The Maid Wants to Be Trained (2)
Just moments ago, Lydia, the acting president of Daily Caliola, had been speaking to me in a thoroughly businesslike manner. But the second I brought up the paper...
"You! Un-der-stand! Pa-per!!!"
Ink smeared on her cheeks, she lunged at me like a predator spotting prey. I couldn't help but flinch and stagger back in shock.
"W-what the hell?"
But Lydia ignored my flustered reaction completely, grabbing both my hands in hers. Her eyes gleamed with a manic fervor I'd never seen before.
"Finally! Finally, someone who truly appreciates the greatness of this paper has appeared! Those flashy idiots in the imperial capital's nobility couldn't care less about paper quality!"
She shook my hands up and down furiously, words pouring out like machine-gun fire.
"Do you know how many nights I stayed up perfecting the ideal pulp blend that doesn't bleed ink? To think this superior white stock—better than any major newspaper in the empire—is being wasted on gossip rags! It breaks my heart!"
That's your job, newspaper boss. I kept the tactless retort to myself.
"Ian Ashy! You are a true artist who understands the aesthetics of pulp!"
What the—this energy? I could only nod dumbly.
All I'd done was voice my inner thought: For newsprint, the surface is surprisingly smooth, and it doesn't bleed ink much. Who knew it'd trigger a nuclear reaction like this?
I glanced at Lydia's face—her favor toward me was skyrocketing through the roof, visible to the naked eye.
Then.
"Tsk."
A chill wind sliced down my back. A short, curt tongue-click, bone-chillingly cold.
I didn't need to turn to know who. My shadow-like head maid, Estelle.
She leaned in close to my ear, her voice dropping to subzero lows as she whispered, "Young Master. Surely you're not seducing her with such vulgar tactics? Tickling a commoner's professional pride to win her over... I'm almost impressed by your trash-tier ideas."
I let out an incredulous laugh. "Seducing? Who the hell am I seducing! I swear on the heavens, that thought never crossed my mind."
Estelle clutched the hem of her spotless maid apron, her face a mask of disbelief. Beneath her dark blue hair, her eyes trembled with contempt.
"I'd sooner believe a cat guarding a fish shop."
What the hell do you take your master for, Estelle!
But I decided to ignore her scolding for now. What mattered wasn't her piercing glare—it was those sturdy rolls of high-quality white paper stacked neatly over there.
In this unfamiliar medieval Euro-fantasy world, that paper was my lifeline for mass-producing ero-manga.
Even Estelle can see the acting president is thrilled, right?
So, full steam ahead. I flashed Lydia sparkling eyes and nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly, President Lydia. I've handled a pen or two myself, you see, and rough paper snags the nib, ink bleeds everywhere—cuts your workflow in half."
"Ughhh, yes! And the bleeding is so irregular!"
"Spot on! Worlds apart from the crap paper rotting in the Ashy Barony trash bins. This has the perfect texture—like the pen gliding over ice!"
"Ooooh! Considering nib friction coefficients and ink absorption rates!"
"How could I not, with paper this magnificent? Plus, at this density, even filling both sides with drawings won't show through. Tough enough for a rotary press in mass production! Perfection itself!"
"Ahh..."
Suddenly, Lydia stopped. The smile vanished from her face. Her brows furrowed tightly.
What, what'd I do...? Did I hit a nerve? Things were going great—why the face?
Before I could process it.
Plip. Plip.
Something dripped onto the table. Tears from Lydia's eyes.
"W-why are you crying all of a sudden?"
"Sniff, sob. It's just... moving. For the scion of an art-renowned house to appreciate my work so perfectly."
Oh, right—the Ashy Barony might be penniless, but we're lore-wise experts in the arts. The poverty overshadowed it.
Thanks for the family rep boost.
I slid over to her side, gently patting her shoulder. "Not every effort gets rewarded, but great ones do. You've done truly outstanding work, Miss Lydia."
"Young Master Ashy!!"
She threw herself into my arms. I stroked her back. Even reunited long-lost family probably wouldn't cling this tight.
I grinned, oblivious to Estelle's face freezing over like a polar blizzard as she watched us.
Truly, utterly hopeless trash.
Estelle suppressed the boiling rage inside, clenching her gloved hands tightly.
The scene before her was beyond spectacle—a outright disaster.
Ian Ashy, the family's second son and glorified freeloader, was now hugging the acting president of some podunk newspaper he'd just met, grinning like an idiot.
Moments ago, he'd haggled for scraps at rock-bottom prices with the world's saddest puppy-dog eyes, claiming we were broke. Now? Spouting fluent nonsense about pulp and density, smoothly stealing her soul.
Estelle was certain. This wasn't business—it was seduction.
With me right here, eyes wide open, and he tries to flirt with another woman?
Absurd, demonic nobility bullshit. An inexplicable irritation stabbed her chest like needles.
Then she remembered that shocking bundle of papers from the young master's trash bin while cleaning his room. Vivid, fluid sketches of a maid in an outfit identical to hers—clothes disheveled, legs twisting around some invisible hand, face flushed in ecstasy.
No dialogue, but even an idiot could grasp the meaning.
A vulgar, depraved maid, violated by a lecherous noble yet looking like she loved it—aroused expression and all.
It was the worst kind of demonic scene, but Estelle could've overlooked it. After all, anyone could see the maid was her and the master.
But now...
He's hopeless trash after all.
She ground her teeth in secret.
There was still hope, though. That sketch was peak male fantasy. No normal woman would enjoy such violent, oppressive treatment!
A clueless moron with zero grasp of delicate female hearts—a fool, idiot, total perv!
That's why he'd never had a proper girlfriend, always barricading in his room scratching away at something. He even ignored the blatant affection from his childhood friend lady who visited with wagging-tail smiles.
Estelle firmly believed it stemmed from his shattered understanding of real women.
Honestly, she secretly felt relieved by his pathetic idiocy.
Only a patient, capable maid like me could handle such irredeemable trash for life.
That was her consolation as she silently guarded the Ashy Barony—unpaid wages be damned, even if we'd be homeless tomorrow.
Maybe it was her petty sense of superiority, her possessiveness amid harsh reality.
But.
"Hahaha! Compared to your artisan spirit, President Lydia, my eye is just scratching the surface!"
"Nonsense! Young Master Ian, you are the true lord of pulp!"
Why is he so good at seducing her!
The young master was thriving like a fish in water, perfectly capturing her heart.
I thought he was a dense blockhead who didn't get women, but this relaxed finesse—hitting her itch dead-on, effortlessly crumbling her walls—what was that?
"Ughhh...!"
Her solar plexus tightened inexplicably, irritation surging.
That back-alley slang—"pisses me off"—nailed her mood perfectly.
Estelle glared daggers at the pair's backs with icy eyes, her face hardening like an executioner's with an axe.
Oblivious as ever, the young master didn't notice. That innocent, beaming smile was brighter than even when Amelia served cabbage-water soup for dinner.
That's when it happened.
Lydia, flushed and puffing with emotion, took a deep breath and dropped a bombshell.
"All right! I've decided! For someone like you, Young Master Ian, who truly gets paper's value—I'll gladly help! All the scrap and waste in the warehouse is yours free, and if you need more rolls, dirt-cheap below cost!"
"What?!"
Even Estelle, ever the poker face, muttered in shock, composure cracking.
"R-really?!"
The young master's eyes bulged in disbelief at this impossible miracle.
Top-shelf expensive paper for free and bargain-basement prices? Just for appreciating it?
No way.
She must be bewitched by him. Estelle's lips curled into an arctic sneer.
Her chilling gaze pierced past Ian's back, straight at Lydia.