Chapter 124 - Your Role ◈
"Catch them!"
"Don't let them escape!"
"Clarice, over here—hurry!"
"M-Mother!"
The kingdom's soldiers swarmed the Estrie Marquisate. They had been dispatched by the king's direct order to punish the house of Estrie.
The Estrie family had stood since the kingdom's founding in its earliest days. But their glory was not eternal. The current marquis's conduct had crossed lines even the royal family could no longer ignore.
It wasn't the brutal punishments inflicted on the servants. Nor the merciless extraction of taxes from the common folk.
The real crimes were the rampant bribery and black-market dealings that knew no bounds. Worst of all, leaking state secrets to foreign powers for profit. That was the spark that ignited the king's fury.
They believed their marquisate status made them untouchable—a noble lineage unbroken since the kingdom's birth, steeped in honor. But the marquis's reckless greed, blinded by pride, had sealed their fate.
The marquis was captured amid the invading soldiers. Clarice and her mother barely slipped away from the kingdom's grasp.
The marchioness pulled every string she had, evading the investigation just long enough to reach Sliem and hide their identities.
But survival didn't mean their lives weren't already in ruins. The guilty marquis was swiftly executed, and the Estrie lands reverted to the crown.
The family's private guards were rounded up too, but none faced the axe. The marquis had outsourced the dirty work—smuggling, bribes—to professional criminals, using his guards only for training and show. Raping maids was a trifling matter to nobles and royals alike. So the guards, spared punishment, leveraged their skills: some joined other noble houses, the elite even the royal army.
Clarice and her mother, having fled with whatever jewels they could grab, sold them for a modest hovel and scraped by.
To reassure her daughter—and herself—the marchioness always told Clarice:
"It'll be okay, dear. Father will come rescue us. He won't leave us in this filthy, squalid place. Right, Clarice?"
"Y-Yes, Mother…."
Clarice wore the clothes of Kanmea, the maid she'd once ordered around. No need to buy new—aside from undergarments, her wardrobe was all castoffs in Kanmea's style.
But the marchioness changed outfits weekly.
"We must always have pretty dresses ready for Lord Boilon's return! Isn't that right, Clarice?"
"Yes, Mother…."
To the tomboyish Clarice, her mother's state seemed off. She'd mutter to herself mid-conversation, scream denials in the night, hypnotizing herself before Clarice that the marquis would soon arrive.
But even those days ended.
"Extra! Extra! The infamous Marquis Estrie—executed!"
"That scum finally…!"
"Justice prevails after all."
"Serves him right!"
Most folks cheered the marquis's death with genuine glee.
But not her.
"Lies! No, no! It can't be! Lord Boilon! LORD BOILON! Aaaah! AAAAAAHHH!!"
Hearing the execution news, the marchioness clawed at her hair, rejecting the truth flooding her ears.
"Mother! No, Mother!"
"Aaaah, Lord Boilon! LORD BOILOOON!!"
Confronted by the reality she'd denied, the marchioness snapped. She barely ate, wasting away in madness.
"Lord Boilon…."
In the end, she breathed her last whispering his name, ignoring Clarice who'd stayed by her side.
"No! Mother! MOTHER!!"
Her final days were steeped in insanity—smashing furniture, denying reality, ranting curses even at Clarice.
Yet before the news broke, she'd doted on her daughter. So Clarice grieved her mother's death.
Losing her last family shattered her. It felt unreal; she couldn't even bury the body.
Days later, the stench drew neighbors' complaints. The corpse was collected.
"This is rough."
"Let's bury her quick."
"No! Not Mother! Don't take her! Noooo! MOMMY!! Let go! Let her go!"
"Hey, miss, calm down! Your mom's already dead!"
"She's not! Liar! She's right there! Mother! MOMMY!!"
Clarice thrashed, but burly corpse-handlers overpowered her.
The marchioness was disposed of, buried in the backyard hovel's yard under a crude, nameless stone—aliases only, identities hidden.
"M-Mother…."
Clarice lived like the walking dead. No income, just dwindling savings.
But those ran dry fast—the marchioness's weekly dress splurges had drained them. Three months after her death.
Born noble, Clarice had etiquette and basic life magic. But deploying it for work? Unthinkable pride.
Had they started broke, the marchioness might've suggested odd jobs with magic. But with funds for two, and her descent into madness post-news, no guidance came.
Pride intact, Clarice never dreamed of serving another.
So.
"Ugh… haa…."
Moneyless, she clutched her starving gut, wandering streets.
So… hungry….
She craved food, relief from the gnawing void. But solutions eluded her. Working for someone? Not an option. Begging? Beneath a marquis's daughter.
Then.
"Oh…."
Gazing down in hunger, her eyes caught a grimy coin pouch on the ground.
Money….
Clarice stared. Not a fortune by her standards.
But enough for a week's meals.
If I just had this… Ah, no!
Temptation flickered. Pride crushed it.
The pouch screamed commoner—shabby, no noble or merchant markings. Using it? Stealing from plebs.
H-How could I, honorable Estrie… I…!
She moved to toss it. But her empty stomach roared.
"Ugh…!"
This… this paltry commoner coin means nothing to me…!
Mid-street, vendors' aromas tormented her—skewers, breads everywhere.
"Haa… haa… haa…."
I'm a noble. A noble. I won't touch pleb money… No money…!!!
She wrestled herself. When reason returned.
"*Munch munch*… *gulp*… Mmm… Ah…."
Clarice was devouring vendor skewers bought with the pouch's coins.
Rain on parched earth—hunger's sweet release. Trembling in bliss, she realized.
"I… I…."
A noble… Honorable, great noble… Using pleb money… B-But I was starving! I'd have died! No choice! Self-defense!
She thrashed internally, justifying. Pride versus survival.
Then epiphany.
Why… am I agonizing? Why suffer? J-Just using pleb coins! Right! I'm not bad—it's just! Nay, plebs should feel honored their coin feeds nobility!
Nobles lived on pleb taxes anyway. Picking it up? Natural. No pride lost.
Rationalized. Pride restored, belly full. Rage followed.
Why… must I suffer like this? While plebs stroll carefree? And when Father died, those arrogant scum cheered. Not one mourned. Not one! Unforgivable… Never!
Forgetting their crimes—their lives, the injustices. Clarice burned at plebs' joy in her misery.
She walked on. One skewer barely dented the hunger.
First, fill this gut. Then punish the arrogant plebs! Watch me, Mother! Father! I'll avenge our mockery…!
Vague vengeance brewing—
"Aaaah! Where is it! It fell here! Where! Where the hell?!"
"Eek!?"
A frantic man's voice froze her. She turned.
A shabby man groveled, searching desperately.
"My money! My food cash! D-Damn! Where! WHERE?!"
Sweating bullets, he hunted.
Food cash….
Clarice eyed her shabby pouch. Instinct screamed: his.
"N-Nooo…! My money! Worked today to coast awhile…! Now more toil! Thought I could rest… Damn! Damn! Where… WHERE?!"
Gasping, panicked—pure misery.
Caused by Clarice.
She'd stolen it. Made him suffer.
Realizing from his face.
"Ah… haha… hee hee."
A smile curled her lips.
Serves you… right.
A lifelong thrill, inseparable, swept her body.