The Villainess Marguerite
"What in the world have you been doing? You couldn't even hold on to the prince's heart, and now I've heard these ridiculous rumors flying around. They say you're some villainess tormenting the Saintess! What exactly have you been up to?"
Nothing.
She had done nothing at all.
It was all lies the Saintess had spread.
But such excuses would never work on this father of hers.
Marguerite remained silent, listening as her father's harsh voice echoed through the room.
His mood had already been foul lately, thanks to Prince Alf spending so much time with the Saintess. Following the Saintess around was supposedly the king's command, yet his behavior these days felt suspicious. The way he looked at her, the expression in his eyes—it was far from ordinary. Whispers had already begun circulating, and as if to prove the rumors true, several of his meetings with Marguerite had been canceled.
There had been times before when urgent matters kept him away, but he had always sent a handwritten card and a gift. This time was similar, yet subtly different. The card was written in his own hand, but it was brief, and the gift felt as though his attendant had chosen it. Every token the prince sent Marguerite passed under her father's watchful eye. He had been the first to notice that the prince's affection was no longer what it once was.
I don't need that kind of love anyway.
She hated the prince. She hated the king. She hated the entire royal family.
Marguerite despised this engagement more than anything.
Her father's angry tirade continued without pause. Marguerite simply lowered her head in silence, offering no excuses. It was best to look repentant and endure quietly. That way, it would end sooner. As the prince's fiancée, he would never strike her, but once the Marquis began scolding, he could rant for hours.
Well, this man isn't my real father anyway.
Marguerite kept a faintly remorseful expression on her face while letting his words flow in one ear and out the other. It was the same speech every time, and he never asked for her opinion. All she needed to do at the end was say, "Yes, yes, I'm sorry."
Staring at the Marquis's polished shoes, her mind wandered to something entirely unrelated.
My real father's shoes were always caked with mud or pig dung.
Marguerite's true father was a poor baron. From dawn until dusk, her father, mother, and brothers—and even Marguerite herself—had worked the fields and tended livestock like ordinary farmers. Though they were nobles in name and kept a few servants, those servants spent more time farming and maintaining the waterways than anything else. The impoverished peasants living on the impoverished lord's land came to work his fields once a week, and her younger siblings played with the common children while feeding the animals. Because both lord and tenants were poor, they helped one another, and their relationship was warm.
The bond within Marguerite's family had been especially close. Perhaps it was because they were poor. In the bitter winter, they all slept together for warmth, and her parents had pitied their children for having to labor like peasants instead of entering high society. Had they been wealthy high-ranking nobles like this family, they would never have thought that way.
Because her parents had been that way, their children had spared no effort for them in return.
She had loved them.
Back then, even in poverty, Marguerite's life had been happy.
That happiness shattered the moment it became known that she could summon a few spirits. Within a limited range, Marguerite could make it rain. Her magic lingered in the droplets, occasionally drawing spirits that liked the feel of it. She had used her ability freely for the sake of their territory. The only reason their poor land had remained livable was because Marguerite had called a handful of spirits to it.
The royal family had taken notice. The daughter of a poor baron was chosen as the prince's fiancée. Because her status did not match, she was forcibly adopted into a high-ranking noble household. Her close-knit family could now barely see her, and on the rare occasions they did, they were forbidden to speak with her. Nobles were divided by invisible layers. Even at banquets, high-ranking nobles gathered only among themselves. Her father stayed away, fearing he would only bring her harm, and she never approached him, afraid of making his position awkward. Perhaps after she left, the spirits stopped visiting their land, and their situation had grown difficult. The royal family had promised support, but whether that promise was ever kept, she did not know. She had tried to find out once, but it had been impossible. The Marquis blocked all information to keep her under his control. The maids around her watched her every hour of the day.
"Don't make the things our family has done for you go to waste. Do you understand?"
The Marquis's voice rang out irritably.
You didn't do anything for me. You did it all for your own family.
She thought it, but kept her head bowed with a repentant expression.
"Yes, Father. I'm sorry."
This was probably the most human expression Marguerite ever wore. Unlike when she lived with the baron, she had made it a point to remain expressionless ever since coming here. It was her small rebellion against the royal family and the Marquis household.
Why would I ever show any of you my smiles or my tears?
No one noticed her quiet defiance, but that did not matter. This was her war alone.
"Win the prince's heart. If anyone can do it, you can. He liked you very much until now."
"Yes, Father."
It seemed nearly over. She had already been standing for more than two hours. She hoped he would finish soon. High-heeled shoes ruined one's toes. Her feet ached. Marguerite endured the remaining ten minutes of scolding by picturing the baron's worn shoes over the Marquis's polished ones.
If only someone would shut this man's mouth.
Just as she answered one final time that she understood and turned to leave, the Marquis called her back.
"Marguerite."
When she looked over her shoulder, the corner of his mouth curled upward slightly.
This was not good. That expression never meant anything good. Marguerite's guard shot up.
"It has been decided that the second son of Baron Kono will be appointed to a position in the royal palace."
"...."
Her second brother was to become an official.
Marguerite's chest swelled with emotion. Her second brother had always been clever, and he had always been kind to her. He was the sibling she got along with best. Calling rain was not difficult, but pouring her magic into it was exhausting. It drained her body. Her father had known this and strictly forbade her from overusing her power. Twice a month—that had been the limit he set for young Marguerite. But she had always wanted to help her family. Her second brother had listened to her wish and researched with her how far she could go without harming herself. Knowing their father would never allow it, the two of them often slipped out of the house in secret. After she called the rain and summoned spirits until her strength gave out, he would carry her home on his back, taking the long way around. With wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, he would smile and say, "I'm proud of you."
Her second brother was a capable man. She had always known he would achieve something great. And now he had become a royal official, a position so difficult to obtain.
Joy filled her heart to the brim. She tried not to let it show on her face, but the Marquis had noticed. His eyes narrowed.
"If you fail to win the prince's heart properly, if you allow or ignore him clinging to the Saintess—"
The Marquis's lips twisted into an ugly smile.
"Then the second son of the baron will never become a royal official. The appointment will be canceled."
It was a threat. He would pull strings from behind the scenes.
Marguerite clenched her fists. Her nails dug into her palms. The pain was the only thing keeping her from being consumed by rage. She forced the corners of her lips upward into a doll-like smile and bowed her head.
"I will keep that in mind, Father."
Drop dead, you wretched Marquis.
Marguerite offered a polite bow and left the room.
Ah, if only someone would crush this marquis household and the royal family beneath pig's hooves until nothing remained.
If someone would do that for her, she felt she would gladly sell even her soul.
The foundation of the village hall was nearly complete. Logs thirty to forty centimeters in diameter had been used as they were, with only their surfaces lightly trimmed. The village men worked on the construction for about half a day each day. Without a crane, she had thought such a building would be impossible to raise, but the men of this world were remarkable. They had built a massive ladder-like contraption and hoisted the enormous logs with it. When they matched their voices, even bare hands could lift the timber with ease. No one here possessed the bulging muscles seen in Earth's gyms, yet the strength hidden in their lean frames was astonishingly powerful.
Come to think of it, my own muscles seem to be developing differently lately.
Without thinking, Jin-woo raised his arm and flexed. Black Pudding leaped up with a soft bounce. He had assumed Pudding moved like an amoeba, but it turned out the slime could jump quite well—especially upward. It was almost like a rabbit. Pudding wrapped its slippery body around his bicep, swallowed it, and chewed thoughtfully for a moment before spitting it back out, just as it always did. Then it wiggled over to his shoulder, took another small bite, and spat that out too.
Hey, if it tastes bad, just don't eat it.
"...."
Standing there with his arm flexed while a slime nibbled on him felt strangely undignified. Jin-woo quietly lowered his arm. Pudding circled his neck as if trying to eat it, then slowly crawled up onto his head. It was a little annoying, but if he put it down, it would just jump back up again. It was easier to ignore the creature and get on with his work. Eventually it would get tired of nibbling his hair and jump off on its own.
Jin-woo went back to sorting stones and breaking up the soil with his hoe. When a rock larger than his head appeared, he left it in place and worked around it. He had learned by now that such stones were usually embedded even deeper. The villagers would come by later to dig them out together. Pudding, which had been nibbling and spitting out his hair, suddenly jumped down. It slithered across the ground like an amoeba until part of its body extended into a tentacle-like appendage and swallowed a bug. The insect struggled briefly before going still, and Pudding tucked its new prey away inside its body. After some time, the bug grew slightly thinner, and a fluid resembling bodily juices seeped out. Pudding spat the insect back out. Its shape remained intact, but when Jin-woo touched it, it crumbled like dry leaves. It felt hollow inside. It seemed Pudding absorbed all the contents of small insects it ate.
When he lifted Pudding, he could see the secretions floating inside its translucent body. The fluid from the bug slowly changed shape. Popcorn flew over and watched it with him.
"Pipipi."
When Popcorn poked the soft surface, Pudding flinched sideways. It seemed Pudding disliked Popcorn. When Popcorn poked it again, Pudding spat the transformed bug secretions outward like a skunk releasing gas. The secretions had become a dark, ash-like powder. They crumbled at the slightest touch. Popcorn happily gathered the powder in its arms and flew off toward the small field where Jin-woo had sown seeds, scattering it there.
Maybe the secretions Pudding produces are good for the crops.
Given how eagerly Popcorn was spreading them, it might be true. Whether it was his imagination or not, the soil where Pudding's waste had landed seemed to gleam faintly. At the very least, it could not be harmful. Whatever it was, it would probably help the land. After all, it came from a spirit.
With that thought, Jin-woo swung his hoe once more. Looking out over the vast expanse of land, he could not help but sigh at the thought of how long it would take to turn it all into fields.