The inn room was quiet except for the low creak of the window shutters and the soft, uneven breathing of three very exhausted adventurers. Morning light painted the room in gold and dust, cutting through the lingering haze of alcohol and sweat.

Ariana stirred first.

Her eyes cracked open to the dim light, brain struggling to piece together where she was—and more importantly, what she was feeling. Her entire body felt… heavy. Sore in strange places. Warm. And pressed against something—no, someone.

She blinked once.

Then twice.

And froze.

Oliver was there—sleeping shirtless beside her, an arm slung loosely around Isolde's waist. His other hand… her hand… was still faintly intertwined with his. The realization hit, and her face turned red enough to rival a phoenix's feather.

"Oh gods… no…" she whispered under her breath, clutching the blanket up to her face. "No, no, no—"

Isolde yawned beside her, stretching languidly, completely unbothered. "Morning," she said, voice still husky with sleep. "You look like you saw a ghost."

Ariana made a strangled noise. "I—uh—I—nothing! Morning! Yes, morning! Lovely morning—" She dove under the blanket like a turtle hiding from the world.

Oliver groaned, rubbing his temple. "Ugh… my head. How much did we drink last night?"

Isolde smirked, brushing her hair back. "Enough to forget basic shame, apparently."

Ariana made a dying noise from under the blanket. "Please stop talking."

Oliver blinked, confused. "Why are you acting so—"

He stopped mid-sentence as flashes of memory returned, fragmented but vivid enough to make his face burn crimson.

"Oh."

"Yeah," Isolde said lazily, enjoying his mortified look. "Oh."

Before either of them could say more, a soft voice spoke up from the corner.

"Observation: human mating rituals are inefficient, messy, and appear to cause mild psychological trauma."

They all turned.

Seraphine was standing perfectly straight by the window, as immaculate as ever, her silver hair glinting in the morning light. Her calm, clinical tone made Ariana squeak and burrow even deeper into the blankets.

"SERAPHINE!" Ariana's muffled voice came from under the sheets. "You—you were awake?!"

"Affirmative," Seraphine replied calmly. "Observation mode was active throughout the night."

Isolde chuckled into her hand, watching Ariana's ears go red. "Oh, this just keeps getting better."

Ariana peeked out from under the blanket, mortified. "Y-You could've at least looked away!"

"Correction: my ocular sensors do not 'look away.' They record and analyze for safety parameters. Vital signs were elevated, but stable. Activity was non-hostile."

Oliver buried his face in his hands. "Gods above… don't say it like that."

Seraphine tilted her head slightly, utterly unfazed. "Clarification: the act involved rhythmic friction intended for reproductive stimulation. Frequency irregular but sustained. Average duration—"

"Stop!" Ariana shrieked, throwing a pillow at her. "No more details! Please!"

The pillow hit Seraphine's chest and fell harmlessly to the floor. She blinked once, expression unchanging. "Noted. Reproduction commentary: forbidden topic."

Isolde was openly laughing now, her usual composure abandoned. "I think I like her," she said between chuckles. "She's brutally honest."

Oliver groaned. "Remind me to install a 'privacy protocol' in her system."

"Permission granted," Seraphine said instantly.

Ariana let out another groan of despair, burying her face again. "I'm never showing my face in public again…"

Isolde leaned over, poking the blanket. "Relax. You'll get over it. Eventually."

"I hate both of you," Ariana mumbled.

"You say that now," Isolde teased, "but you were saying very different things last night."

That earned her a flying pillow to the face.

Oliver sighed, standing up and stretching his arms. "Alright, that's enough teasing before my brain melts. Everyone wash up. We need to check out before noon."

Isolde smirked. "You just want to escape the awkwardness."

"Damn right I do," he muttered.

Seraphine stepped closer, hands clasped neatly. "Do you require assistance dressing, Master?"

"NO!" Oliver and Ariana both shouted at once.

Seraphine blinked once. "Understood. Rejection acknowledged."

Isolde couldn't stop laughing.

****

The next half hour was a blur of chaos: Ariana scrambling to dress while refusing to look at anyone, Isolde humming cheerfully as if nothing had happened, Oliver trying to pretend the floorboards were fascinating, and Seraphine quietly folding blankets with machine-like precision.

When they finally stepped out into the bustling morning streets, the air felt fresher, cleaner — and full of unspoken tension.

Ariana walked ahead, cheeks still red. Oliver followed behind with a sheepish expression. Isolde walked beside him, whispering something with a smirk that made his ears go red again.

And Seraphine, bringing up the rear, commented in her usual calm tone:

"Emotional stability levels: gradually returning to normal. Alcohol aftermath: resolved. Probability of recurrence: seventy-eight percent."

Oliver sighed. "I need a drink."

"Not again," Ariana muttered without turning.

Isolde laughed softly. "Oh, I think this time, he's earned it."

*****

The capital city of Hestia didn't slow down for anyone—not even four adventurers recovering from a disastrously awkward morning.

The streets were overflowing: merchants shouting prices, carriages rattling past, children weaving between crowds, and nobles walking with their noses so high it was a miracle they didn't trip. Towering spires and banners gave the entire district a constant hum of grandeur.

Oliver, Isolde, Ariana, and Seraphine walked shoulder-to-shoulder… well, Seraphine walked half a step behind Oliver like an overly elegant shadow.

Ariana still refused to look directly at him.

Isolde—of course—kept poking her cheek with a smug grin.

And Seraphine?

She observed everything.

"Analysis: Twenty guards patrolling the streets. Crime potential: moderate. Visual stimuli: overwhelming."

Oliver sighed, "You're giving me a headache."

Seraphine tilted her head. "Shall I perform cranial massage therapy?"

"NO," Oliver and Ariana both said instantly.

Isolde snorted. "Let her. It'll be funny."

Ariana elbowed her. "Stop encouraging her!"

*****

The headquarters was three times larger than the county branch: five stories tall, banners of golden thread, and so many adventurers inside that the entire building buzzed like a beehive.

The moment Oliver walked in with three beautiful women behind him, half the hall turned with jealous stares.

Isolde smirked. "Ahh… look at all those jealous boys. Feels like home."

Ariana's blush returned. "C-Can you not say it like that…"

But Seraphine simply scanned the room.

Literally.

Her eyes dimly glowed as she turned her head with precise intervals.

"Threat assessment: negligible. Ninety-three percent of individuals present are below optimal combat capability."

A nearby adventurer choked on his drink.

"D-Did she just insult all of us?"

Oliver leaned over. "Ignore her, she insults everyone equally."

*****

They approached the main desk where a tired-looking receptionist smiled politely.

"Hello, welcome to the Adventurers—"

Seraphine stepped forward like a machine initiating a protocol.

"Registration request: adventurer identification card."

The receptionist blinked. "Oh! Um—of course! I… assume you'll need to fill out the basic form?"

Ariana gently pulled Seraphine back. "She's… new. I'll handle the paperwork."

Oliver rubbed his temples. "Please put 'support mage' or something. Don't write 'walking execution machine.'"

Isolde added, "Or 'ancient death robot.' That'll cause paperwork issues."

Seraphine tilted her head innocently.

"I am none of those. My classification is Seraphine-01 Autonomous Combat and Support Unit."

The receptionist froze like a statue.

"…P-pardon?"

Oliver coughed loudly and dragged Seraphine away. "Translation: she can punch really hard."

"Really hard," Isolde added.

"Ridiculously hard," Ariana whispered.

Seraphine nodded.

"Statement: my strike force output is approximately—"

"Enough," Oliver hissed.

After a chaotic five minutes of rewriting her answers to sound "normal and not like a world-ending relic," Seraphine received her official identification card.

She stared at it for a solid ten seconds.

"Observation: I have achieved legal existence."

Oliver patted her head. "Congrats, I guess."

"Processing… happiness."

Her eyes glowed a faint pastel color.

Ariana whispered, "Why is that… kind of cute?"

Isolde smirked. "Careful. She might steal Oliver from you."

Ariana immediately panicked. "Wh—WH—WHAT?! I—THAT'S—NO—"

Seraphine looked between them.

"Confusion: Am I competing for Master's reproductive rights?"

Oliver choked.

A nearby adventurer spit out his drink.

And Isolde burst into laughter so hard she had to lean on a pillar.

*****

The rest of the day continued with less chaos… somewhat.

They bought potions, food supplies, and Isolde dragged everyone into a high-end clothing shop because "A princess might visit" and "Oliver dresses like a homeless mercenary."

(Ariana privately agreed.)

Oliver protested until Seraphine backed Isolde up.

"Appearance optimization improves Master's social efficiency by forty-nine percent."

"Even you?!"

"Affirmative."

By late afternoon, the group was finally walking back toward their inn, arms full of bags and coin pouches significantly lighter.

The sun was dipping low.

The city guards had lit magical lampposts.

Crowds shifted from workers to nightlife wanderers.

And then—

A royal messenger approached them at full speed.

Blue and white uniform. Emblem of the Hestia royal crest on his chest.

He skidded to a halt in front of Oliver.

"Huff—! A-Are you Sir Oliver Shaw?!"

Oliver blinked. "Uh… yeah?"

The messenger bowed deeply.

"I carry a summons from Her Highness Princess Elisha Hestia!"

Isolde raised an eyebrow.

"Her Highness requests your presence at the Royal Palace tomorrow evening for dinner."

********

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