From the moment Momonga arrived in this world, she had been dressed in a tight-fitting dress and high heels, walking with elegant composure across unpaved ground. Even with several books stacked upon her head, she would never drop them—her posture was that perfect. When she sat, she never crossed her legs like a rough soldier. She would fold her knees neatly, straighten her back, and sit with the grace of a refined lady.
She laughed the same way: no loud cackling, never opening her mouth too wide—always a soft, graceful smile with a hand raised delicately near her lips.
But none of this was intentional. These gestures were "settings" engraved into Albedo's body—motions and mannerisms forced upon her by the character data that defined the vessel Momonga now inhabited. The body itself guided her, trimming away any movements unbecoming of a lady. If she relaxed her awareness even a little, her expression naturally softened into the serene smile of a goddess.
The more "natural" Momonga acted, the more she was unconsciously pulled into Albedo's perfect ladylike behavior. It was thanks to this forced elegance that she had been welcomed in Carne Village as a goddess, and had left still perceived as one.
"If she stands, she is a peony. If she sits, she's a tree peony. If she walks, she is a lily in bloom."
Momonga embodied the phrase simply by existing.
Because every thought passed through the "Albedo filter" before becoming action, she inevitably behaved like an aristocratic lady of utmost refinement. Thus, everyone in the Golden Glow Inn immediately assumed she must be of noble birth. From head to toe, every step, every breath seemed touched by natural dignity—something only those truly born to it could possess.
(Right… cutlery should be used from the outside inward… I think.)
She tried recalling table manners—a topic Touch Me had once explained to her, simply as a funny real-world story. For Momonga, who had barely eaten real meals in her former life, the tale had been exotic enough to stick in her memory. She still remembered the moment Ulbert had sneered "Showing off wealth, are we?" and nearly started a fight, forcing Momonga to mediate.
Later, Peroroncino had joined in, casually demonstrating perfect table etiquette—knowledge obtained entirely to romance aristocratic loli heroines in eroge. The guildmates had all gathered, sparking a lively conversation about table manners that Momonga still remembered fondly.
But—
No cutlery lay before her. Only a glass of water placed on a clean cloth.
"Thank you for waiting," a neatly dressed waiter said, pushing a cart toward her.
He began placing dishes rapidly onto the table: a basket of warm, fluffy white bread; a thick steak steaming with aromatic spices; a vivid green salad with a refreshing sour scent.
This was no course meal—it was all served simultaneously. Only a fork, knife, and a small butter knife accompanied it.
So table manners here are simpler than in the real world… thank goodness.
A surprising but welcome revelation.
Two glasses of wine—red and white—were filled until they shimmered like gemstones. Her anticipation soared. Momonga waited politely, though her mouth was already filling with drool.
"Excuse me, Momon-sama. First, allow me to explain—"
The waiter launched into a long sermon: the region the wines came from, the breed of cattle used for the steak, the spices, the historical figures who favored similar dishes—
Momonga maintained a graceful smile…
Internally, she was like a starving dog being forced to sit still while meat dangled inches from its nose.
Please hurry… this is torture!
The waiter was not stalling maliciously. He simply adored her. Bathing in her divine smile while explaining the meal was, to him, worth more than gold.
But at last—
"…Please enjoy your meal."
That blessed phrase could have brought her to tears.
"Thank you," Momonga said, smiling warmly—while inside, her hunger roared like a dragon.
"Itadakimasu," she whispered, lifting her knife—
Ugh… all those eyes…
Everyone in the restaurant was watching her.
Glancing around, she saw them avert their gaze hastily. But she knew they were watching.
I can't just dive into the steak like a starving barbarian… that'd ruin Albedo's reputation…
She sighed inwardly and, against every animal instinct in her body, chose to start with the salad.
A crisp sound rang out as her fork pierced the leaf.
Looks delicious…
It was chilled, vibrant, unlike the rustic vegetables of Carne Village. Proper salad—the real thing.
She brought it to her lips.
Oh… oh wow—this is… delicious!
The crispness. The refreshing acidity of the dressing. The faint fruitiness. A cooling sensation that soothed her burning hunger yet ignited anticipation for the steak to come.
Her expression softened, almost glowing.
The chef peeked out from the kitchen, saw her smile, and silently pumped his fist in triumph.
After finishing the salad, she eagerly cut into the steak.
So soft… it cuts like butter…
Juices glimmered where the blade passed, mixing with the sauce to release a divine aroma.
She placed a small ruby-red slice between her lips.
—!? So… GOOD…
Stars burst across her emerald eyes. Her body trembled.
It was heaven.
Sweet, silky fat. The rich flavor of the meat itself. The playful spark of the seasoning. The perfectly balanced sauce—never overwhelming, always enhancing.
A childlike smile spread across her face.
"S-so good…" she whispered, barely audible. Only the waiter overheard, and his heart skipped a beat.
She tasted the carrots—sweet.
The bread—soft as cotton, warm, fragrant.
Her eyes prickled with emotion.
Carne Village's food had been delicious too. But this—this was another world entirely. A true paradise of flavor.
She sipped the red wine. Still not used to the bitterness, but she could tell it was high quality.
Around her, other diners watched her lovingly—amazed that a woman of such divine beauty could eat with such earnest, childlike joy.
To them, she was no longer an untouchable goddess. She felt—adorable, almost. Someone they wanted to cherish.
Momonga hardly noticed; she saw nothing but her plate.
"Delicious…" she breathed after finishing, letting the aftertaste sink deeply into her heart.
She wished her guildmates could see this. That they could all come here together. That they could fill the restaurant, laugh, argue, share stories like they once had.
But that future would never come.
The memory of Herohero's casual comment—"I didn't even realize Nazarick still existed"—stabbed deep.
Even so, she cherished the fantasy for one fleeting moment.
Guildmates… I miss you all…
She sighed softly.
Then—
"May I offer you a drink, young lady?"
A poorly dressed noble blocked her path out of the restaurant, wine bottle in hand.
His clothes were too big, worn. His manners sloppy. His confidence unjustified.
"My name is Philip Dayton L'Eyre Montserrat," he declared proudly.
And Momonga immediately knew:
She hated this type.