Chapter 4. Supernova of the Stationery Industry (1)

‘Is this for real….’

I let out a hollow chuckle as I stared at the notification.

I'm screwed. I'd just gotten the first button fastened right, and now it was already ripping off.

At a time when I needed to boost her favorability to keep her tied to our territory, I'd slammed it straight to rock bottom.

And for some reason—probably my friend adding extra details to the character—both the maid named Estelle and even my father, the family head, were glaring at me.

Finally, Estelle called out to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me in a trembling voice.

“...Young master.”

Her expression, frozen stiff just moments ago, was now iced over in a completely different, murderous way.

Confusion. Shock. And raw fury like she wanted to tear me apart.

Yeah, I'm totally screwed.

Should I drop to my knees and grovel right now? I was seriously debating it when my father's scolding voice rang out.

“You bastard, Primo.”

“Ah...”

“There's such a thing as basic manners. Did you touch Estelle's horns without permission again, on your own whim?”

“I'm sorry. ...Sorry, Estelle.”

I'd only apologized because I knew I'd messed up, but both Father and Estelle stared at me like I was some freak of nature.

“Unbelievable. The young master did it again...”

“You're apologizing right away?”

No, Primo. Just how much of a hated piece of trash were you?

Hated, unplanned, gambling addict—triple crown achieved. At this point, I had to think positively: there's nowhere left to fall.

To avoid misunderstandings, maybe I should half-ass an act as a spoiled punk.

I pondered it briefly but scrapped the idea. No time for concept roleplay when I needed to secure my survival first.

I cleared my throat awkwardly and pointed at the pencil still clutched in Father's hand.

“I know. I know our finances are crumbling because of my screw-ups.”

“It's not just crumbling. Just the other day, a loan shark came by and issued an ultimatum.”

“An ultimatum means we have... how much time left?”

“One month.”

One month. That was plenty.

If my guesses were right, that was more than enough time to commercialize this thing. Clay and graphite were available nearby, too.

Trees? They're thick outside the window right now, so I can just chop some.

Even if my assumptions were off, a month of nonstop pencil drawings would cover it.

I didn't want my arms falling off from overuse, though.

Still, way better than starving in the streets or getting shredded by monsters.

I pointed at the pencil again ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and told Father.

“In 20 days, I'll make at least 300 of them. Those pencils.”

“What?”

“In exchange, Father, please promote them to the other nobles. Highlight the convenience and practicality.”

Father glanced back and forth between the pencil and me. Suspicion lingered in his eyes.

I got it. Primo must've been an irredeemable punk.

So, to earn trust, I had to open my mouth. Time to pull out every line I'd memorized from my webtoon artist days, pumped full of clichés.

I lightly slammed the desk and spoke up.

“I understand, Father. It's unreasonable to expect you to trust me right away. Given all the mistakes I've made, it's only natural.”

“...You do understand.”

“Yes. Watching the family decline made me reflect deeply. That's why I've spent sleepless nights buried in inventions. Desperate to turn things around somehow.”

The first key to persuasion: empathy. And for an apology, nothing beats owning it without excuses.

Nailing both at once softened Father's expression.

Now, sell the plan's potential.

I wet my lips and dove into the main pitch.

“As you've seen, Father, I believe this pencil I've invented is a revolution in writing tools. It doesn't smudge like charcoal, and if it breaks, you can just shave the wood around the core to use it again.”

“True, but the line isn't as sharp as ink.”

“I see it as different from quills. With this invention, no need for bread crumbs—you can easily erase with the one built right on the end.”

“Right. That's an irreplaceable advantage.”

“Exactly. As you said, the biggest strength is how easy it is to correct mistakes. It'll be useful for children learning letters, and for drafting reports, ledgers, contracts, and such.”

“Drafting.”

His eyes flashed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at that word. A sign my brain-squeezed sales pitch was landing.

I cleared my throat to draw attention, then drove in the wedge.

“I see this as my last chance. To prove my words aren't empty, I'll bring at least 50 in a week.”

“Fifty?”

“Yes. In exchange, once I deliver those 50, please introduce the pencil to noble society starting then.”

Father stared me down, like he was peering into my soul. His intimidating aura—must be what they call presence from experience—made me swallow dryly.

“Fifty in a week. You're saying you'll make them alone?”

“Yes.”

“...Without even assigning a craftsman?”

“I am the craftsman. At least for these pencils.”

Yeah. I was the craftsman now. Stuck drawing pencils for a whole week.

I saw both Father and Estelle freeze at my words. I kept my face as brazen as possible.

With a sigh, Father waved me off like he was done.

“Fine. Make them first, then we'll talk.”

“Yes, understood.”

I holed up in my room and drew nothing but pencils. The second I thought about a break, I grabbed the pencil again. Even skimped on mealtimes.

Three days passed like that. I blew past the promised 50 and made 90.

My arms are gonna fall off for real.

But this was my lifeline.

Plus, the repetition leveled up my proficiency big time.

There were two reasons my proficiency jumped.

One: drawing nothing but pencils nonstop.

Two: disassembling the ones I made to study the structure.

Thanks to that, proficiency shot from 90% to 98%, earning me perks like improved quality in some methods and a one-grade drop in acquisition difficulty for A-rank materials.

One tough-to-get material off the list, and less quantity needed for the rest.

A huge win. Lower production costs from the start.

Time to see Father.

At dawn, I headed straight to his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠study.

On the way, I ran into Estelle sweeping the hallway.

“...What's that.”

“Where's Father?”

“Ah, he's inside.”

I nodded and went in. Sure enough, Father's eyes went wide at the bundle of pencils in my hands.

“My god.”

“As promised, 50—no, 90. Time to introduce them to noble society.”

“Yes. As a product bearing our family name.”

I bowed deeply in thanks. No clue if it matched local etiquette.

Then, to lighten my load, I laid out the real condition I needed.

“Thank you, Father. If I may be so bold, one more request.”

“What?”

“Lend me Estelle. For smooth material gathering.”

“Hah, you. Planning to work her to the bone again? You know she's a knight, not a maid. We can't afford a real maid right now...”

“Exactly why I need her. As you know, I'm useless in a fight. For my safety and material runs, I need someone skilled in swordsmanship and magic like Estelle.”

And so, I talked my way into borrowing Estelle.

I spouted excuses about safety, but after three days here, I knew enough.

This world was still far from going full dark fantasy.

Still, I wanted her along as living heavy armor.

I'm sick of shoveling alone.

By the big lake near the territory, I watched Estelle dig furiously and called out.

“Hey, there. Right there. Dig harder!”

“......”

“Heh, no, that's not how. Stomp the shovel with your foot and slice diagonal—whoa!”

“I really want to kill you...”

“Huh? What'd you say?”

Estelle ground her teeth and kept digging as ordered.

Yeah. Hate me all you want. It's already -100.

Can't go lower.

I dragged her around, putting her to work relentlessly. Scooping clay, chopping and shaping wood, even rummaging the nearby rocky hills like a miner.

“I'll kill you. For real.”

“Whoa, I can hear you.”

“I'm saying it so you can. You damn young master.”

Thanks to her loyalty to Father, she didn't actually kill me.

For now.

Anyway, with Estelle's blood, sweat, and tears, I secured all the materials. All that was left was mass-producing pencils.