The Viscount’s Unease and a Shocking Revelation

In the dining room of the de Laval viscounty, the crystal chandelier cast a warm, yellow glow, illuminating the shimmering silverware on the long dining table, yet it failed to dispel the pervasive, unsettling tension in the air.

Bernard de Laval, the Viscount, sat at the head of the table, his fingers unconsciously tracing the slender stem of his wine glass.

The usually jovial and astute nobleman, who could effortlessly spin a bankruptcy crisis into an amusing business anecdote, now appeared utterly ill at ease.

Unlike his anxiety-ridden father, Allen, freed from the struggle for survival at the academy and the need to deal with an ‘overpowered heroine,’ found himself in exceptionally high spirits, even having the leisure to regale his father with urban legends.

“Father, do you recall the old oak forest east of Saint Nora Academy? Legend has it that ancient heroes left a treasure hidden somewhere nearby…”

As was widely known, urban legends within the game always held a kernel of truth.

Allen, intimately familiar with the original story, knew that the old oak forest indeed concealed a treasure.

However, this treasure was Livia’s exclusive weapon, rendering it unusable by anyone else who might acquire it.

Had the treasure been convertible into currency, Allen would not have endured such impoverished lives in every playthrough.

“Ah? The oak forest? Treasure? Oh, yes, yes, there is such a legend…”

Bernard struggled to force a smile, responding to Allen’s casual chatter, yet fine beads of sweat persistently broke out on his brow, his handkerchief rising and falling with frantic regularity, as if attempting to wipe away an invisible stain.

He repeatedly glanced towards the spot where his loyal old butler usually stood, his absence tonight, for reasons unknown, subtly intensifying Bernard’s inner turmoil.

Marianne Durand, standing sentinel beside the colossal enameled dining cabinet, observed the father and son’s abnormal behavior with keen interest.

As the de Laval family’s head maid, she directed the other servants with precise, efficient movements, yet her gaze, like an invisible thread, remained inextricably fixed upon the two men at the dining table.

‘This is too strange.’

Young Master Allen, that sullen, caustic, and unfilial son who once perceived his father’s affection as an insult, now wore a bright smile, even initiating conversation to ease his father’s palpable tension.

Conversely, Master Bernard, the doting father who always quipped, “Any problem money can solve is no problem at all,” now sat like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

What exactly had transpired? Or rather…

Had they perceived something?

A pebble had been cast into the tranquil lake of Marianne’s heart, its ripples stirring up the settled silt beneath.

“Miss Marianne?” a young maid asked hesitantly, holding a silver platter laden with pan-fried eel. “This dish…”

Marianne snapped back to attention, suppressing the turmoil within her and reclaiming her elegant composure as head maid. “Serve Master Bernard first, in order. Do not drench it in too much sauce; His Lordship has been experiencing some stomach discomfort recently.”

Her voice remained steady, betraying no hint of agitation.

Only she knew the tempest raging within her.

“Marianne Durand, you are fired.”

Allen’s words echoed relentlessly in Marianne’s mind.

This devilish young master claimed he would compensate her and grant her freedom.

Why? Could that so-called ‘divine revelation’ truly be real? Did he genuinely intend to turn over a new leaf?

The thought surfaced only to be immediately crushed by a deeper, more insidious hatred.

Impossible! Countless days and nights of humiliation and degradation, the pain of which had long been etched into her very bones, served as the cold fuel sustaining her existence.

Her hatred for Allen was a vine nourished in darkness, growing over years, its roots tangled and deep—how could a few dismissive words of ‘quits’ sever such an entanglement?

Yet, from the depths of her memory, a pair of eyes surfaced, utterly out of place, at this very moment—

When Marianne had pushed Allen into the icy lake, through the churning, murky water, she had seen not the expected terror or rage in his sinking form, but a serenity bordering on release.

In Allen’s gaze, there had even been a trace of utterly preposterous guilt.

Marianne suddenly realized that this devilish young master had deliberately placed the opportunity for revenge into her hands!

Why?

Why was it *he* who wished to end his life?

As the perpetrator, he intended to depart this world before her?!

That gaze was like a bucket of ice water, instantly dousing the flames of Marianne’s vengeance, leaving behind only profound bewilderment and an overwhelming sense of guilt.

It was that moment of clarity that compelled her to leap into the water, dragging the devil who had tormented her, yet also offered her family a glimmer of hope, back to shore.

Marianne’s fingers unconsciously curled into her palm.

The ‘blessing’ of the Scarlet Spiral Cult lay dormant within her, the power of the false crest like a venomous barb embedded in her flesh.

She had gained power, yet still found herself unable to deliver a fatal blow to the unconscious Allen.

Was it the compassionate gaze of the old butler, who had treated her as his own daughter, that stayed her hand? Or was it his later, thunderous whisper that completely shattered her understanding?

“Child, don’t blame yourself too much… Young Master, he… he privately instructed me to look after you… The wound medicine I brought you, he actually told me to buy it. He said you have younger siblings to support…”

‘Lies!’

‘This must be a benevolent lie fabricated by the old butler to soothe her! How could that demon, who reveled in her suffering, possibly do such a thing?!’

Yet this lie was so clumsy, so utterly meaningless.

Why would the butler tell such a lie? Guilt, like a poisonous vine, coiled around her heart, constricting her until she could barely breathe.

During Allen’s unconsciousness, the stench of blood from the Scarlet Spiral Cult’s underground altar, the soul-rending agony of the false crest’s implantation, the leader’s fervent sermons and seductive whispers… these images relentlessly seared Marianne’s mind.

The moment she pushed Allen into the water… that surging, violent pleasure, which had almost consumed her sanity, had it truly been entirely her own? Or had a fraction of it been… guided and amplified by some unspeakable entity?

So profound was her fall that she had forgotten the girl who, under the starry sky of a border village, had clumsily healed her wounds with newly awakened, faint crest power, and who would spread her arms to shield her from bandits—

She had broken her promise to Livia.

She had plunged into the abyss, her entire being stained with an indelible defilement.

Someone like her… was no longer worthy of seeing the sunlight, much less of being with Livia.

Thus, when Allen awoke, she chose to confess, as if awaiting her final judgment.

She was weary of deceit, weary of hatred, and weary of herself.

After becoming a cultist, death was her only release, and the last barrier protecting her family.

Yet, Allen did not bring her to justice.

He merely intended to dismiss her, even offering ‘compensation for emotional distress.’

She had dreamed of such a scenario countless times, but when this belated ‘mercy’ finally arrived, it inflicted more pain than any punishment could.

If only… if only it could have been sooner… before she had utterly defiled her soul with hatred and the power of an evil god… how wonderful that would have been…

It was too late.

Everything was too late.

She could not turn back.

****

The banquet dishes were far more extravagant than Allen had anticipated.

The honey-mustard eggs were tender and appetizing, the gold-leaf oxtail soup rich and robust, the wild rabbit stewed in red wine was exquisitely tender, and the truffle-stuffed roasted pheasant exuded an intoxicating aroma…

One delicacy after another flowed onto the table, silver platters overlapping, their fragrances swirling and rising in the candlelight.

This lavish display was a stark contrast to the dilapidated de Laval household Allen remembered, where he subsisted by freeloading in the academy食堂 and even his father shamelessly ‘visited’ other families for meals.

Allen knew full well that tonight’s splendor was merely a fleeting resurgence for the declining de Laval family, and he ought to have urged his father to be more frugal.

Yet, the shadow of death constantly loomed over Allen’s heart; life was short, and every day he lived had to be treated as his last.

As the saying went, ‘a prodigal son feels no pain selling his ancestral lands.’ With his father shouldering the burden of bankruptcy, Allen decided he would first excel as a spendthrift before considering the grand endeavor of family revitalization!

Whether he would even survive until then remained uncertain.

When a servant portioned out a particularly aromatic truffle-stuffed roasted pheasant, redolent with various exotic spices, onto his plate, Allen speared a piece and brought it to his mouth.

The earthy fragrance of premium truffles, the succulence of the poultry, and the complex, rich flavors of the spices—the piquancy of pepper, the sweet warmth of cinnamon, the sharp bite of cloves—all merged flawlessly, orchestrating a symphony of luxury on his palate.

Allen sighed contentedly, exclaiming that this was truly the life an antagonist young master ought to lead!

Having freeloaded meals at the academy, Allen had endured countless scornful glances.

To enjoy such a lavish dinner in his own home felt utterly blissful!

However, amidst this contentment, a cold sense of incongruity, like a venomous serpent, subtly coiled around his nerves.

Allen’s suspicious nature flared up once more!

The setting of *Starlight Romance* was a fictionalized medieval European society…

‘There was no Age of Exploration here!’

‘No Vasco da Gama, no Columbus, no world-altering Columbian Exchange!’

So, where had these spices—pepper, cinnamon, cloves—which clearly originated from distant tropical regions and were worth their weight in gold, come from?

Such a large, stable supply of top-tier exotic spices, available even for a viscount’s family banquet despite their precarious finances, could never be the result of mere sporadic expeditions!

Behind this, there had to be a vast, stable, and monopolized trade network.

The game developers were meticulous sadists, capable of devising a thousand ways for Allen de Laval to die.

Could such a ‘bug,’ one that contradicted the fundamental world view, truly be an oversight?

Allen set down his knife and fork, the silverware clinking crisply against the porcelain plate.

He turned to his agitated father, asking with a hint of curiosity:

“Father, tonight’s dishes are truly astonishing, especially the flavors of these spices; they are so complex and memorable.”

He gestured to the lingering sauce on his plate. “It’s just… I’m curious, the kingdom doesn’t seem to produce precious spices like pepper and cinnamon, does it? Where do they come from? Their price must be exorbitant, surely? Given our current circumstances…”

He paused at the opportune moment, the unspoken implication of ‘how can our impoverished family afford this’ hanging heavily in the air.

His son’s question was a lifeline, allowing the anxious Bernard to reclaim his sense of superiority as a ‘well-traveled’ nobleman.

He puffed out his slightly plump belly, a familiar, somewhat boastful smile returning to his face.

“Ah! Spices! These are excellent for showcasing one’s status and taste!”

He began to explain with enthusiasm. “Common herbs like fennel, rosemary, and lavender can be cultivated right here on our own lands.”

“Others, such as nutmeg and ginger, are transported across vast oceans by merchant ships from the warm Grand Duchy in the south, or even more distant Eastern nations. The journey is long, pirates are rampant, and thus their prices naturally soar.”

“As for the most exquisite ones, like the pepper, cinnamon, and cloves you just tasted… these precious treasures are only supplied consistently by the Church!”

The Church?

Allen’s pupils contracted almost imperceptibly as he inquired:

“Do you know where the Church’s valuable spices originate?”

“Exactly where they come from…” Bernard shrugged, making a gesture of profound secrecy, his face filled with reverence. “Only the red-robed dignitaries in the Holy City know that. It is a secret of the Church, a sacred secret! Mortals cannot pry!”

‘A sacred secret?’

Allen’s heart felt as if it had been struck by a heavy hammer, then began to pound wildly!

Clues, like scattered pearls, were instantly strung together by the golden thread named ‘the Church!’

Neither the original *Starlight Romance* nor its lore books offered clear details about the true nature of the world and crests.

Only the cryptic Church storyline vaguely hinted at the tip of the iceberg of the original’s vast world-building.

Allen suddenly thought of the key item to break his predicament!

In the Church storyline, the Inquisition relentlessly pursued Livia, who possessed the Star Crest, across the world, relying on divine artifacts capable of suppressing crest power!

A monopolized spice network, sacred secrets, divine artifacts capable of countering crests… this was hardly just a religious organization!

This was clearly the ultimate hidden power, controlling the world’s core secrets and immense resources!

A wild, tantalizing thought exploded in Allen’s mind, like a flash of lightning in the darkness:

What if… what if he could align himself with the Church, or even acquire a divine artifact capable of suppressing crest power… then Livia von Stern, that darling of heaven with the Star Crest, who had trampled him underfoot countless times, would surely be…

“Pfft…”

Allen quickly lowered his head, feigning a choke on the soup and coughing violently, using the distraction to conceal the villainous, grotesque grin that threatened to split his face to his ears.

‘Hahaha! Livia von Stern! Your doom is at hand!’

‘What perfect heroine, what Star Crest!’

‘Before the double-whammy, dimension-shattering attack of a transmigrator plus a Church artifact, they’re all just paper tigers!’

Allen couldn’t help but fully embody the role of a minor villain.

He began to fantasize about Livia von Stern, immobilized by a Church artifact, the ice on her flawless face finally shattering to reveal expressions of humiliation, shock, and disbelief, while he, with a devilish smirk, elegantly lifted her stubborn chin with the tip of his sword, demanding:

“Tell me, who is the nobody now?”

What a truly delightful scene that would be!

Just as Allen’s mental theater reached its climax, Viscount Bernard, who had been appearing increasingly restless and diligently trying to finish his meal, suddenly slapped his forehead with a sharp ‘pat,’ as if recalling an extremely important, yet forgotten, trifle.

“Oh! That’s right!”

He looked up, a complex expression of relief and lingering dread on his face, at his son, who was still lost in thought. “Speaking of which, son, I almost forgot to tell you. Your fiancée, it seems, is coming to visit you tomorrow.”

The world fell silent.

The faint clinking of cutlery against porcelain, the crackling of firewood in the fireplace, the occasional hoot of an owl outside the window… all sounds seemed instantly stifled by an invisible hand.

Allen’s lingering villainous smile, born of his fantasy, completely froze.

He slowly, excruciatingly stiffly, turned his head to look at his cheap old man.

In those eyes, which moments ago had burned with the fire of revenge, there was now only pure, ice-cold bewilderment.

‘F-fiancée???’

‘What kind of world-level joke is this?!

He, Allen de Laval, the notorious, despised, good-for-nothing scion of the royal capital’s nobility, a disgrace to his family, a future impoverished young master, a mere villain who was publicly executed by the Crown Prince and personally stabbed to death by the heroine at the graduation ball in the last playthrough…

How could he possibly have such a thing as a fiancée?!

His having a fiancée simply did not conform to the underlying logic of *Starlight Romance*’s world!

What kind of suicidal noble daughter would be so ‘defying of heaven’ as to dare leap onto his sinking ship, destined for the abyss of bankruptcy? Did she have a death wish? Or had her family been collectively brainwashed by a cult?

“Huh?!” Allen’s voice suddenly rose, filled with an incredulous sense of absurdity. “Me?! A fiancée?! Father, are you sure you didn’t drink your treasured cheap ale for breakfast milk today? Or are we finally so poor that we need to sell my ‘engagement’ to pay off debts? Which family’s daughter is so… er, discerning, as to dare to get engaged to someone like me?!”

Viscount Bernard, choked by his son’s barrage of questions, flushed red, awkwardly wiping non-existent sweat from his brow.

He offered a sheepish explanation: “Ahem… well, it happened a few days ago. You know, that border count’s family who just moved to the capital.”

A border count?

That sounded familiar. He recalled that the heroine Livia’s father was also a border count.

Allen’s heart sank with a ‘thump,’ an ominous premonition slowly surfacing.

Bernard, oblivious to his son’s instantly pale face, continued speaking. “A border count is technically a high-ranking noble, on par with a marquis, but their roots are in the remote borderlands, and they have no connections or influence in the capital. They’re merely ‘country bumpkins’ bestowed with a title by the royal family, empty of real power.”

“Most nobles in the capital look down on them, thinking them uncultured. So, their family probably wants to quickly find an ally to establish themselves, someone they can mutually support, right? And our family… er, you know our situation… we also need a little ‘help.’”

Bernard vaguely glossed over his family’s impending bankruptcy.

“So you sold me off?” Allen couldn’t help but retort. “You could have told me before you sold me! At least cut me in on the deal!”

“The Border Countess herself came to discuss the marriage alliance. I asked for your opinion!” Bernard tried to defend himself. “That day, you had just returned from a ‘stroll’ in the lower district, and your mood seemed quite good, didn’t it? I told you the Border Count’s family wanted a marriage alliance and asked for your opinion. You said, ‘Oh, whatever, any sane girl who actually meets a scoundrel like me would pack up a carriage and flee overnight anyway, so just get engaged, I’ll at least get some gifts.’… I saw you agreed quite readily, so… so I accepted the Border Countess’s proposal.”

Allen’s mind felt as if it had been struck by a heavy hammer! The fragmented memories of the original owner instantly surged forth—it was true!

This engagement did exist, but just as the original owner had anticipated, it had come to nothing for various reasons, and his so-called fiancée had never appeared. Naturally, this matter had never entered his ‘death loop radar.’

Since the fiancée’s visit had never occurred in Allen’s countless loops, there was no reason for it to be triggered in this playthrough, was there?

The timeline had already shifted, and Allen couldn’t predict what would happen next.

But he knew that things were definitely not that simple!

Would this world, so filled with malice towards him, grant him even a shred of happiness?

Death, disguised as his fiancée, was surely coming to claim him!

Allen felt a chill shoot from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white from the force, his voice carrying a tremor he didn’t even notice:

“Wait… wait! Father, what is the Border Count’s daughter’s name?”

Bernard frowned, trying to recall her name. “Hmm… I think it was… Livia? Yes, Livia von Stern. I heard she’s quite a talented girl? But she’s from the countryside; how remarkable could she truly be…”

“Pfft—!!!”

Allen felt as if he had been struck by an invisible bolt of lightning, freezing in his seat, his eyes wide, his face drained of color, leaving only an extreme shock and utter absurdity, as if he had been struck by divine wrath!

‘Livia von Stern?!’

‘His… fiancée???’

‘The goddess of death who had personally nailed him to the floor in the last playthrough???’

‘The overpowered heroine he had just been fantasizing about crushing a hundred times over with a Church artifact in his mental theater???”

‘Damn it! What kind of joke is this, aaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!’