Because It's More Fun. (4)
“Hmm. She's asleep.”
Marygold brought the lantern light right up to his face, peering at Lancel's condition. What on earth was she up to? Lancel lay perfectly still, pretending to sleep, just sensing her movements.
Stealing? Nah, no way.
If she had the guts for that, it would've been a relief instead. No sooner had he thought that than Marygold opened Lancel's wardrobe. Her actions screamed petty thief.
……?
A flicker of confusion crossed Lancel's mind when a rustling, busy sound followed right after.
“Ah, ouch!”
Her startled voice made her glance over slyly. Lancel cracked his eyes open into thin slits and looked at Marygold. An unexpected sight greeted him.
Sewing?
She was mending his clothes. Holding the outer jacket torn by a drunkard's knife earlier that day, Marygold diligently stitched the spot with some sewing kit she'd gotten from who-knows-where. All by the dim lantern light.
Imperial Year 816, June 22. Dawn.
Marygold mends a young noble's clothes so as not to shame her mother's name in heaven.
Poise, Morality, Faith, Condition UP!!
“Ow. Hiss.”
Objectively, Marygold's handiwork was still pretty clumsy. Even fixing a single tear took several pricks and bloodstains. But she didn't give up until the end. As if it were her sacred duty, her small hands worked busily until the tear was fully mended.
“Phew.”
Lancel quietly watched Marygold's satisfied face as she sneaked out. Checking the stitching, it was a bit crooked. The seams stuck out so obviously anyone could tell it had been repaired.
Marygold.
Lancel chuckled softly.
The next day, when he wore the same jacket out, the maid's eyes widened.
“Young master, your clothes.”
She spotted the sloppy stitches at a glance. Marygold, apron-clad nearby, blinked innocently and pretended not to notice.
“I'll fix it for you, young master.”
“Nah, it's fine. The casual look suits it better.”
“Still……”
“Drop it. I like it. I'm hungry—get some food going.”
“Right away, sir.”
Marygold scurried off to the communal kitchen with the maid. Lancel checked the jacket's stitching again. In daylight, the crooked marks stood out even more.
“What a mess.”
9.
“Mary. Where've you been? I was worried.”
“Huh? Some others asked for help with laundry, so I……”
“What the hell are you doing? Don't you get it yet? Those folks have nothing to do with our young master. They look down on you and dumped their work—come here quick.”
Over the four months heading to the capital, Lancel's maid faithfully followed “use her however you want.” Wherever they went, she kept Marygold glued to her side, deploying her for cleaning, laundry, cooking—everything.
“No rest for you, Mary. Up you go. Starting today, you're on soup duty. Got it?”
“Yes!”
“Mary! Clean!”
“Y-yes!”
“Mary, what's with these dishes? Total mess.”
“I'm sorry!”
Imperial Year 816, June 30. Evening.
Maid work is this busy?
(Stamina UP! Condition DOWN!)
Hard-won as Marygold was, Lancel had no intention of babying her. She was the protagonist, after all—might as well observe how she survived. In this loop, he planned to watch her life from a safe distance.
“Everyone off. We've arrived in the capital. Thanks for the long journey.”
Four months flew by until they reached the capital. The maid tearfully bid farewell to the now-dear Marygold. Lancel just watched coldly. No more helping from here on.
* * *
“Would an attic room be enough for a kid living alone?”
“What nonsense is this?”
Baron Ivil Shen stared at Lancel blankly over dinner, as if he'd spouted rubbish.
“Just imagine you're a 15-year-old girl, Sir Ivil.”
“Not bad. If those tits were on me, how convenient.”
“Not in that vulgar sense.”
“What else are they good for?”
The servants attending dinner twitched. He went on.
“Hypothetically. Say you suddenly become a poor commoner girl. You've got six silver coins and seven coppers, for reference.”
“Pretty specific hypothesis.”
“How would you survive, Sir Ivil?”
“Hit the tables for a big win. If not, brothel it is—aim for a high-class whore. Live fat off the fools' tribute.”
“Is that all that's in your head?”
Servants nodded sympathetically. Baron Ivil Shen stroked his mustache awkwardly, pondering.
“Living straight? Find a sugar daddy, obviously. Six silvers covers travel but not settling down.”
Sugar daddy. Sounded plausible. Fallen Lady Simulation was, at its core, a dating sim about snagging a marriage partner. Romance fantasy genre, right? Final goal was marrying a prince, as he recalled.
“Say she snares a prince as sugar daddy—what are the odds?”
“Hahahahaha!”
Baron Ivil Shen nearly fell over laughing. A maid dabbed spittle from Lancel's face.
“Best joke I've heard lately, Lancel. Snag a prince? A commoner? Maybe after a million rebirths.”
A million—that's ten million years. A hundred was hell; ten million? Worlds apart.
My sanity'd shatter first.
The baron picked meat from his teeth and continued.
“Look at the girls fawning over princes. All dolled up and gorgeous. Some gutter rat gonna catch their eye? Would you marry one?”
No need to answer. Obviously not. Nobles marrying commoners happened rarely, enduring society's scorn to “taint the bloodline.” Human emotions broke taboos sometimes. But royalty and commoners? Impossible. Shouldn't happen. Unprecedented.
But this game's that game.
A game where you marry a prince as the main ending. Ironically, that's exactly it.
But.
Still.
Like that'll happen?
10.
Fallen Lady Simulation — November Week 2
Mon — Tavern serving part-time.
Tue — Tavern serving part-time.
Wed — Tavern serving part-time.
Thu — Job hunting.
Fri — Job hunting.
Sat — Rest (streets).
Sun — Rest (streets).
※ Pickpocketed by thugs. Inn money all gone. Street life from now on. (Spirit, Stamina DOWN!)
The next day, Lancel nearly spat out his tea at the screen before him.
“Find a decent attic around here and hook her up—without her knowing it's from me.”
“Yes, young master.”
The maid, who'd bonded with Marygold over four months, replied brightly as if waiting for it, then hurried out. Most Marygold updates came through her after that.
“Bought a nice place on the capital outskirts. Attic, but she seems pleased.”
“Good. Got it.”
Or:
“No lodging cash, so savings are piling up. She wants to picnic—thoughts?”
“Go. Plenty to cover for you a day or two.”
“Thank you, young master!”
And:
“Thugs at the tavern tried something shady again—worried, young master.”
“Yeah? Her business. What's it to me?”
“She's young, tavern work's risky……”
“Gotta tough it out in the capital sometimes. Worse ahead.”
Lancel fell silent after. Thugs, huh. He recalled the message from two days ago.
Imperial Year 818, December 21. Dawn.
Marygold had a tiring day today. But she resolves not to hate people.
Marygold knows there are as many good people as bad. She shakes off sadness and anger overnight, watches the dawn sun rise. Her spirit brims with motivation.
Poise, Morality, Faith UP!!
Tavern harassment was endless. Serving booze as a kid didn't fit. In-game, sticking to taverns sometimes led to bad ends.
“Tell Ivil to check stable jobs. Quit the tavern.”
The maid brightened.
“……Yes!”
Most info came from the game system anyway. The maid was Lancel's safety net to stay linked without direct involvement. Did it help? Marygold used his subtle aid to settle in the capital. Later, she even built a small house—who knows from what windfall. Four full years after arriving.
No prince dreams like in-game, but decent life: work, earn, decorate home, eat well, meet folks. Stability settled in.
And ten years passed.
……
Marygold already knew who'd backed her for ten years. Spotting his back on the street, she dashed over, grabbed his arm.
'Why be so kind? Was I worth it? Why not show up? What am I to you?'
'You're nothing to me. Just fun. That's why I helped. Don't sweat it.'
'Still fine. You're all I have. Live with me.'
They married. Marygold felt happy the first few years. But it didn't last. She spent days in sorrow, self-blame.
[Marriage to Young Noble 'Lancel Dante' - fin]
Restart the game?
……
“What the hell is this.”
Lancel Dante doubted his eyes facing the ten-year result. He'd expected lame, but not this. Forcing marriage on someone he'd watched? Absurd ending. He grimaced bitterly.
This wouldn't cut it. So he resolved.
“Nope. Just marry a damn prince.”
To end this endless regression, he'd give her true happiness, no matter what.