”

Miguel’s eyes crinkled in what might have been a smile.

What on earth had her father’s son been saying? She could bet Charles’s treats that most of it was nonsense.

“I’m a little afraid to ask what he told you.”

Melanie entered with perfect timing and set teacups before them, and only then did Cecilia move to the main topic.

“By the way, I was told by His Holiness the Pope that he’d be sending people regarding the vestment fitting……”

So why had a knight and a priest come instead of a tailor?

When she asked obliquely, Sir Miguel glanced sideways at the man beside him with a troubled look.

The man — Kiar — unlike Miguel’s perfect posture, sat with his back and shoulders hunched.

It took a good several dozen seconds before he noticed both of them were staring at him, and he answered slowly.

“I’m the tailor.”

“Pardon? But didn’t you just say you were a priest?”

“I’m also a tailor. A garbage-tier one, though.”

“……Pardon?”

‘Why would they send a tailor with garbage-tier skills?’

“You’re thinking right now about why a garbage-tier priest is here, aren’t you?”

The pinpoint accuracy stung, but she tried her best not to show it and shook her head.

“Of course not. His Holiness must have personally selected you. I have no doubt you possess excellent skills.”

“No, I can assure you. I will definitely ruin everything.”

The man said it with conviction. She couldn’t tell whether he had confidence or no confidence at all — it was an impossible reaction to read.

And Cecilia, too, was now convinced. This was no mere tailor. This was a certifiably insane person.

Her judgment was not wrong.

Whatever absurd scenario he’d been imagining inside that head — doubtless stuffed with negative thoughts — his already pale face went even whiter.

“It seems I’ve disturbed the Saintess’s composure after all. I knew I would ruin things before even starting.”

“No, my composure is perfectly fine.”

“No. A wretch like me should not be entrusted with important tasks — I should atone with my life.”

The man, who had been sprinting toward the far end of negativity, rummaged through his sleeve. What emerged from the pitch-black priestly robe was a rope.

A terribly sturdy one, at that — one that looked perfect for hanging.

‘What is he going to do with that?’

No — why was he carrying something like that around in the first place?

When he moved to loop the rope around his neck, a startled Cecilia smacked the back of his hand.

‘There are limits to sudden escalation!’

She’d hit hard enough to make her own palm throb, so the back of his hand had to hurt too.

But Kiar neither clutched his hand with wide eyes nor got angry at her.

He simply blinked, staring at the rope that had tumbled to the floor.

“God was calling me……”

“No, He wasn’t.”

“Yeaaah……”

Despite Cecilia’s horrified answer, Kiar responded listlessly.

He glanced once at the high ceiling, the bright outdoors, and the shadow at his feet in turn, then picked up the rope again. And then he approached her.

‘Wh-what. Is he going to tie me up and beat me because I hit him?’

She clenched her soft fists behind her back—

He straightened the rope into a line and held it against her arm. Then he began scrawling numbers in the notebook tucked inside his robes.

It seemed to be her arm length.

‘That rope was a substitute measuring tape?’

Looking closely, she noticed markings etched into the rope at regular intervals. The sense was so stunning it bordered on horrifying — she was momentarily speechless.

But the man himself simply measured her leg length with an expression of undisguised annoyance.

“Your limbs are shorter than they look. Hmm, I’ll need to take the vestments in quite a bit.”

Mumbling things like that.

‘Maybe I should just strangle him with that rope.’

Insulted to her face, Cecilia glared at him with displeasure. The fact that there was zero intention or malice behind it made it even more infuriating.

Just then, Miguel, who had been watching the situation unfold, added quietly: