Chapter 81: A Family of Five: Daily Life

Uriel finished spitting out his water and met four sets of eyes staring at him.

"Just rinsing." He recovered what dignity he could, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

I am the storm that is approaching.

That was the song he hummed in his room. It was the signature BGM of a certain man who really, really liked POWER. He couldn't really blame her — it was a language she'd never studied, and the opening did sound similar.

She'd heard it so many times that it was practically burned into her brain. Then, under pressure, she mixed the two lines up.

He pictured the scene. Deep underground. A Radiance-rank aether field filling the entire place. The decorative sword blazing like the end of the world. Every enemy flattened and trembling. And then his mother, wearing the Holy Sword Witch's coldest expression, delivering the most painfully chuuni line imaginable in the iciest voice she could manage.

He buried his face in the cup and slowly swallowed a mouthful of water.

Honestly, it still works. If she'd been slashing through dimensions at the time it would've been perfect.

"...Whatever. Nobody knows the original line anyway."

He set the cup on the table, stood up from the sofa, and moved to the window. Looked out at the completely ordinary street scene below.

The morning light was warm and clear. The breakfast stall across the street had its chimney going. The mountain in the distance really did look different from yesterday. As he fully woke up, he was starting to understand why.

He considered what to say next, organized his thoughts, then turned around and switched into Scribe mode. He looked at the three girls.

"This operation — Lumina's tactical planning, Fenria's assault breakthrough, Kira's intelligence misdirection. All of it was executed well. The Brigade executed the script flawlessly. You controlled the board without my direct intervention. You've proven you can handle things on your own."

His delivery eased slightly, tone losing its professional edge.

"Lumina. You coordinated with the Witch during the stronghold assault while managing the other two fronts simultaneously. You did exactly what a capable field commander is supposed to do. Well done."

Lumina lowered her head, placed her right hand over her left chest, fingertips trembling faintly. She simply saluted, accepting the praise in silence.

The red had spread from her earlobes to the full rim of her ears, vivid against the green of her hair. She said nothing. But the gesture said more than any answer could have.

Uriel looked toward the other two.

Kira knew exactly what she'd done. Fenria — well, she'd done something brave, he was sure of that much.

"Fenria and Kira both made this work. Kira put the Knights and the Guild on the back foot at exactly the right moment. Fenria, you fought hard. The surface engagement held the way it needed to because of both of you."

Fenria launched herself off the sofa armrest, puffed out her chest with the energy of a golden retriever who just heard the word walk, and immediately threw herself at Uriel for a hug.

"Heheh! I knew the Scribe had us covered!"

Kira remained where she was, maintaining her composed posture.

Her knees, however, were rubbing together — barely perceptibly, but there. Three separate daydreams had already started running in her head simultaneously. One was generating a scene where the Scribe called her into his private office to present her with a medal. Another was drafting the evening's Delusion Diary entry — specifically the chapter where, after battle's end, the Scribe handed her a warm cup of hot chocolate with a gentle smile. The third was calculating whether she could get away with doing what Fenria just did and pressing against his other side.

Uriel shifted his gaze to Galatina. Something in his expression relaxed, Scribe mode dropping back to default. The corner of his mouth edged upward.

"You split a mountain." 

Oh my god the Kingdom is going to launch a full-scale investigation, the quiet life is OVER.

He kept his face sculpted in ice. "An aggressive interpretation of the script, but... acceptable deterrence. Well done. And thank you."

Galatina folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head slightly. Her eyes curved into two soft crescents.

She didn't launch into the usual torrent of enthusiastic praise. She just smiled — quietly, with a satisfaction that ran deeper than being complimented.

Because when little Uri praised her, his eyes were shining with genuine, unfiltered joy.

She replayed "Well done" and "thank you" in her head a few times, then tucked the words away somewhere safe.

Little Uri looks happy. That was good.

---

Uriel picked up his cup from the table. Found it empty. Set it back down.

He looked around at the four of them.

An apron-wearing mother who hadn't fully switched out of Holy Sword Witch mode. An elf working very hard to maintain a serious expression with ears glowing red. A large, affectionate dog currently attempting to merge with his left side, tail operating like a floor sweeper. And an ice-queen strategist who was already composing tonight's Delusion Diary entry behind her eyes.

He patted Fenria on the head. She obediently let go.

Outside the window, the morning light was exactly right. The fresh-cut face of that distant mountain caught the dawn and threw it back in shades of blue-white glass.

---

Act Two: closed. The cult's hidden network had been torn out by the roots. Seraphina was home safe.

True, there had been some deviations from the plan — wrong line, one mountain bisected, one academy erased from the surface of the world — but the outcome exceeded projections.

Probably.

---

Galatina nudged the fruit plate toward the center of the table, then turned and disappeared into the tiny kitchen.

The apron sash was tied in a neat bow at her back. She turned on the tap and began rinsing the dishes, preparing to load them up again. The sound of running water swallowed the melody she was humming.

The tune was the line from last night — I am the storm that is approaching.

She hummed it once, then again, then hit a snag. Something felt off-key. She tilted her head and thought it over, then shifted to a different set of notes. This one was the native melody from Yartia. She'd even swapped in the new lyric: I am Holy Sword Witch.

She hummed both versions through, one after the other. Both sounded fine to her.

Little Uri had said she could change it. So she would. After all, little Uri had written both.

The water stopped. She dried her hands, looked out at the clean blue sky beyond the window. The gold light in her eyes spread softly outward, softening the edges of her silver disguise.

That's good.

Little Uri's script. His costume designs. His lines. His stage.

He knew so much, and he did it all so well. And he was doing something good.

She had simply gone along with him. Played her part in the performance.

But after the curtain came down, little Uri had looked at her with bright eyes and said well done and thank you.

Being her child's leading lady was the only role that mattered.

She knew what this chuunibyou game really was. Every time Uriel buried himself in a new script, another role, another ridiculous line, he was trying to protect people. To protect her. To protect himself, too, in his own way.

To him, it wasn't playing around. It was something he took seriously.

So for Mom, this wasn't just a game either. It was a serious, deeply devoted act of companionship.

---

What will little Uri write next?

She picked up the kitchen knife and began slicing the starfruit — small enough pieces for the kids outside to eat easily, the blade meeting the board in a steady, clean rhythm.

Whatever he wrote, she would perform it well.

Just — ideally, the lines would be a little shorter next time. Easier to memorize.

She paused mid-cut. Something came back to her. She pushed the kitchen door open and leaned out halfway.

"Little Uri, Mom will be more careful with the lines next time. I won't mix them up."

From the living room: "Yeah, yeah, I know."

She pulled back in and closed the door.

In the same motion, she reached over and casually draped the Witch's cloak across her shoulders. The hem swung out behind her, cutting a genuinely impressive arc through the air.

She looked down at herself.

Apron. Cloak. Kitchen knife.

She found this funny.

Maybe I should ask little Uri to design a Witch-exclusive apron. Black and white, matching the uniform. A pocket would be nice, for the script cards.

She filed the thought away and picked up the melody again. Kept humming as she worked.

And somewhere between one verse and the next, without quite meaning to, the tune shifted — softened — into something quiet and steady and domestic.

Something that sounded, without anyone choosing it, like a lullaby.