Adult. (1)
“...You are trembling quite profusely today.”
A nameless noble beside me inquired. A man I had met for the first time today, his entire body shuddering uncontrollably. The aftershocks rippled even to my hand.
“It merits such expenditure.”
Tycoon Magnate.
This trait, a fusion of two monetary attributes, grants an extraordinary intuition regarding value. Not only does it gauge an object's inherent potential, but it appraises its worth with near-animalistic precision.
Relying on that trait, I immersed myself in the auction, securing 11 out of the 24 items up to the midway point.
—The next item is ‘Trenquality’.
However, I intend to abstain from here on.
Since the ‘ancient relic necklace’ moments ago, the items have been lackluster. The Frost Stone's maximum estimated price is thirty million elne. Holding around ninety million—thrice that—ensures stability.
—Rocon's horn...
With me no longer driving up bids, the auction proceeded peacefully.
The other unremarkable nobles, gauging the mood, began slipping in bids slyly.
In that serene calm, at last.
The item I desired appeared.
—A gemstone renowned in the empire's history of famed swords for its exploits. Known as nature's magic, the winter flame: Frost Stone. Starting bid, five million elne. Increments of two hundred thousand elne.
Frost Stone.
The moment that ore emerged, the first bid shot up.
1089.
—1089, five million elne.
I glanced toward seat 1089, which had leaped in eagerly.
A familiar silhouette from behind. Glossy hair neatly coiled atop her head like an apple, her attire—white light armor—proclaiming her status.
...Julie.
Her eyes burned with unyielding resolve.
Julie threw herself into the bidding with fervor. No tricks, no pauses for breath.
Yet the item was no trifle. The price skyrocketed: ten million, thirteen million, seventeen million, nineteen million... straight to the heavens.
—1089, thirty million elne! No further bids?
Fortunately, at the predicted peak of thirty million, most dropped out.
Cheaper than expected. Julie allowed herself a moment of optimism and satisfaction.
“Hoo...”
...It was then.
An unforeseen rival emerged.
—777, thirty-one million elne!
“...!”
Julie’s eyes widened as she sought seat 777.
Not far from her, in the VVIP section. A man sat there, exuding haughty elegance.
Deculein.
Sensing her gaze, he turned.
His expression was its usual icy indifference, as if nothing mattered. Yet Julie somehow divined his intent.
—1098, thirty-two million elne.
Julie clenched her fist and bid quietly. Retreat was not an option.
Nor for Deculein.
—777 again, thirty-three million!
From then on, it was solely between them.
Deculein raised; Julie countered.
The auctioneer’s calls rang ceaseless without cease, the entire hall riveted on the pair, gasps and cheers echoing like background music.
The thrill stemmed less from the monetary clash than the combatants: Deculein and Julie.
—777, thirty-seven million elne!
Even at thirty-seven million, Deculein remained composed. But Julie’s hand began to tremble. Her funds were dwindling.
Still, she refused to yield.
—1089, thirty-eight million.
Julie’s desperate bid: thirty-eight million.
Deculein dismissed it instantly, without the slightest hesitation.
—777, thirty-nine million.
Julie’s shoulders twitched.
The hall fell briefly silent. All held their breath, eyes on Julie.
She steadied her breathing for seconds, then rejected surrender. Prepared even to sell her capital mansion, she bid.
Thus, 1089: forty million.
A second hush descended.
Deculein remained still for a considerable time.
He closed his eyes in thought.
Julie seemed desperate for the Frost Stone. If I claimed it...
Would she harbor grudge against me?
Could it lead to a death flag?
...Unlikely.
Deculein—no, Kim Woojin—trusted Julie’s character.
Moreover, he was equally desperate for this Frost Stone.
“Hoo... ha...”
Meanwhile, Julie’s tense crown of hair quivered faintly. Unable to steady her ragged breaths, her shoulders heaved repeatedly. She wore her emotions bare.
—It seems the Frost Stone will go to 1089...
Thirty seconds passed.
Julie finally relaxed, placing her hands demurely on her knees. Serene, savoring victory.
Then.
—777, forty-two million elne!
“Ah!”
Julie’s eyes bulged; she cried out. But with the hall already electric, her unladylike scream went unnoticed.
“Eut...”
Biting her lip, hands shaking violently, she ultimately closed her eyes and bowed her head. Her lower lip and eyelids quivered.
Reluctant defeat, inevitable powerlessness. The vile sensation spread to her extremities.
No more funds.
—Final call, three times: forty-two million elne! The magical metal, Frost Stone, goes to guest 777!
Victory decided, Deculein serene even in triumph.
Clap clap clap—
The VIPs applauded him. He acknowledged with dignified nods.
—Carrying this fervor, on to the next item.
The auction continued, but nothing noteworthy caught Julie’s or Deculein’s eye.
To Deculein’s trait, the latter half brimmed with overpriced fluff.
Thus, he awaited the end with utmost decorum.
Julie’s flushed, trembling nape, from behind, stirred vague concern.
The auction concluded. Julie rose unsteadily. As she moved to leave, someone blocked her path.
Deculein. Sapphire eyes gazed down upon her.
“...Congratulations.”
Julie wanted to say nothing, hear nothing.
Yet Deculein, predictably, spoke.
“Did you desire it too? The Frost Stone.”
“...Ha.”
Her heart creaked.
A subsurface torrent writhed, pulsing.
Julie sensed his intent.
That engagement day, the worst memory replayed.
...If you wish, I could give these to you. Whatever you desire, I can provide.
He had said that, arrayed with all she once craved.
What she felt then was no joy or bliss—only humiliation.
But the true indignity followed.
After she stormed out, vile rumors fogged the air.
The lofty flower finally plucked by Deculein—Julie secured Hadekan knights from him—She initiated the engagement—
Words defiling her convictions.
Did he think that would draw her back?
Foolish man.
No matter her efforts, unlovable.
And now, again...
“I apologize.”
“What are you trying to say... Pardon?”
Deculein turned crisply.
That inexplicable “I apologize” was all.
He departed promptly; Julie stared blankly at his retreating back.
“Uh... um.”
Utterly bewildered, yet soon grateful it wasn’t last year’s rerun, she exited to the lobby.
“...Haa.”
It should have sufficed, yet a heavy sigh escaped.
Frost Stone.
Reappearing after two years, auctioned after three.
She had pinned such hopes.
Snatched away.
By the one she least wanted to lose to.
—...Why would Professor Deculein buy the Frost Stone?
A stray voice echoed in her ears.
—Who knows. Obviously...
They—the nobles—always gossiped. As if spreading rumors their sacred duty.
Not just them; the entire lounge buzzed with today’s events.
Like a year ago.
Pouring unwelcome words into her ears.
—A gift for his fiancée, surely?
Julie ground her teeth.
—Hohoho. Indeed? Then why not yield it graciously?
—You know Professor Deculein’s temperament. He likely pushed so hard to forge the sword himself.
She knew better than to judge by hearsay.
But his precedent was too clear...
The Frost Stone was magically inert metal. Mana too dense, usable solely as a blade.
Only after thousands of swings, forging rapport, might it deign to cloak in sword aura—a finicky ore.
Why would a mage like Deculein buy it?
“...”
Julie swallowed the sigh surging from her dantian.
—His fiancée must be envious. A forty-million-elne gift. I’d be honored with a forty-thousand necklace.
—Exactly. Yet that Phairden girl plays hard to get. She’s already shown her hand...
Amid such baseless prattle, madness loomed. Julie shoved through the crowd, fleeing Schatzinsel.
Seaside path, biting wind.
In the chill, she huddled. Steadying breath, calming turbulent heart.
It’s fine. Trivial.
No need to sway to falsehoods. Such trials now tediously familiar—no more shaking...
Then, a car approached.
Silently, the rear door opened first.
“Julie.”
A familiar face called her name. Startled by the unexpected timbre, Julie looked up blankly.
“...Sister?”
Smiling at her: Yuseffin, Phairden eldest, her sister.
“Knew it’d be like this. Hop in.”
Yuseffin was a beauty of another caliber.
To Julie, a ‘different dimension’ of allure. Shoulder-length bob peerlessly lovely, features radiant and refined, ever diminishing her.
“What are you doing? Get in.”
“...”
Julie found her sister profoundly irksome in myriad ways, yet boarded wordlessly today.
Yuseffin, with social clout rivaling or exceeding Deculein’s, was her sole anchor now.
...Indeed, Julie is a good person.
She, at least herself, veers far from Villain’s Fate in the game. No death flags apply to her now.
I confirmed it at the auction. Naked Eye intuition, certain.
Pathetic, fretting retaliation over mere Frost Stone.
“How much must she have endured...”
Yet, how tormented must she have been.
For that kind Julie to kill Deculein herself.
I revisited the Deculein I played.
How utterly deranged were you?
“We’ve arrived.”
Lost in thoughts, we reached the mansion.
“...Well done.”
“Yes. Rest well!”
Clock past midnight.
I walked the garden to the main house.
“...?”
Yet, oddly.
Servants clustered at the entrance, fidgeting. Spotting me, they hurried over.
“M-Master. Lady Yeriel—”
“Understood.”
I ascended without inquiry. Dismissing trailing servants, I climbed and opened the door.
“...”
Moonlight filtered into the living room’s center, a dark silhouette stood. Eerie shadow turned as the door opened.
Shadow veiled her face, but I knew.
Yeriel.
I meant to ask her purpose.
But Yeriel spoke first. Parched, cracked voice.
“...The payment for Jerun Mine acquisition. You said you’d hold it briefly. Was this your intent?”
Tears welled in Yeriel’s eyes.
I flinched inwardly, but hid it.
Ah, no wonder. Personal account oddly flush.
Character so wealthy, two hundred million seemed natural.
Blatant negligence.
“Fear not. I bought only profitable items.”
True, unvarnished.
At auction, only undervalued gems with future surge. Later, bloom via Midas’ Hand, sell at twofold, threefold...
“You—!”
But now, my words fell on deaf ears. Her scream tore at me.
Having bellowed once, Yeriel growled like a beast, heaving breaths.
“Treating me like a trash bin.”
I regarded Yeriel. Tremors in her voice spread bodily.
“Think I’m just the one cleaning your shit beside you?”
Disconcerting.
In my not-short life, never such magnitude of rage confronted.
“Laws changed lately, retainers sleepless, slaving all day—yet you blow the hoard we scraped? You mad bastard! What profit? Bullshit profit! Gambling estate funds?!”
Crimson aura erupted wildly from Yeriel. Villain’s Fate manifesting.
Yet golden light blazed concurrently. Tycoon Magnate manifesting.
“You, you, you...”
The contradiction’s meaning: Fail to defuse, she becomes death flag. Succeed, boundless funds.
Somehow, I grasped this knot’s solution.
Fortuitously, I knew what she craved.
“Worry not.”
“Shut your crap! This ain’t worry, you moron! You, you shithead always dumping crap on us!”
Yeriel shrieked convulsively. Tears mingled with spittle sprayed.
“Think I’ll live like this forever? I dropped uni for you! Never even dated, fuck!”
“No need.”
“No need for what! You, since parents died, what’ve you done for the house? Just gallivant, squander. Wow, blowing hundred-fifty million in a day, you shit—”
“I shall cede the patriarch’s seat to you.”
“You dung beetle! No, too kind—dung roller! Roll shit till you—”
“...die?”
Yeriel’s tirade halted.
Replaying what she heard, incredulous.
Yet uncomprehending, eyes wide, head tilted.
“What? What’d you say?”
Deculein is Yukline patriarch.
But I know.
Patriarch Deculein’s end.
“What did you just say...?”
If Deculein returned to estate as lord, best end: poisoning.
In game, he was professor, not lord.
Forcing patriarch role yields only death flags.
Even if not, no intent for city-building sim.
“...Listen well. Once only.”
Originally, patriarch was Yeriel’s due. Game’s Deculein: ‘Professor Deculein’; post-death ‘Yukline Countess’: always Yeriel.
Thus...
Simple.
“The patriarch’s seat.”
Unneeded by me.
Death flag incarnate.
You’ll usurp later anyway.
Yours by right.
“To you.”
To you,
my sister.
I shall bestow it magnanimously.
“...Huh?”
Yeriel echoed cutely.