Chapter 23: The Spartan Head Maid and the Standoff Against My Refusal to Move

“…Your back is loosening.
Extend it two more times.”

The cold voice echoed through the morning library.

“Yes.”

“Tuck in your chin.
Keep your gaze parallel to the floor.
Do not disturb your breathing.”

“Yes.”

“Maintain that position for one hour.”

“…Yes.”

Two hours had passed since the lid of hell had been opened.

Standing before me was the head maid, Sylvia.

In her hand, she held a pointer used for giving instructions.

The current task was “standing perfectly still.”

Just standing there.

It might sound easy, but royal posture was closer to a sport.

Heels together.
Knees closed.
Hips tightened.
Abdominals pulled in.
Shoulder blades drawn together.

Every muscle had to be mobilized to become an “elegant rod.”

Normally, legs would start trembling after ten minutes.

At thirty minutes, cold sweat would appear.

At one hour, collapse was inevitable.

That was how previous young ladies had dropped out.

However.

(…Haa.)

I exhaled deeply inside my mind.

My expression did not change.

Like a wax doll, I remained blank-faced while drifting through a sea of thought.

My secret technique.

I call it “skeletal stacking.”

You get tired because you try to support your body with muscles.

Instead, like stacking wooden blocks, you place your hips on your leg bones, stack the spine on top, and gently set the skull at the very end.

Using gravity, you stand with bones alone.

This minimizes muscle usage.

While holding that posture, I replayed the continuation of the novel I had read last night.

Was the culprit in that mystery really the butler?

No, the motive felt weak.

“…Lady Eliana.”

Sylvia’s voice pulled me back from my mental journey.

“Yes.”

“…Are you not suffering?”

Her eyebrow twitched, just slightly.

A doubtful expression.

That was understandable.

Someone standing completely motionless for an hour was rare.

“Yes.
Remaining still is one of my specialties.”

I answered honestly.

When it came to not moving, no one could beat me.

I was confident I could compete with a sloth.

“…I see.
Then we will proceed to walking practice.”

Though unconvinced, Sylvia presented the next task.

“You will walk while balancing this book on your head.”

She offered a thick encyclopedia.

Weight: roughly three kilograms.

Carry it on your head, walk from one end of the room to the other and back.

If you drop it, restart.

If your posture collapses, restart.

“Understood.”

I accepted the encyclopedia and placed it on my head.

It was heavy.

I balanced it with my neck bones.

“Begin.”

I started walking.

Step, step, step.

I glided across the floor.

The key was to completely eliminate vertical movement.

Use the knees softly and keep the waist height constant.

It was close to the sliding steps of Noh theater.

I never imagined the technique I had mastered to drink coffee in a packed train without spilling it would be useful here.

I turned and walked back.

The encyclopedia did not move at all.

“…”

Sylvia adjusted her glasses.

Her eyes sharpened.

“…Once more.”

“Yes.”

Back and forth.

Back and forth again.

After ten round trips, she finally called a stop.

“…Let us take a break.”

There was a faint hint of fatigue in Sylvia’s voice.

Not mine.

Hers.

It seemed the one observing was more tired than the one being trained.

Humans apparently get mentally exhausted when confronted with unexpected behavior.

During the break, I sank into the sofa and bit into the sandwich Mina had delivered.

Proper replenishment was essential.

Sylvia stood straight across from me, silently observing.

It was terrifying.

I wished she would sit down during breaks at least.

“…Lady Eliana.”

“Yes?”

“You are… a strange person.”

She murmured quietly.

“I was told by His Grace that you were a ‘lazy and self-indulgent young lady.’
That your posture was poor and that you lacked dignity.”

“Well, that’s usually true.”

“However, once instruction began… there was not a single wasted movement in your conduct.”

She narrowed her eyes behind her glasses.

“When standing, when walking.
You use only the bare minimum of strength.
…As if you fear physical exhaustion to an extreme degree.”

“That is correct.”

I swallowed my sandwich and washed it down with tea.

“Sylvia.
I hate ‘trying hard.’”

“…Excuse me?”

“Trying hard makes you tired.
Being tired makes you irritable.
Being irritable lowers work efficiency.”

I spoke passionately.

“That is why I am always thinking about how to take it easy.
Good posture makes breathing easier.
Walking without swaying uses less energy.”

“…Perfect conduct for the sake of laziness?”

“Yes.
Manners are rational rules meant to avoid making others uncomfortable, correct?
Then the one performing them should also be rational.”

I smiled.

“Unnecessary tension is not beautiful.
And above all, it makes you hungry.”

Sylvia stared at me, mouth slightly open.

After watching me for several seconds, she let out a small breath.

It was the first human reaction I had seen from her.

“…How absurd.
To exert effort in order to perfect laziness—
isn’t that putting the cart before the horse?”

“Please call it optimization.”

“However… you do have a point.”

She placed her pointer down.

“Previous young ladies destroyed themselves by tensing up too much in an attempt to ‘look good.’
…Your approach of increasing perfection by relaxing is new to me.”

I felt a tiny crack form in her iron mask.

Not hostility.

More like academic curiosity toward an unusual specimen.

“In the afternoon, we will train the lady’s curtsy.
…Show me how far your ‘optimization’ can withstand my scrutiny.”

“Please go easy on me.
If I damage my knees, it will affect my old age.”

“Hmph.
…I will consider it.”

She smiled.

She definitely smiled.

The Ice Executioner had smiled.

This might actually work.

She too was middle management serving under a tyrannical boss known as the duke.

Surely, she could understand the sweet allure of “efficiency.”

I stuffed the last sandwich into my mouth.

At this rate, I might somehow survive this month of training.

However.

Reality was not so kind.

The next day.

I was led to the dressing room—and plunged into despair.

There, displayed proudly, was the “wedding attire” prepared by the duke.

A dress of pure white silk, sewn with countless gemstones and embroidered with gold thread.

Visually, it was beautiful.

But the problem was its physical mass.

“…Sylvia.
How much does this weigh?”

“Total weight: approximately twenty kilograms.”

“…Is it armor?”

“It is a dress.
According to His Grace, ‘weight itself is royal dignity.’”

Twenty kilograms.

Walking ten kilometers in that?

My cervical spine would snap.

My lumbar spine would shatter.

My energy-saving theory was on the verge of collapse under sheer physical violence.