Chapter 17: Beauty Saves the Hero?

At that time, Venti had just "debuted" as a bard, not yet as renowned as today. However, his skill at playing light melodies earned praise from some old-school nobles.

They invited him to perform background music during the first half of their galas, offering payment enough to cover a month's worth of his alcohol expenses. Venti didn’t resist such straightforward employment—back then, he didn’t overthink things. He simply attended the events, played his tunes, and indulged in free food and drinks.

Well, the free food and drinks were the real priority.

During these gigs, he passively became acquainted with many political figures of Belobog—though only in the sense of recognizing their faces. Looking back, had the Supreme Guardian not been barred from attending such private gatherings due to her status, he might have met her much earlier.

Though the Supreme Guardian couldn’t attend, her chosen successor could.

After all, even the most revered Supreme Guardian was human. She needed resources to maintain the city’s administration and fund the Silvermane Guards.

Both expenses flowed like water, especially the latter. Only after a decade of resource investment and population sacrifices could she afford to launch counterattacks on the frontlines.

Otherwise—how else would anyone fight to the death for her?

Though cynical, this was the harsh reality of societal mechanics. History had seen overthrown Supreme Guardians. To wield such immense power, she had to carefully avoid overstepping its boundaries.

So, where did the money come from?

First, from the ordinary citizens who knew no better. Second, from the noble families of the Architects.

The former could be periodically "harvested," while the latter required careful, long-term management.

Each Architect family had generations of accumulated wealth and influence, controlling significant market shares. Corporations like "Belobog Heating," "Belobog Automobiles," and "Belobog Trade" commanded respect even from the Supreme Guardian.

These were not the Lower District’s downtrodden masses. The Upper District’s nobles had their own factions.

Only through a balance of rewards and threats could negotiations proceed. Thus, it was no surprise the Supreme Guardian sent her trusted successor to these events.

In fact, Bronya served as a diplomatic buffer. The Supreme Guardian could not afford mistakes, but Bronya—young and still permitted to err—could voice ideas her mentor could not.

Under these rules, nobles occasionally probed the Supreme Guardian’s intentions through Bronya, adjusting their strategies in a mutually beneficial dance.

It was at one such "negotiation" that Bronya first encountered Venti.

She spotted him after his performance, happily devouring his meal. His blissful expression made it clear he was savoring every bite.

To Bronya at the time, this scene symbolized: Under the Supreme Guardian’s leadership, anyone willing to work—regardless of class—can enjoy a hearty meal. If I steadfastly follow her path, I’ll surely lead our people to a brighter future.

But as she prepared to leave, a derisive snort shattered her thoughts.

She turned to see a notorious playboy from Belobog’s noble circles, arms crossed, sneering at Venti’s enthusiastic eating.

Bronya paused. An elder noble accompanying her noticed the scene and frowned, ready to scold the rude youth—until Bronya raised a hand to silence him.

The playboy, unaware of observers, approached Venti, who finally looked up when his light was blocked.

“Hi there! Can I help you?” Venti asked, puzzled. Had he accidentally stepped on this guy’s toes?

The noble tilted his head back, glaring down his nose. “A vulgar peasant remains vulgar, even wielding an elegant instrument. A monkey in a crown, still reeking of filth.”

“Huh? That’s a bit harsh,” Venti replied, baffled. Was this a rival bard? He hadn’t sabotaged anyone’s gigs.

Noticing the growing audience, Venti stood. “Not sure what the misunderstanding is, but let’s not ruin the party. Want to talk outside?”

“I don’t chat with lowlifes.”

“Then why pick a fight?” Venti tilted his head. Did this guy think his nostrils were particularly aesthetic?

“Must I spell it out? Your brain’s as dull as livestock.” The noble’s disgust deepened. “Your presence here—polluting this noble event with your screeching ‘music’—disgusts me.”

Venti’s expression turned wry. He stepped back, keeping a polite distance. “I’ll admit my songs barely earn me drink money, but calling them ‘screeching’ seems… rude, no?”

“Rude? The only rudeness here is you!” The noble mistook Venti’s retreat for fear and pressed closer. “You think poverty grants you nobility? You’re just a lying lunatic, tricking fools into dreaming of the outside!”

He grabbed Venti’s collar. “Listen. Stay out of these circles, or I’ll have the Silvermane Guards—”

“Have them do what?”

A sharp, anger-laced voice cut in.

“Throw this blasphemous liar who mocks the Great Wall into the snowstorms!” the noble snapped without turning—until an elegant jasmine perfume hit him.

He froze, slowly facing Bronya Rand.

The Supreme Guardian’s heir stood tall, her silver eyes blazing like polished steel. Even her anger couldn’t diminish her innate grace.

“L-Lady Bronya! Why are you—”

“Explain yourself.” Her voice chilled the air. “Why threaten this bard with the Silvermane Guard’s authority?”

And Bronya Rand and Venti's fateful entanglement began in just such a moment of hero rescu—uh, beauty rescu—well, anyway, in a situation like this!