Stop Hypnotizing Me, Villainous Princess!

Chapter 64: Such a Small Matter—Why Trouble Her Highness?

Duke Tyrius chose to let the matter rest there, making no further comment about the councilman and instead surveying the gathered crowd.

At that moment, the atmosphere subtly shifted. The earlier tension, sharp and brimming with conflict, began to mellow.

After his initial aggressive stance, Duke Tyrius seemed to rein in his commanding aura, though his thoughts remained inscrutable.

The question of "who has the right to divide the cake" gradually morphed into a broader discussion of "how to divide the cake fairly."

What had begun as pointed accusations against Mozel and his allies transformed into a debate about the empire's political systems.

Some shrewd guests caught on to the subtext and felt a faint sense of relief.

It appeared that the duke, despite his boldness, still held some reservations about openly confronting the Divine Order Church and the imperial capital’s powerful aristocracy.

At least for now, he wasn’t willing to burn all bridges. This realization explained why he deliberately steered the conversation elsewhere.

Emboldened by the apparent de-escalation, someone in the crowd ventured to suggest, “Perhaps the person dividing the cake could be given extra compensation. Let them take a large piece for themselves first. Satisfied with their share, they might then be more impartial.”

Duke Tyrius shook his head. “Do you really think human greed has a limit?”

“If given a large piece, they will undoubtedly crave a second, then a third. By the end, even if they can’t finish it all, they’ll still insist on packing up the leftovers to take home. That’s human nature.”

The person who had spoken lowered their head in shame.

After several guests failed to propose satisfactory solutions, the rest lost interest in continuing the discussion.

Upon reflection, many realized that the duke’s remarks carried an uncomfortable truth.

Meanwhile, a deeper question began to take root in the minds of the attendees: what was the fairest way to divide the cake?

Of course, no one naïvely believed they were only talking about cake.

It was evident that the subject of discussion, both figuratively and literally, concerned the redistribution of wealth and resources among their elite circle.

The room fell into a thoughtful silence.

Seeing no one speak, Duke Tyrius allowed a subtle, meaningful smile to cross his face.

“Does anyone have a better answer to my question?” he asked casually.

“No need to feel pressured. Treat it as a lighthearted topic for idle conversation.”

He paused, then added, “Also, if someone’s answer satisfies me, I’ll spend the last half-hour of the evening with them in my study, listening to their ideas and insights.”

The announcement was a bombshell.

As the weight of his words sank in, shock rippled through the crowd.

It was clear that Duke Tyrius was extending an olive branch.

Unlike his earlier demands for loyalty pledges, this was an opportunity to foster talent.

If someone could truly impress the duke, they wouldn’t just secure a position of favor in Orne City—they’d also gain access to the empire’s capital and its high society.

Compared to the backwater of Orne City, it would be nothing short of meteoric success.

For a moment, the room buzzed with unspoken calculations.

Yet, remembering the string of unsatisfactory answers earlier, most hesitated. After all, the issue of fair distribution was a thorny, age-old dilemma faced by nations across history. How could it be resolved so easily?

As the guests fell into contemplative silence, Bishop Mozel, who had been quiet for a long time, suddenly spoke.

“Your Grace, if such a matter is to be discussed in public, then I believe there is one esteemed individual whose opinion we cannot ignore,” Bishop Mozel said, his tone steady as he addressed Duke Tyrius.

An esteemed individual?

The words rippled through the banquet hall, leaving the crowd puzzled.

Who, among those present, could possibly hold a status higher than Bail Tyrius?

Sensing the confusion, Mozel didn’t keep them guessing. He lifted his head and looked toward an inconspicuous corner of the hall.

Following his gaze, the crowd saw a tall figure standing beside the duchess.

She wore a red gown and a butterfly mask, her aura icy and aloof.

But more than that, the moment they saw her, a faint sense of unease and revulsion welled up in everyone’s hearts.

Who is she?

The crowd was perplexed.

Breaking the silence, Mozel raised his voice slightly. “Your Highness, Princess Yveste, may I ask for your esteemed opinion on the duke’s earlier topic?”

Yveste?!

Why was she here?

Could it be that the royal family had inserted itself into the issue of border taxes?

At the mention of her name, many in the crowd instinctively took half a step back.

It was clear they were no strangers to the notorious Third Princess.

Even if they hadn’t seen the cursed sigil rumored to mark her face, her well-documented deeds alone were enough to burn her name into their memories.

The atmosphere grew chaotic.

Every eye turned toward the woman in the red dress, their gazes tinged with fear and rejection.

Things had escalated beyond anyone’s expectations.

Shifting the blame.

This was the move Mozel had planned ever since he discovered Yveste’s covert presence at the banquet.

By redirecting the evening’s tension and focus onto the reviled Third Princess, he aimed to absolve himself of responsibility and steer the situation away from himself.

It was vile, but it was effective.

Mozel knew exactly how ruthless the one called the “Princess of Sin” could be.

But would she dare?

Would Yveste, having already incurred Saint Roland VI’s wrath, truly dare to kill a bishop of the Divine Order Church in front of a crowd—simply for revealing her identity?

If she did, it wouldn’t just mean killing him. It would be a declaration of war against the Church and the empire’s most powerful nobles.

And at that point, no one would be able to save her.

Although her power was fearsome, this world didn’t allow strength alone to dictate everything.

Even the gods were bound by such limits.

Unfortunately, Bishop Mozel overlooked one crucial factor.

He gravely underestimated just how ruthless this madwoman could become under extreme emotions, as well as the terrifying nature of her very existence.

When Mozel’s sudden words rang out, Yveste’s icy gaze swept toward him.

An overwhelming wave of murderous intent surged forth, enveloping the room.

Even as a Fourth-Rank Extraordinary of the Divine Order Church, Mozel felt as if he had been plunged into an abyss of ice.

The emotion burning in her blood-red eyes awakened a primal fear deep within him.

He froze, his legs trembling involuntarily.

No, this isn’t right!

She... she might actually kill me!

The thought struck Mozel instinctively.

At this critical moment, a voice suddenly broke the tension.

“Your Highness, I, too, am curious to hear your thoughts.”

To everyone’s surprise—including Mozel’s—it was Duke Tyrius who spoke.

Holding a wine glass, he looked at the silent Yveste with a faint smile.

“Uncle Tyrius, you...”

Yveste was stunned as she stared at the duke, who had unexpectedly thrown her into the spotlight.

She couldn’t comprehend it.

Why had he gone from treating her with cold indifference earlier to now placing her directly under such intense scrutiny?

Even if he disapproved of her or refused to publicly support her, did he really need to go this far?

As she felt the weight of every pair of eyes in the room—each one carrying a different shade of curiosity, fear, or disdain—an overwhelming tide of frustration and anger surged within her.

This feeling of being observed like some abnormality was one of her deepest scars.

She had endured far too many similar moments throughout her life.

Every time, it had been the same—utter isolation, as if the entire world had cast her aside.

Yveste clenched her fists tightly, her nails digging into her palms.

Damn it.

She was barely suppressing the destructive urge rising within her.

Crash!

The sharp sound of shattering glass suddenly pierced the tense air, breaking the suffocating silence.

Everyone instinctively turned toward the source of the noise.

Amid the crowd stood a young man wearing a pointed raven mask, holding the remnants of a shattered wine bottle.

It was obvious he had smashed it against a nearby pillar to create the commotion.

“Oops, my hand slipped,” the young man said with a smile.

What?

You’re telling us you just happened to pick up a wine bottle from the table, and at that exact moment, your hand conveniently slipped, smashing it against a pillar?

Who would believe that?

While no one knew what this raven-masked man was up to, it was clear that his actions were reckless.

Yet the young man seemed entirely oblivious to their thoughts.

Leisurely, he stepped forward and picked up a glass of juice from a nearby table. Swirling it gently, he mimicked the sophisticated motions of someone savoring fine wine.

Though it was just a glass of juice, the way he handled it somehow exuded the elegance of red wine.

“Your Grace, it seems you were discussing some rather interesting topics earlier,” he said with an air of curiosity. “Would you mind if an outsider like me joined in for a pleasant little chat?”

The young man’s voice was light and playful, yet it cut through the room’s tension like a sharp blade.

Hearing the boy’s words, Duke Tyrius raised an eyebrow.

Unexpectedly, he didn’t sense the same nervousness or reverence from the youth as he did from the others.

It was as though his title and authority meant nothing to this masked figure.

Interesting.

“Very well,” the duke said after a brief glance at the boy. “However, the question I’m asking is directed at Her Highness...”

“This is such a trivial matter—why trouble my Lady for it?”

The raven-masked boy interrupted, cutting off Duke Tyrius mid-sentence.

With this single statement, his stance became unmistakably clear.

Duke Tyrius paused for a moment, clearly caught off guard, before his eyes narrowed slightly.

Then, he turned fully to face the enigmatic youth.

“Very well. Then you tell me—what kind of distribution method would fairly allow everyone to have their share of the cake?”

There was a flicker of curiosity in Tyrius’s tone.

What kind of answer could this young man, who had stepped up to divert attention from the Third Princess, possibly give?

If it turned out to be nothing more than a shallow attempt to gain the spotlight, then he...

At this moment, all eyes in the room were fixed on the masked boy.

But the invisible weight of their stares seemed to roll off him like water off a duck’s back.

Shrugging nonchalantly, the boy said, “It’s simple. When it comes to dividing the cake, anyone can do it.”

“Anyone?”

Duke Tyrius’s voice grew cold instantly.

That answer was far from satisfactory.

At that moment, the duke regarded the boy as little more than a performer looking for attention.

A faint anger began to smolder in his chest.

But just as he was about to speak, the boy continued.

“Yes, anyone can do it,” the boy repeated with a calm tone.

“However... the person dividing must let everyone else pick their slices first. The last piece is theirs.”

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