The Maid Wants to Be Trained (2)
"Haa, this is fucking exhausting, seriously."
I rubbed my stiff nape and leaned back against the chair in the study. The desk was a battlefield of ink stains and crumpled scraps of paper.
"I could really go for a tablet right now."
This week's theme: maid. The core of a maid, obviously, is the maid outfit. The problem? Maid outfits require a ton of delicate brushwork. Which made it tough to pull off the fine details on the low-grade paper we had at the Ashy Barony.
"No way I can print more than ten copies like this."
Ten copies wouldn't make big money. Hell, even my last piece—the dragon girl—barely squeezed out max profit from twenty copies.
At first, to test the market, I'd quietly released just two copies. The result? The concept of "erotic comics with illustrations"—totally unheard of in this world—was a shock. Noble errand boys lined up at the black market to snag them.
Once I confirmed the demand explosion, I clamped down on supply. Gradually jacked up prices as I released the rest, and the final ten copies went for a insane 500,000 krone each in an anonymous auction.
That's like 500,000 won per book back on Earth. With that hard-earned blood money, I'd chucked gold pouches in the faces of the merchant creditors trying to force our territory deed—and saved the door.
But at this rate, I'll drop dead from overwork first.
The biggest issue was the handwork. No copiers or screentones in this medieval Euro-fantasy world. Hand-drawing every page of twenty comic books was pure bone-shattering agony.
And the paper quality took the biggest hit. Who expects proper art paper in this ragtag Ashy Barony? Rough surface, tears if you press too hard with the pen, ink bleeding everywhere.
Just better paper would double my speed—easy fifty copies, no sweat.
"Money's the problem, though."
We were so broke, sleeping on the street tomorrow wouldn't surprise anyone. No dinner money, scavenging fallen cabbages from the neighbor's field for soup—what kind of house buys premium parchment or art paper?
I need cheap, sturdy, high-volume paper.
As I propped my chin, pondering, a lightbulb flashed in my head.
"Ah, newspaper!"
Right—the morning paper Estelle brought every day! Subscription lapsed from arrears, but deliveries resumed yesterday. Even mass-produced newsprint was surprisingly smooth-surfaced with minimal ink bleed.
A newspaper office would handle bulk rolls—maybe snag decent paper at a good price.
Man, Estelle's something else.
Ice-cold speech, but her every move dripped noble grace and elegance. Plus, brains sharp enough to read between the lines on imperial politics. Why's a perfect maid sticking around a broke barony with unpaid wages?
Creeeak.
Speak of the devil—the firmly shut study door swung open.
"Young master. It's time for your break. I've brought coffee."
Estelle entered with a tray, her calm voice preceding her. The cup held what seemed like ultra-dilute Americano—just a whisper of beans.
"Thanks."
"...Eek."
She flinched with a startled yelp as our hands brushed, yanking away. What? That pissed?
Estelle looked off. Normally stock-straight, gazing down impassively, but now she dodged my eyes, fidgeting oddly.
Swish, swish. She irritably tugged down her maid skirt hem with empty hands, then clutched the empty tray defensively over her chest.
Her breasts peeking over the tray—prime jiggle material. Gotta use that.
No, focus.
Her earlobes were faintly red.
"Estelle? What's up? You sick? Face looks flushed. Maybe a fever?"
Innocent question, but lasers shot from her eyes. Her lips quivered, and a icy barb slipped through her elegant formality.
"Young master... you are truly incurable trash."
"...What?"
"Or perhaps a pervert not worth saving. Hmph!"
She turned away like I wasn't worth more words. Speech icy, but ears beet-red.
...Hmm.
That day, huh? I'll play nice. Oh yeah, question time.
"Anyway, Estelle, that morning paper you read daily—where's the office? Thinking of dropping by."
Her movements froze at my question. Cooling red ears, then contempt-filled glare stabbed my skull.
"Now... even the newspaper president's daughter? Planning to extend your filthy claws?"
"What?"
"How do you intend to treat a commoner girl, using class as excuse... determined to devolve into a back-alley pervert beast?"
"No! Just need paper—buying some!"
What the hell does she see me as?!
◆ In a small press on the outskirts of Ashy Barony territory: Daily Caliola.
Lydia, the acting president running the paper in place of her ailing father, was drowning in extreme stress lately.
Lydia took immense pride in newspaper production. Superior pulp to any imperial giant, perfect ink-resistant paper blend—delivering fresh prints every morning.
But the capital's idiot readers couldn't care less about paper quality. They craved only juicy gossip.
And lately, reader inquiries boiled down to one topic.
"Editor! Any info on that 'Extra' artist?!"
"Please! Money's no object—spill the great master's identity!"
Lydia pinched her brow, headache brewing.
Extra. A comet crashing into the capital's back alleys, flipping noble society upside down—identity unknown.
Lydia figured cheap porn peddler at first. But even esteemed art-savvy nobles hailed the meticulous lines and fluid anatomy as "masterpiece worthy of the Imperial Gallery."
Result?
"Definitely a painter. Famous one hiding behind smut."
"Nah, church insider maybe?"
"Catch 'em, it's a scoop! Scoop!"
Sighing at the chaotic office, the entrance bell jingled.
Ding-a-ling.
Black hair, gray eyes—cold, sharp vibe but oddly pretty-boy handsome. Shadowed by a frosty-faced head maid.
Lydia clocked them instantly: Ashy Barony second son, Ian Ashy.
◆ I scanned the modest Daily Caliola interior, inwardly impressed. Ink and pulp scents mingled in surprising orderliness.
Especially the pre-print blank rolls stacked aside—smooth surface, solid texture. Leagues beyond the crap in our trash bin.
Nice. This texture won't snag nibs, ink'll soak perfectly.
Licking my chops while fiddling with the paper, an ink-smeared woman approached. Acting president, I guessed.
"Welcome, Ian Ashy. Acting President Lydia. What brings you to our paper? Could it be... you're curious about the creator of The Saintess's Secret Confession, that 'Extra'?"
My heart dropped at the all-too-familiar pen name and title from her lips.
"See? Your perverted schemes are transparent even to imperial commoners. Have some shame."
"It's not!"
I flailed desperately at Estelle, then mustered an awkward grin for Lydia.
"Hahaha, Extra? Got any intel?"
"Afraid not—even we don't know. Just asked since inquiries are flooding."
"Th-that Extra's that famous? People swarming?"
Lydia nodded vigorously.
"Don't ask! Nobles worship as once-in-a-century genius painter. Church zealots demand arrest for blasphemy—in truckloads!"
Cold sweat trickled down my spine. Suppressed the urge to bolt with my stuff. Calm down. As long as identity holds.
Her businesslike vibe—no suspicion I'm the guy. Silver lining.
"R-right. No interest in that criminal. Real reason I'm here... paper."
"Paper?"
I pointed to the blank stack I'd just touched.
"Amazed by your daily delivery. Excellent pulp blend, superb ink absorption. Rare to see such quality. So... could I buy bulk sheets cut book-size?"
"Ah..."
"B-but I'm broke now... any scraps or waste paper cheap?"
I had Extra cash, but repaying debts and Estelle's backpay meant every coin counted. Went for pitiful bargaining face.
Then—
"Yes! You! See! This! Is! It!!!!"
Lydia lunged like a madwoman.