Some time later—long enough for Acting Grand Master Jean to retreat to a quiet corner, collect her emotions, carefully put her calm and composed mask back on, return to her office, and stare blankly at a pile of documents without reading a single word—
The door to the Grand Master's office was suddenly pushed open with a bang, far more forcefully than usual.
Yichen rushed in.
His hair was still a bit messy, his breathing slightly uneven, and faint traces of a hangover lingered on his face.
"Grand Master Jean! Sorry—sorry! I'm late!"
As he spoke, he instinctively headed toward his assistant's desk, clearly intending to throw himself straight into work to make up for his tardiness.
However—
He very quickly sensed that something was… off.
And more importantly, a gaze—cold, heavy with presence—was fixed firmly on him.
Yichen stopped mid-step and turned his head in confusion.
Jean was not buried in documents as usual.
She sat perfectly upright behind her desk, hands neatly folded on the tabletop. Her blue eyes were calmly watching him, but beneath that calm was something he couldn't quite read—
Disappointment?
Or perhaps… grievance?
And something else.
A distance he had never seen on her face before.
"G-Grand Master Jean…?"
Yichen felt a chill crawl up his spine and unconsciously straightened his posture.
"Um… I had something to deal with this morning, so I was delayed. I'm really sorry! I promise today's workload won't be affected at all!"
He tried to smooth things over with enthusiasm and professionalism.
Jean didn't answer right away.
Her gaze lingered briefly on his slightly rumpled uniform and still-groggy expression—images that overlapped all too easily with the scene from that morning: him walking out of the inn side by side with Eula.
She took a quiet breath, forcing herself to speak in as steady and businesslike a tone as possible.
But the words that came out carried an edge—cool, restrained… and faintly petulant.
"Assistant Yichen,"
"Your private matters do not require reporting to me. The Knights of Favonius operate under strict regulations. Being late is being late."
Yichen froze.
Today's Grand Master felt unusually stern.
"I—I understand. I won't let it happen again—"
Before he could finish, Jean interrupted him.
"Since you arrived late," she said flatly,
"then please make up for the 'morning work report' you missed."
"Work report?"
Yichen blinked, genuinely confused.
Had there been an urgent report scheduled this morning? The pilot project had only just been summarized yesterday—
Seeing the blank look on his face, Jean's fingers tightened slightly, her nails nearly digging into the back of her hand.
She looked away, her gaze dropping to the empty page in front of her.
"I mean…"
"the first… 'standard procedure' you perform every morning after arriving on time."
The tips of her ears faintly reddened, even as her tone remained cool.
Yichen's brain finally connected the dots.
Ah.
That.
The confession check-in.
Because of the hangover and being late, he had completely forgotten the most important "daily task."
No wonder she seemed upset!
So that was it—he had broken the ritual.
His fault entirely.
Yichen immediately straightened, cleared his throat, and spoke loudly and clearly:
"Grand Master Jean! I like you! Please consider dating me with marriage as the premise!"
Silence.
The familiar, quick "I refuse" did not come.
Jean didn't even look up.
She remained focused on the document, as if his confession hadn't existed at all.
After several long seconds, she finally responded—her voice calm, distant, almost indifferent.
"…Mm. I understand."
No acceptance.
No rejection.
Like punching cotton.
This completely off-script reaction made Yichen's expression freeze on the spot.
Wait—
Does this count as completed or not?!
System?!
SYSTEM, COME JUDGE THIS!!
The air in the office thickened, as if turning into sticky syrup.
Each second dragged painfully long.
Only the faint scratch of a quill moving across paper filled the space.
Then—
Jean stopped writing.
Without lifting her head, she spoke as if making casual conversation.
"By the way… Yichen, how many times have you confessed to me now?"
Yichen's hands froze mid-file.
A powerful sense of danger shot through his body.
"R-Reporting, Grand Master!"
"As of now—including the one just now—it's ninety-eight times!"
He paused, then added carefully:
"…All properly recorded."
"I see…"
Jean gently set down her quill. Her fingers tapped lightly against the polished redwood desk.
Tap. Tap.
Like a countdown.
She finally raised her eyes, calmly meeting his gaze. A faint, almost gentle smile appeared on her lips.
"Then after the hundredth confession…"
her tone lifted slightly,
"who will be the next lucky one, I wonder?"
A bead of cold sweat slid down from Yichen's temple.
Danger.
Extreme danger.
He swallowed hard, trying to force out a relaxed smile, but his face refused to cooperate.
"G-Grand Master Jean,"
his voice dry and unsteady,
"you… you're not angry, right?"
"Angry?"
Jean smiled even more softly, lifting a hand to tuck a strand of golden hair behind her ear.
"But why would I be?"
The invisible pressure in the room suddenly intensified.
"I'm simply curious whether Mondstadt's 'Number One Devoted Man,' after completing yet another 'Hundred-Confession Achievement,' would—just like at the city gate before—turn around and immediately go searching for the next… hmm, target."
Each word floated lightly.
Each one struck his heart like an elbow to the chest.
"O-Of course not!"
Yichen blurted out instinctively, standing straight as a board, shouting with desperate sincerity.
"My loyalty to you can be witnessed by heaven and earth! By sun and moon! My heart is only—"
Jean tilted her head slightly and cut him off, a glimmer of amusement flashing briefly in her eyes.
"So… does what you said just now count as your ninety-ninth confession?"
"—!!!"
Sweat erupted down Yichen's forehead and back.
He felt like a Sweet Flower skewered over an open flame, seconds from melting completely.
"Ahaha…"
Jean suddenly laughed.
The laughter wasn't cold—but it wasn't warm either.
She waved a hand casually.
"Look at you, so nervous. Relax. Sit down first."
She gestured toward the chair opposite her.
"We're just chatting as 'friends,' after all."
Like a pardoned prisoner, Yichen stiffly shuffled over and perched on the edge of the chair, barely sitting.
Jean rested her chin on her folded hands, her tone gentle.
"So, Yichen—speaking as a 'friend'—I'm curious."
"Why were you late this morning?"
There it was.
The first question of the final trial.
Yichen's brain spun wildly, weighing the survival rates of lying and getting caught versus telling the truth and dying honorably.
Under Jean's seemingly calm yet all-seeing gaze, he chose—
"…Because I drank last night."
His voice was barely louder than a mosquito.
Jean's follow-up came instantly.
"With whom?"
"…Eula."
Yichen closed his eyes and surrendered.
Jean slowly repeated the name.
"Eula…"
The oppressive pressure in the room seemed—very slightly—to ease.
As if one suspicion had been confirmed.
But immediately, the next, sharper question followed.
"And then? Why did you oversleep?"
Her gaze was razor-sharp, analyzing every twitch of his expression.
"Because… I overslept…"
Yichen tried desperately to look innocent.
Jean leaned forward.
The carefully maintained calm finally cracked.
A mix of tension, probing curiosity, and something she herself refused to name burst free as she blurted out—her voice sharp and echoing in the silent office:
"WHO DID YOU SLEEP WITH?!"
Yichen jumped in shock, eyes wide with confusion.
"Huh?!"
"I—I slept by myself?!"
The moment the words left his mouth—
The office fell into deathly silence.
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