Celia's sharp, analytical eyes scanned him, her expression unchanging. For a moment, Shin thought she was going to call his bluff, to dismiss him with a flick of her wrist and a curt, "Then eat."
Instead, she gave a single, crisp nod. "Acknowledged," she said, her voice as dry as old parchment. "Your Majesty's culinary skills are noted. However, your time is more valuable than that of a kitchen staff. It is an inefficient use of a royal asset."
She turned to the silent, staring cooks. "You. Prepare the midday meal for the King. Use the phoenix eggs, the sun-dried ham, and the Sky-Root greens. He prefers them scrambled."
Shin's jaw nearly hit the floor. She'd been paying attention. Of course, she had. She was Celia.
A small, private dining table was hastily cleared for him in a quiet alcove off the main kitchen. He sat down, the ornate chair feeling far too big for him. He watched the flurry of activity as the cooks prepared his meal, a strange mix of gratitude and dread churning in his stomach.
A few minutes later, as the delicious aroma began to fill the air, he felt a small presence beside him. He looked down. It was Celia.
Before he could even register what was happening, she had efficiently climbed onto his lap, settling herself as if she were sitting on her usual podium. She adjusted her tiny glasses, pulled a glowing data slate from a pocket in her uniform, and began scrolling through it, completely oblivious to his utter shock.
NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. I'M NOT A LOLICON. I'M NOT A LOLICON. I'M NOT A LOLICON. I'M NOT A LOLICON. The phrase screamed through his mind on a frantic, endless loop. He sat ramrod straight, his hands hovering in the air, terrified to touch anything. He could feel the small, solid weight of her, the faint rustle of her uniform. Every instinct, every law from his old world, was telling him to flee.
A maid arrived, placing a steaming plate of the most delicious-looking scrambled eggs he had ever seen in front of him. His stomach growled, betraying him. But how could he possibly eat? There was a child—a centuries-old, hyper-efficient, child-looking logistics manager—sitting on his lap.
He cleared his throat, his voice squeaking. "Uh, Celia? Would you mind... terribly... just moving over to that chair?" He gestured weakly to the empty seat beside him.
Celia didn't even look up from her slate. Her finger continued to scroll, her face a mask of concentration. She didn't answer. She didn't even acknowledge he had spoken.
From the kitchen, he could hear the hushed whispers of the maids who were supposed to be cleaning.
"Is that... Headmistress Celia?" "Sitting on the King's lap?" "I've never... I've never seen her be so... familiar with anyone." "She's never even patted a cat! She called the royal hound 'a suboptimal allocation of affection resources'!" "This is the first time... she's ever acted like that. She's actually... being clingy."
The word "clingy" sent a fresh jolt of panic through Shin. This wasn't normal. This wasn't Celia. This was... something else. The Rite. It was already affecting people, even before he'd done anything.
He looked down at the top of her head, at the neat, dark ponytail. He looked at the plate of food, growing cold. He was trapped. He was the king, the anchor, the strategic asset manager, and he was being held hostage by a tiny, data-obsessed child-woman on his lap.
He took a deep, shaky breath. There was only one way out of this. He had to speak her language.
"Celia," he said, his voice suddenly calm and clear, adopting the tone of a project manager. "Your current position is... suboptimal for the primary objective."
Her finger stopped scrolling. She slowly, slowly lifted her head from her slate, her magnified eyes blinking up at him.
He continued, gaining confidence. "It is creating a logistical bottleneck in the refueling process for the kingdom's primary asset. Efficiency requires a reallocation of your position to the designated secondary seating."
For a long moment, she just stared at him, her face a blank slate. Then, a flicker of something new crossed her features. It wasn't emotion. It was... calculation. As if she were processing a new, fascinating set of data.
"Query acknowledged," she said, her voice as crisp as ever. "Re-evaluating operational parameters." She closed her slate, tucked it away, and, with the same mechanical efficiency she had climbed up, slid off his lap and moved to the chair beside him.
Shin let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He stared at his plate, then at the tiny, formidable logistics manager now sitting next to him, and wondered, for the hundredth time since arriving in this world, what in the ever-loving hell was going on.
Shin finally picked up his fork, his hand trembling slightly. He took a bite of the scrambled eggs. It was delicious, of course. The cooks had learned their lesson well. But he could barely taste it. He was acutely aware of the tiny, formidable figure sitting beside him, a silent, calculating presence.
He was halfway through his meal when Celia spoke again.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice as flat and emotionless as ever.
Shin froze, the fork halfway to his mouth. He slowly turned his head. She had swiveled in her chair to face him directly, her thick glasses making her eyes look like two immense, analytical moons.
"I wish to perform the Rite."
The fork clattered onto his plate, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet alcove. Shin stared, his mind a complete and utter blank. He had expected another logistical query, a complaint about inventory, anything but this. It was so direct, so devoid of emotion, that it was more shocking than if she had been seductive.
No. No. No. I'm not a lolicon. I'm not a lolicon. I'm not a lolicon. I'm not a lolicon. The mantra screamed in his head, a desperate shield against the sheer insanity of the situation.
As if reading his thoughts—or, more likely, analyzing his physiological responses—Celia continued, her tone that of a scientist presenting a hypothesis.
"The available data on the Rite is incomplete," she explained, her hands folded neatly in her lap. "It is described in historical texts in terms of energy transfer and magical resonance, but the subjective experience is entirely undocumented. I wish to acquire this data firsthand. I wish to know what it feels like."
Shin swallowed hard, his throat suddenly as dry as dust. This wasn't about desire, or loyalty, or even duty. To Celia, this was an experiment. And he was the lab rat.
Before he could form a single word of protest, she stood up and placed a small, firm hand on his arm. Her touch was cool and clinical.
"Consent is implied by the strategic necessity," she stated, as if quoting a regulation.
The moment her skin touched his, the Rite began. But it was different this time. The light didn't come from him, pouring into her. It came from her.
A soft, blue light, the color of a computer screen's glow, began to emanate from Celia's small body. It was cool and analytical, just like her. Shin watched, mesmerized, as the light intensified, obscuring her form.
Within the cocoon of blue light, a transformation began. Her small, child-like body began to stretch and grow. Her neat, dark ponytail unraveled, the hair spilling out and growing at an impossible rate, cascading down her back in a thick, lustrous wave of midnight black. Her features sharpened, the soft roundness of youth giving way to the elegant angles of maturity. And, as Shin watched with a mixture of horror and a traitorous, primal fascination, her chest developed, the fabric of her simple maid's uniform straining against the sudden, significant growth.
The light faded.
Standing before him was not a child. It was a woman. A stunningly beautiful, statuesque woman with long, dark hair, sharp, intelligent eyes, and a figure that would make any goddess pause. She looked to be in her late twenties, and she radiated an aura of ancient, powerful intelligence.
Shin's jaw was on the floor. He pointed a trembling finger at her. "Who... who are you?"
The woman adjusted the glasses that were now perfectly proportioned to her face. She looked at him, her expression still as flat and analytical as ever, though now it was infinitely more intimidating.
"I am Celia," she said, her voice a low, mature, and utterly calm contralto. She took a step closer, her movements graceful and deliberate.
"The Rite begins now."