The Most Heretical Last Boss Queen Who Will Become the Source of Tragedy Will Devote Herself for the Sake of the People

"... Powell...?

Soon after it was released with a voice slightly plundered from the steer, Pride and Arthur compared the young man known as Powell with the steer.

After shaking his pitch-black eyes round and calling his name, the style remains pompous and open. I couldn't take one blink from the young man sitting at the end of my gaze.

Powell.

The name, his shadow, Stayle repeats in his head over and over in seconds. I've never forgotten. Even if I don't know the news, I've definitely thought of him. I met him four years ago in a human trafficking nest, and he was King Friesian citizen who reached out to Style himself.

Nice to meet you. My name is Philip.

"Ah... I'm... Powell..."

It was Powell who moved first as we continued to patrol each other's memories busily.

Fluffy, he looks weak but takes a step in a big foothold and turns his back from the high school building. The first step was a slow one, but there was no more stray from the second. One step at a time with a tan, a tan, a tan. Slowly and from a normal foothold to a fast foot.

It was not until he rushed in, but to Powell, who was rapidly shrinking the distance, that the style had slightly stretched and strained his shoulders. The young man holding his breath and approaching did have a shadow of that time.

The golden hair, which had been stretched and scattered halfway, is now cut into beautiful short hairs. The body was also tightened overall, and I could tell from the top of my clothes that my body was built up like a man.

He was also dressed like a regular in a non-uniform school. Not worn out clothes like the first time we met, but well washed, wrinkled and stretched sober. He looks like he's among the Knights and Guards, and much taller than the fourteen-year-old Style. Style wonders if I'll be in line with myself now, or slightly over it, even if I go back to where I was. But my arms are much thicker than mine. A healthy body as fleshy as someone else did when we met. Above all, seeing that bloody, masculine face convinced Steele that he was definitely allowed to live a healthy life.

With that in mind, my mouth was already broken when I said that Powell, sitting in front of me, was still only calling me by name. Good, he said. As soon as the thought passed, his face, which was tense and tense, loosened naturally.

To that grin of Style, Powell opened its mouth again with a fearful hesitation once he tied his lips. Shivering the clenching fist I lowered as I stuck it in my words...... and squeezed my courage.

"Philip...,... is that...? About me."

"You look good, Powell. It's been three years... no, it's been four years."

I dare you to let Stayle chant in the same tone as the last time we broke up.

If he laughed softly as he did, Powell's eyes, stretched to their limits by a single color of amazement, were opened.

Squeezing his lips, he ate his teeth and tied them, and shook them to his shoulders, Powell was speechless. He stared at one of the stays with a rugged look on his face and finally woke him up to tremble.

The style, in contrast, was now calm looking at growing Powell. "You've been splendid," he says, "you're different from those days," hanging words as if you've met an old friend, slapping his forged arms in the closeness.

But Powell, with his mouth squeezed, can never answer more than that just because he trembles. The smug expression also seemed angry at the younger boy from a third party's point of view, an upper class familiarized with the upper line, but showed that the softness of the air wrapped around the two of them was not.

Arthur unleashed his lurking voice between Powell, who could never move with trembling, and Style, who rarely spoke intimately to anyone but himself.

Do you know Philip?

Not the style. and asked with that meaning in mind, Style turned his happy grin straight to Arthur. Nod, answer, "I would have talked to you before," and show me to introduce Powell by hand.

"He's a special ability man of light I met about four years ago.... I didn't expect to see you so soon...,... Powell?

Don't you dare say anything that was a slave victimization, and stop the style you choose to make it look like you don't have to say it.

I felt uncomfortable in the direction of my hand showing him as I tried to deflect my gaze from Arthur and to Pride. Looking back, the droplets are dropping from the stiff Powell just now.

Let the tears of the large grain overflow from your eyes and turn red so that your face is upbeat. Squeezing his lips was not enough, and the sound of stripping his eaten and tied teeth to catch his breath was clearly heard to Arthur.

With a rugged look on his face, Powell overflowed with tears, holding his own eyes with thick arms from the middle. Tear grains scatter with a recoil that held back well.

Hold him with your arms, and Powell, who leans down small, still has no words. A whimper finally leaked out of his teeth, eating and tying the blinding stiles in front of him. On the way up and down his shoulders as he swallowed, and even coughed up painfully.

That way of crying among young people, who would already be around adulthood, was reflected at once from the likeness of male crying. Stile calmly understands why he cries.

That's all, I'm sure he's happier now than he was back then, so I even put myself in. But I'm a little sorry to cry in front of you two or Powell, and I can chew in my mouth. Instead, he softened and loosened the back of the black edge glasses and spoke to Powell again with a voice color that was no softer than this.

"Powell.... I missed you"

A heartfelt word, both Pride and Arthur soon found out just by their voices.

Not in front of a public building, not to please the other person. Words emanating from Style's own heart also reached Powell upright.

The ringing and swallowing became worse, and the squeaking voice became cloudy. But Powell squeezed out his voice this time as he ragged his hiccups cloudy throat in an attempt to return it from himself to the style that would hang words on him many times.

"Me too," even a word of that was cloudy and terribly distorted, but nowhere on this occasion is a man to flatter his face. Powell spins his own words in a distorted, ragged, drowning voice as he creates a water hoard in the hallway.

"Me too... I want to meet you... you... of... Yin... before you! Oh, my God."

Strong every sound that pushes in four years of emotion makes the words.

Powell's emotions, shaking and not stopping crying, were peeling. "Thanks to you, when I heard the words, Style's chest felt fever without saying anything. At that time, risking my life. But I seriously feel good about taking his hand.

I missed you, I wanted to thank you, I missed you, thank you. If it's not enough, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Cloudy drowning voices spin words desperately, even if they produce sore throats.

Words overflowed from Powell's throat from next to next, so much so that even if he stopped speaking like this, he wouldn't mind if he could pass on his thoughts to Stayle. The number of his words was overwhelmingly higher than the number of drops of tears dropped on the floor.

Style slaps him on the back gently, thinking that if he was who he was now, he would have held him in his arms without hesitation. I was just glad to see him now and relieved that the school was built in good time.

From the time Pride advocated the school system, Style kept wanting to start the school by the time he was eighteen.

"I promise you"

I spared no effort to do so, and I suggested to Jilbert that it be for a people like him until the class content.

For Stayle, he was the one who wanted the school to be used more than anyone else in the people alone.

To Style's story and Powell's words, Arthur nodded slowly as he breathed up. Arthur also knows that Stayle cared about the boy who was a slave victim in the extermination battle. I've asked myself if I should go looking for it, but Style also refused for some reason. He talked about what kind of person besides the special abilities of light, but his appearance and even his name, Style never spoke of it. I knew exactly what Arthur and Pride were going to look for, and if they found me, now I'd be in trouble.

"Arthur wonders if one day he will find it and the school that he has set up for the people from the intermediate level onwards, which he has spoken so of, was the best of all for that reason. Moreover, even if we do not see each other, even schools will surely open up his future, which is a people of the Kingdom of Friesia. Free education and special classes and good offices for work. And the opportunity to meet people your age and circumstances.

All of that was what Style wanted to give Powell.

"Special abilities, without you getting hurt."

"Powell......"

Looking up at crying Powell, Stayle remembers the words he hung four years ago.

That's the word I told him at the end of the day before I let him travel momentarily. Originally also a word I was given by Pride. It was well remembered by Stayle herself.

And I'm sure he'll remember, too, I think Stayle.

Whenever I call, I cough in pain, and Powell bursts into tears, still answering the style with a ragged voice and a nod. Using his entire body as well as his face, he nods cocklessly, his moisturized face hiding while holding his eyes down desperately with his arms.

I can't help but ask Style that I remembered, thinking it was bad to urge or stimulate words any more.

"so that you and your loved ones can all laugh."

"... laugh, can you stay?

Cocun. And a loud snort returned without hesitation.

Furthermore, the ringing and swallowing became worse, and Powell, shaking his body, had difficulty breathing. Not only his face, but he cried too much and left it dyed bright red to his neck, his trembling lips could no longer derive verbal words.

"Mine, for as long as I live."

Whether you stroke your head or cuddle, the style you're short is only a little itchy in your body right now.

But to him for answering my own question, I'm sure some people are important now.

I wanted to spend a whole day talking more stories if possible, then.

Galavan...... Karavan

The prebell rang.

It's a pre-bell that informs you of the start of your first limit. I have to get back to class before the next book bell rings.

But I was also hesitant to leave Powell crying in front of me right now. Think about it, Style looks around like he's looking for answers. The three of us and Powell are the only ones on this scene anymore.

First, Style was just head on whether to say no to Pride and move the place with instant travel, even if it was just himself and Powell. Just as Powell has too many words he wants to convey to Steele, so does Steele. What he wants to hear from Powell is like a mountain. Then Powell, who raised his face from his arm, also notices the bewildered look of the style. Philip, and called him in a cloudy voice, rubbing gossip and wet eyes rampantly. Turn your eyes brighter than your swollen complexion straight to the boy you've wanted to see for years.

"Class, over... I'll see you later...? Even after lunch break, …………………………"

Powell sipped his nose at the end, uttering as verbal a word as possible with his head slightly cooled by the sound of the pre-bell.

Guddle, to Powell, who speaks with all his strength in his trembling throat, Stayle exhales and then smiles back.

"Oh, I want to talk to you, too. I'll see you here.... Are they good together?

Powell nodded and repeated all the same noise over and over to the style of asking pointing at Pride and Arthur with his gaze. It's so small now that my back is rounded and I'm even close to the height of the style.

Come on, you too, you're going to be late, and if you gently push your back from Steele's side, he nodded as he held his eyes down with his arms again and headed toward the high-rise building not too long ago with the flirtatious.

As far back as I could tell, Style saw him up and down his shoulders wide as he snoozed, until the end. After he bends down the hallway and becomes invisible, Arthur taps the shoulder of the style lightly.

"Oorah, let's go! You can't be late.

Arthur, daring to call out in a bright tone, had his mouth laughing clearly.

Still quickly realized that the deep Ethereal eyes were saying, "Good for you," even without words. Right, and if you spin the words to match both the meaning of the table and the meaning behind it, Arthur laughed happily this time.

It was also unexpected that Arthur would meet the special abilities of the light that Style wanted to meet so quickly. Let's go! and voice, calling for pride and style, respectively.

Style said no, "I'm sorry to keep you waiting," then pulled his pride hand, which remained solidified. Pride also rushes out with it, trying to be drawn to the style, while returning words to it. In front of me is Stayle and Arthur, and across the street is a middle department two-year classroom. While understanding that, Pride thinks.

─ Powell Ru...

Powell, Powell, Powell, Powell, Powell, Powell.

Pride's head was the color of Powell's existence. With the doubt, if the confused head moves the body to turn to the classroom, the thought circles further. Until just now I had heard of Style and Powell, and the occasional conversation Arthur would join, but I couldn't afford to pinch my mouth to myself. Because...

─ How could he...?

I managed to jump into the classroom before the main bell.

Arthur opened the door vigorously before concealing the special abilities of the styles, and now that he could not easily travel instantly to the classroom, he also rushed into the styles with his pride.

Style, who for a moment strayed from the classroom to the appearance of the three prominent, but his breath jumped slightly after panic more than that, noticed that his pride hand, which he held at some point, was feverish.

Though not a great distance away, Steel takes his hands off his oddly warm pride, wondering if he'd run too far and his body temperature would have gone up. Excuse me, I apologized slightly for pulling my hand on my own, and then let her pull the seat in the middle to be her seat first in front of the desk in three rows in the back row.

His face is red, and Pride sits tight without saying anything.

Arthur also tried to ask Pride, who kept his mouth open, what was wrong, but before that, a wild teacher's voice jumped in saying, "Yes, I'm Robert in charge".

In the meantime, the students rush to take their seats. Style and Arthur also sat in the seats next to each other in Pride to match. roughened her breath, to her still red-faced. They twist their necks at the same time.

But Pride, neither the appearance of the teacher nor the gaze from the two of them went to mind now. Because...

- He's the third hidden character.

Pride continued to hold onto his chest with his trembling hands as his heart made noises about Bubba.