002 - Murmurs
Brilliant lights illuminated the Imperial Banquet Hall. Chandeliers glowing purely on mana without a hint of electricity dazzled the eyes, while the jewels embedded in the nobles' attire competed fiercely for attention. The air, thick with perfume, food aromas, and fake laughter, was suffocating.
"Ugh, the smell."
I wrinkled my nose and loosened my tie a bit. Dragged here by my father's threats, I had one goal: blend in like a ghost, stuff my face, and bail. I scanned the food quickly, then unleashed my infinite buffet expertise to fill my gut.
Whoa, this place is a canapé heaven. That's foie gras on top, right? It melts in your mouth so smooth. I demolished the mountain on my plate, marveling at each bite. Especially this smoked salmon roll—prime soju pairing material with just the right fattiness. Shame there was no tequila substitute; just wine and bland champagne.
"Can't I snag some to take home? Marie would love it."
I muttered to myself while tearing into a lobster claw with my bare hands. That's when prickly stares stabbed into my back.
"Who's that guy?"
"Parne family's second son, apparently."
"...That dude eating with his hands? A barbarian—or rather, an imperial citizen, a noble?"
"Ugh, the count and his eldest are so exemplary. How'd they end up with that..."
"Tsk tsk, the count really is something else. A scholar from the remote south, rising to Palace Count."
The last bit was twisted praise, but it boiled down to: Dad's an anomaly for his background, and I'm the norm. Like Chungcheong folks and Kyoto natives teaming up for a slap-fest. Steeped in Seoul life, I hated even understanding their bullshit.
Young ladies hiding smirks behind fans, gentlemen with champagne flutes—whispers buzzed like flies. I snorted and slurped the lobster meat defiantly.
Damn, Seoul cliques are the same here as there. 'Don't bother a dog while it's eating,' my ass.
That's why I hated heading up to the city. All that side-eyeing. I tossed the shell on the plate and wiped my mouth with a napkin. No one I knew anyway, and zero desire to fake laughs with those phonies. Time for a tactical retreat.
I snagged a fresh champagne flute and crab-walked backward toward the darkest curtained corner.
Thick velvet curtains parted to reveal the terrace, cool night air rushing in.
"Haa, finally breathing."
Leaning on the railing, I gazed at the starry sky and sipped. Parties were best enjoyed solo after sneaking out. First one of my life, but still.
Then, from behind a massive pillar by the railing, an agitated voice erupted.
"How many times must I say it before you understand?"
"Your Highness, please... Don't trample my honor further. What have I done wrong...!"
"I'm abandoning all dignity to spit these bitter words at you! Your very existence chokes me. That venomous glare, that watchful attitude—it's all too much!"
Huh? That tone... Classic bad guy and tragic heroine vibes. Butter laid on thick, though.
Anyway, prime entertainment.
Suddenly ringside for a lovers' spat. I ducked behind the pillar instinctively. Peeking out: a golden-haired hunk in ornate uniform facing off against a woman in a dress. He cornered her furiously; she trembled, head bowed.
"Fiancée or not, we should end it. We've drifted too far."
He unleashed venom, shoved her roughly, and stormed off. Alone now, she collapsed, sobbing.
"Hic... Eu-hic..."
Her silver hair shimmered pitifully in the moonlight.
What the—already over?
Wasted my time peeking.
Soap operas had their charm live, but noble drama? Messy if caught.
Bail time.
Champagne in hand, I backed away ninja-style—silent and swift. Crab-walking to the curtains might look ridiculous, but better than drama.
Creak!
The floorboard screamed; my heart dropped. Fuck. Shoddy terrace maintenance. Marble floors inside sparkled, though. Ran out of budget? Where's my taxes going?
Her sobbing shoulders froze. Silver head turned slowly toward me. Eyes locked.
Poisonous glare? Like this? Violet eyes brimmed with venom, intensified by tear-streaked ruin. Dead silence choked the terrace. I froze, glass awkwardly raised.
Pretend I saw nothing and dip? Lost puppy act?
"......"
Her eyes narrowed, face twisting venomously. Punch first?
"Uh, um."
Fuck, what do you say here?
"Who are you?"
Her sharp voice stabbed like a dagger.
"How long have you been there? Eavesdropping like a sneak—clearly no noble grace."
Think of noble speak as Chungcheong dialect meets Kyoto politeness: flowery words hiding a barrage of fuck-yous in the eyes. Wrong person to mess with.
Usually, you'd grovel: "Sorry, milady, I got carried away..." But twenty years in this world, and buttering tongues still felt alien. Plus, I can't stand injustice—mouth ran rogue.
Fuck it. Dad's Palace Count; it'll be fine.
"What, did I peek 'cause I wanted to?"
"Pardon?"
"And correction: I wasn't eavesdropping—you interrupted my champagne time. I was here first, moon-gazing."
Her eyes widened—first time seeing such brazen pushback. Probably. Nobles thrived on poker faces, oily deflections for "graceful" rep.
"I-I never imagined such rudeness."
"Yelling like that and expecting privacy? Thief's logic. Cast a soundproof spell next time."
"Are you speaking to me?"
"Yeah. Who else?"
I shrugged, sipping champagne. She gaped, jaw slack.
Staring properly now: ruined eye makeup, red nose tip. Still drop-dead gorgeous. Silver hair, violet eyes—like game character creation maxed out. Looks that'd drain your paycheck without regret.
"And hey, a beauty like you crying over that guy? If you're pissed, grab his hair and deck him."
"...Pardon?"
"Come on. You know you're stunning; suitors would overflow ten carts."
Not flirting—just facts. She steadied, feigning nonchalance.
"...Do you compliment everyone like that?"
"Not a compliment—stating reality."
My cheeky line broke her again.
"Ears are beet red, though. No immunity to this stuff?"
Her face flushed crimson. Ears burning up. This straight-ball flirting hits that hard? Back home, it'd get a middle finger and "piss off."
Damn isekai stiffs can't handle spice. Tsk. Still, sorry for witnessing the embarrassment—mental repair service it is.
"Anyway, if I were you, I'd skip tears and yank hair or slap him silly. Alternatives galore."
Her reaction? Alien language confusion.
"Hair... yank? Alternatives?"
"Say that again?"
"......"
Lips quivered. Anger? I eyed escape routes.
Pfft!
She burst, shoulders shaking, head down. Sobbing to laughter.
"Kh, kkh... Ahaha!"
First taste of crude, refreshing advice shocked her. Laughing freely, belly-clutching—way better than pitiful tears.
I grinned, toasting with my empty glass.
"Oho, laughing? Peeping fee paid? No take-backs later."
She wiped tears, eyes revitalized violet.
"...You're truly bizarre."
"I'll take it as praise."
I waved lazily and turned. More entanglement = fatigue. Hit and run: cool guy's creed.
Parting curtains back to the hall, a clear laugh echoed behind.
Poke!
"Hair-pulling, huh."
Felt like teaching something dangerous, but whatever. Not my hair.
"Ugh, fuck. That's Seoul for ya."
Even the darkest corner had people. Flashback to college MT nightmares: couples vanishing for "ice cream" during drinking games. That rage. This was the opposite—lucky break.
Then—
Blare!
Trumpets boomed through the hall. Massive doors swung open; guards bellowed.
"The Empire's Sun, Crown Prince Louis de Leopold, His Highness!"
"The Flower of Rosenberg, Lady Elisia von Rosenberg enters!"
"...Huh?"
Wait. Louis? Elisia? ...The fuck?
Heard those somewhere. Territory? Nah, backwater got no news. Who...?
Suddenly, a sealed memory from my past life twitched deep inside. Fragments sparked.
'Yo, if the male lead's Louis, does he hit the guillotine too?'
'You maniac! Shut up, ruining the mood!'
Smack! Sis walloping my back. Lil sis rolling on bed with a romance novel cover. Sis beside her:
"Yo, this novel's ML is trash, but his face is plot armor."
Giggling. What was the title?
"This Life, I Just Want to Live Quietly...?"
Fuck. Why sticks like glue? I stared blankly at my turkey leg. The world's oddities clicked like puzzle pieces.
* * *
No wonder. Medieval fantasy with highway rest stops? Magic fridges and AC, but no Industrial Revolution—just carriages. Nobles prizing verbal spars over swords.
"......Ah, fucked."
The curse slipped out loud. No way?
This world's that novel?