"Relax," I said, leaning back slightly. "I’m not asking you to dismantle your precious guild. I’m not that unreasonable."
Her fingers twitched.
"Then what do you want?"
"Rumors," I replied simply.
She blinked.
"...Rumors?"
The thieves’ guild was useful for far more than simply buying secrets.
Identity laundering.
Discreet thefts.
Quiet disappearances.
And, when necessary—ruining someone’s reputation.
At its core, the guild didn’t just trade information.
It controlled narratives.
Rumors, half-truths, carefully distorted stories—those too were commodities, priced and packaged like any other.
’Back then, before a domain war even started, we’d come here first.’
Before armies marched, before banners were raised, there was always a public relations battle.
Pay the right price and unrest would bloom in the enemy’s territory.
Support from neighboring nobles would mysteriously "cool."
Allies would hesitate.
Neutral parties would quietly pull away.
A debuff, plain and simple.
And if that worked so well on entire domains—
then targeting a single person?
That was almost effortless.
"You must have heard," I said calmly, "about the existence of a saintess who opposes disaster."
"...What do you mean by that?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew exactly where this was going.
"I want you to spread a rumor," I replied. "Just one."
She leaned back in her chair, chair legs creaking softly.
"Saintesses aren’t common targets," she said. "They’re protected by faith, nobles, and public sentiment. You don’t smear someone like that without consequences."
"I know," I said. "That’s why I came here instead of doing it myself."
Her lips curved.
"Flattery won’t lower the price."
"Good," I said. "I don’t want it cheap."
That earned me her full attention.
She leaned forward now, resting her chin on her hand.
"Alright. Let’s hear it. What kind of rumor?"
"Nothing dramatic," I said. "No accusations of treason or demon worship. That would be sloppy."
"Mmm," she hummed. "So you want something believable."
"Exactly."
I folded my hands on the table.
"Spread word that the saintess is... selective."
"Selective?" the woman echoed.
"She only responds to prayers from nobles. That commoners who sought her blessing were ignored. That she prefers luxurious accommodations and grows distant when surrounded by the poor."
The guild leader stared at me for a moment.
Then she laughed.
Softly.
Genuinely.
"Oh, that’s nasty," she said. "You’re not turning her into a villain. You’re turning her into a disappointment ."
"That’s the idea."
People forgave evil more easily than they forgave shattered expectations.
"And sources?"
"Anonymous devotees," I said. "Former believers. A few ’concerned’ servants."
She nodded slowly.
"You’ve done this before."
"In another life."
Her smile widened.
"And what’s your stake in all this?" she asked. "Saintesses don’t usually earn this kind of attention unless someone’s afraid of them."
I didn’t answer right away.
Because the truth was simple—and dangerous.
’The crown prince was enchanted by her beauty and even asked her to dance.’
Whether it was beauty, charisma, divine influence, or something else entirely didn’t matter.
The result was the same.
’We can’t afford to wait until the academy.’
Once she entered that stage—once she gained a platform, followers, and institutional backing—it would be too late to act without bloodshed.
For me, Alice’s safety came before everything else.
Even before reason.
Even before pride.
Whatever this fragile connection was—this thing forming around her, drawing eyes and expectations—it was dangerous. And danger, when left alone, only grew roots. If it had the potential to become her ruin, then it had to be severed early. Quietly. Completely.
From the root.
"Also," I said, keeping my voice calm, measured, "add this to the rumor flow. Say she’s lowborn. That she’s grown drunk on her sudden rise in status. That her temperament has become arrogant."
"I understand the intent," she replied carefully. "But rumors without a spine rarely survive. Other than her commoner origin, there’s no solid truth there. Malicious gossip like that tends to sink before it spreads."
She wasn’t refusing.
But she wasn’t convinced either.
I leaned back slightly. "Are you aware," I asked, "that she refused the Crown Prince’s invitation to dance at the last social gathering?"
The Crown Prince of the Solhaven Empire.
The embodiment of noble blood, prestige, and political expectation.
To refuse him—publicly—wasn’t merely a social slight. It was a statement.
A dangerous one.
"Refusing him," I continued, "can easily be framed as arrogance. Or worse—contempt. People will fill in the blanks themselves.".
"...Then," she said after a moment, "yes. That changes things. With that detail, the rumor has a hook. It can spread."
Good.
Then, after a brief pause, I added, almost casually—
"Ah. While you’re at it... could you also seed something about the Crown Prince?"
She looked up at me sharply.
"That’s impossible."
No hesitation.
No negotiation.
I sighed inwardly.
"...I suppose it would be," I muttered.
Even in the shadows, there were lines you didn’t cross. And the highest authority in the empire was one of them.
"Rumors are tools," She said evenly. "But even tools break when used against a mountain."
Fair enough.
Still, a shame.
I let the idea go easily enough. I hadn’t expected it to work in the first place.
"But," I said, changing course, "spreading rumors about the saintess is possible, correct?"
"...Yes. That’s possible."
She tilted her head slightly. "She’s newly risen. Public favor around her hasn’t settled yet. People are still deciding what kind of person she is."
Exactly.
A perfect target.
From behind the veil, the shadowed figure gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"What an interesting request," she said softly. "Is this because of the lord you serve?"
"Ahaha. You really do know everything."
"A loyal retainer, then," she replied. "It seems unlikely that you’re a phantom thief after all. I feel a bit foolish for having once suspected you to be the Faceless Imposter."
...Huh?
What was that supposed to mean?
Seeing the confusion on my face, she continued, her voice still smooth and unhurried from behind the veil.
"A few days ago, I received a request from the Phantom Thief himself. He asked me to investigate the true identity of the Faceless Imposter. After considering various circumstances, I came to the conclusion that you might be the thief."
Now even my own master thinks I’m a demon?
A strange mix of disbelief and irritation stirred in my chest.
From my left, I felt a sharp, piercing gaze.
Amelia.
—Sharp, isn’t it?
She’d already met the Phantom Thief. She knew far more about my connections than she let on. Realizing that, her lips pressed together, her expression tightening just a fraction.
It seemed I’d been walking a much thinner line than I’d realized.