Chapter 3. I Need to Make Money

Staring at the maid right in front of me, I swallowed hard.

Tall for a woman. Horns sprouting from her head. Poised stance and icy expression. Even if you spotted her walking down the street, she'd make you go whoa—a stunning beauty that, paired with those horns, proved this was a romance fantasy world.

But honestly, her looks weren't even registering.

She's fucking terrifying.

Those eyes were downright murderous. Just meeting her gaze had cold sweat trickling down my back, my spine straightening on its own. It felt like listening to a ghost story in some haunted ruin—my whole body crushed under invisible pressure.

No joke. Something intangible was compressing me, making it hard to even breathe.

Whoa... is this what they call aura?

I'd been curious about aura and magic, sure, but not like this—not firsthand. Survival instinct trumped curiosity or awe; it was that brutal.

Isn't this supposed to be a romance fantasy? Ballroom dances, tea times, peaceful flirting—why the hell...

A surge of frustration hit me, but I deflated, dropping my head. No point asking why. This was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all fallout from me and my friend's hipster bullshit.

I recalled the messages from when my friend was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠brainstorming the story.

That was the start of the disaster.

Deep in my dark fantasy phase back then, I said something I should never have.

Romance fantasy's alpha and omega is romance. Nail that, and you're golden.

But I whispered poison into a newbie writer's ear. My head full of regret and ruin—not romance—my fellow hipster lapped it up.

She locked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the doom angle. No joke—even sent gift icons in thanks.

What goes around comes around. Gratitude from a broke loser for chicken gift cards. High on my idea landing, she went wild with settings fit for dark fantasy, not romance.

And unfortunately, she bought every one as genius.

Even reworked the plot around my additions.

Not savior pure love, huh. Brain pickled in ruin, no surprise she skipped redemption.

The rest played out like standard romance fare. Heroine trains under master, awakens. Turns out she's a saintess who purifies magic beasts. Duke regrets, obsesses. Ex-fiancé crown prince wants her back.

Familiar trope, but tasty if done right. Masterpiece or kindling depends on execution.

My friend's? Total kindling. Settings-obsessed maniac eggs on flash-obsessed writer. Disaster beyond ruining the story—now nuking my fresh start.

So... I'm in a dark fantasy world on deck, and this body can't wield sword or spell?

I glanced at the shattered door. Obliterated. Only the knob left on the floor.

Maid must've smashed it right after the promised ten minutes.

If she packs that punch, magic beasts that eat people? Worse.

We're fucked.

Death won't be peaceful overdose—torn apart by beasts. Stay idle, I'm done. Not clean—plot-device corpse.

Some plausible way out... check top-grade diamond prices?

Brainstorming desperately—then thud. Something heavy hit the floor.

"Young master."

"...Y-yeah?"

"What're you spacing out for? The lord's waiting."

"Uh, s-sorry."

"You lose your damn mind or what? Even apologizing now."

Primo. How much of a shithead was he?

Wanted to bullshit an excuse, but feared suspicion. Awkward grin instead.

She clicked her tongue, turned, and led the way.

Following the maid, I pondered survival in this dark fantasy world-in-waiting.

Option 1: Train now? Fat chance. Past life no athlete; this body and soul both desk-jockeys.

Better earn big, hire mercenaries.

Right. Mercs were key.

One name popped up: Heroine's master.

Primo once served her, right?

Someone that strong? OP as hell.

Racking memory. If right, heroine's master was loyal to Primo house. Orphan taken in by Primo parents.

Cliché loyalty: Stayed till near-collapse. Convinced by couple to leave; they died to beasts. She regretted forever.

Hated ruinous Primo, naturally.

Yeah. Loyalty solid. Don't let house fall—she stays.

Clear now: My job.

Money. Make bank. Pay off debts—who knows how much—and then some.

Beast attack deaths? Barony's unsafe.

I'm powerless. Fortify it. Shred beasts before they step foot.

Then—the maid stopped.

Looked up: Thick door.

"Go in."

"Uh, thanks."

"Thanks now too. Unreal. What's that anyway?"

"This?"

"The stick in your hand."

She pointed at the pencil, deadpan.

This world had no pencils, huh.

Quills are a pain.

Snickered, waved it.

Medieval drudgery bummed me out earlier.

Not anymore. Endless opportunities to feast.

"This? Lifeline for our barony."

"...Huh?"

Ignoring her scowl, entered.

Book-packed study. Middle-aged man at central desk—Aureon Baron, family head.

No time for chit-chat. Marched up, set pencil down.

He frowned, tsked.

"What's that?"

"Writing tool I developed."

"...You developed?"

"Yes. Try it. No ink needed; erases too."

Even trash son gets leeway. He eyed pencil and me, grudgingly picked it, drew on paper.

Scritch-scratch. Clean line. Faint vs. ink, but clear enough.

His brow relaxed.

Gotcha.

Proof: Maid watching, impressed.

Grinned, pointed eraser.

"Now erase with that."

"This erases?"

"Yes. Light rub."

Cautious rub. Line faded, gone.

"...This."

"Whoa, really... the line's gone."

"Explain, Primo. What is it? Charcoal core?"

"No, not charcoal."

Graphite. Precisely, graphite-clay mix.

Saw it en route: Material acquisition difficulty C.

Skill menu scan: No-mats used blueprints—my drawings consumed.

Mats used: No blueprint cost.

Commercialize pencil? Need mats. Can't draw forever.

Graphite, clay sources? Knew roughly. Friend wrote novel; I built geography.

How much stuck? Unknown.

Way to check...

Her horn caught my eye.

My settings-nerd trivia: Horns sense.

Just a tiny touch...

Sneaky hand up, grazed it.

She jolted.

"Hiiiiaaah?!"

Face crimson, eyes wide at me.

But no joy at confirmed setting.

This popped up.

Fuck, you're the master?!