The Price of Living

For most people, simply existing is a trek, demanding some effort but ultimately navigable.

Yet for Allen de Laval, life itself was the ultimate mission: to defy the fundamental logic of this wretched world.

He was like a mayfly pinned to the specimen board of fate, its wings fluttering with desperate strength, yet unable to escape the glass dome of ‘born at dawn, dead at dusk.’

Within the very source code of ‘Starlight Romance,’ no path existed for Allen to evade his plot-mandated demise.

Why?

Why was he condemned to this ceaseless hell, doomed to experience countless grotesque deaths, forced to atone for the sins of that abominable original host?

He yearned only to be a quiet ‘salted fish,’ to secure a modest income after graduation, to revive his nearly bankrupt family, and to live a quietly decadent noble life, free from widespread hatred. Was that truly an excessive demand?

The world answered him with a ceaseless parade of bloody deaths: ‘Indeed, it is a most excessive demand.’

When Allen first transmigrated, he clung to a few naive fantasies.

He had indulged in numerous villain-themed stories where, if the antagonist reformed and cultivated good relationships with the original characters, a happy ending invariably followed, didn’t it?

However, this innocent delusion had long since been pulverized into dust by reality.

No one was willing to befriend Allen, the infamous ‘Villainous Young Master.’

Livia’s transformation from a border village maiden into an academy goddess was solely due to her overpowered Star Emblem.

This was an otome world, meticulously crafted around its grand heroine, her protagonist’s aura blinding all in its path.

And Allen de Laval?

He was merely a disposable antagonist, whose ‘character background story’ wasn’t even deemed worthy of detailed exposition.

His sole possessions were the bone-deep experience etched by countless death cycles, the ruthless instincts he had been forced to cultivate, and… a hatred potent enough to incinerate the entire world.

He loathed this world, detested the unfair emblems, and cursed his tragic destiny of repeated deaths.

He was no longer the transmigrator who once trembled even at the thought of slaughtering a chicken.

To survive, he would commit any act, even if it meant bearing immense sin and staining his hands with blood.

Murder the protagonist?

He had attempted it, only for his scheme to unravel, leading to Livia’s immediate and decisive counter-kill.

Join the Crimson Spiral Cult?

He had done that too, but in his estimation, those anti-human wretches were even more repugnant than Livia herself.

Consequently, he cut a bloody swathe through the cult, ultimately succumbing to the backlash of a false emblem and being reduced to ashes.

He held no right to stand on any moral high ground and condemn Marianne, for at their core, both of them had their souls eternally seared by the flames of revenge, willing to embrace villainy for its sake.

Allen leaned against the yielding pillow, his body still weak from drowning, savoring a rare moment of tranquility, yet his mind raced at an astonishing speed.

Livia’s formidable presence continuously replayed in his thoughts as he meticulously dissected the failure of his last attempt.

Livia’s seemingly impeccable swordsmanship… it was not without its weaknesses, but at that crucial moment, he had been utterly consumed by secret elixirs and blinding rage.

If only… if only he had maintained a cooler head, could he truly have managed to mar that Phoenix Empress’s exquisite face?

Even if he were to perfectly evade every single event, death would still claim him.

Therefore, if he were to initiate a new cycle prematurely, what strategy should he employ to confront the ensuing challenges?

Allen racked his brain, desperately seeking a way to break free from his predicament, when suddenly, his room door burst open with a resounding bang!

A slightly corpulent middle-aged man, clad in a silk robe, practically stumbled into the room, his face a mess of tears and snot, utterly devoid of aristocratic grace.

He lunged towards the bedside like a cannonball, seizing Allen’s hand—

“Oh! Allen! My dearest son! The Lord be praised!” Viscount Bernard de Laval’s voice trembled like a leaf caught in a gale, tears streaming down his face. “You’re finally awake! I thought… I thought I was doomed to lose you just as I lost your mother! If anything were to happen to you again, I… I…”

He choked back his words, utterly unable to speak, simply clutching Allen’s hand with desperate tenacity, as if his son might vanish if he dared to loosen his grip.

Allen’s heart was unexpectedly warmed by his father’s earnest touch.

The original host’s mother had passed away prematurely, and Bernard, likely driven by a profound sense of guilt, had spoiled his son without measure, almost blindly condoning the original host’s egregious misdeeds, which ultimately led to this bitter outcome.

Yet in this world brimming with malevolence, Bernard was the sole individual who truly loved him.

Throughout these innumerable cycles, father and son had always relied on each other.

Ironically, this doting father, who loved his son more than life itself, could not escape the fate of being purged by the Crown Prince and having his family utterly destroyed in the original story.

He and his father were, quite simply, the quintessential example of a ‘doomed pair’ bound by shared fate.

Watching his father, who was weeping like a two-hundred-pound child, Allen felt the chilling anxiety in his heart somewhat diluted by a bittersweet warmth.

He instinctively reached out, gently patting his father’s violently heaving back, his voice uncharacteristically soft: “There, there… Father, I’m fine. Do stop crying. Look, I’m perfectly alright, aren’t I?”

Allen’s comforting words proved remarkably effective, and Bernard’s distraught wailing ceased abruptly.

However, Allen had erred in his approach.

Bernard suddenly looked up, his tear-streaked face instantly etched with bewilderment and profound uncertainty, his gaze sweeping back and forth across Allen’s face like a searchlight.

In the shadowy recess by the door, Marianne, the silent black-haired maid, also displayed a flicker of deep vigilance in her crimson eyes.

The air instantly solidified, the atmosphere so thick with awkwardness one could almost carve out an entire Laval Viscountcy from it.

Allen’s heart sank with a thump.

‘Damn it! I’ve messed up!’

Would the original host, that chaotic devil, ever comfort someone so gently?

Would he ever show such a ‘filial son’ expression to his father?

That scoundrel would only scowl and play mute when he saw his enthusiastic father, or even hurl venomous insults!

It was a complete instinctive reaction just now; he’d utterly forgotten that at this precise moment in time, he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to mend his relationship with his father!

A single drowning incident changes one’s personality entirely?

‘This script is far too artificial!’

In his desperation, Allen’s mind was suddenly illuminated as if by a bolt of lightning!

A forgotten memory fragment from before his transmigration abruptly surfaced—he had been stubbornly trying to unlock the hidden route of ‘Starlight Romance,’ the Church Route!

The Church Route was renowned as the most challenging to access and the most arduous path in the original game.

To enter the Church Route, one first needed to achieve a perfect clear of all endings.

Upon re-entering the game, the starting time would be advanced to before entering the academy, and this timing perfectly matched Allen’s current predicament!

In the original ‘Starlight Romance,’ the Church openly and unequivocally opposed the nobility’s abuse of emblems, a stance naturally at odds with the royals and nobles who leveraged emblems as the bedrock of their legitimate rule.

St. Nora’s Emblem Academy was specifically established by the royal family with the strategic aim of diminishing the Church’s influence.

Entering the academy, therefore, implicitly meant drawing a clear line of demarcation between oneself and the Church.

In past cycles, Allen, who invariably commenced new playthroughs within the academy, had no opportunity to engage with the Church, but now, a completely new option lay before him.

The key to breaking the deadlock was here!

The Church’s stance perfectly aligned with his identity as an ’emblem-less mortal’!

As the old adage goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

If Allen were to join the Church and secure its protection, the tragedy of his death by the Crown Prince’s machinations in the previous cycle would not so readily unfold!

More importantly, the original story remained notoriously secretive about the Church’s mysteries; by joining the Church, he might even uncover the profound truth behind his endless death cycles!

The problem was, Allen was not a believer, so how could he possibly establish contact with the Church?

Allen instantly conceived of a solution.

‘Pretend to be a divine medium!’ Attract the Church’s attention!

This tactic, in this profoundly ignorant era, was absolutely foolproof!

Facing his father’s gaze of suspicion that seemed to bore right through his very skin, Allen instantly embodied a master actor.

He painfully clutched his forehead, his brows deeply furrowed, and at the opportune moment, a look of profound confusion and immense fatigue appeared on his face, his voice perfectly weak and slightly ethereal:

“Father… I… I feel very strange. It’s as if… I had a very, very long dream…”

His eyes were vacant, as if staring into nothingness, “So many lights… golden, warm… yet chillingly cold… After waking, so many things… I can’t remember. My head hurts so much…”

He paused, swallowed with evident difficulty, his eyes taking on a childish bewilderment and a lingering, palpable fear.

“I seem to have… seen… some indescribable sights? Like a divine realm? Or burning constellations? There was a voice… very grand… saying… saying…”

Before he could finish speaking, Allen abruptly grabbed Bernard’s hand, his fingertips turning white from the sheer force, his gaze instantly focused, imbued with the profound piety of one struck by ‘revelation.’

“He said… I should turn over a new leaf! He gave me… a chance at rebirth!”

‘Perfect!’ Allen silently praised himself. ‘Line delivery MAX, emotional progression full marks!’

What was the effect?

Bernard’s look of bewilderment was instantly replaced by a fervent ecstasy, a mix of awe and unbridled joy!

He gripped Allen’s hand even tighter, trembling with excitement: “God… God’s grace?! Yes! It must be so!”

Bernard’s voice quivered, his eyes glowing with an almost worshipful light.

“My child! The Lord has taken pity on this sinner’s ceaseless prayers, night and day! He heard them! He has granted you a chance at rebirth! Delivered you from the… delusions of the past!”

He looked at Allen as if he were a lost-and-found sacred artifact, personally blessed and consecrated by a deity.

‘Hoo hoo hoo! Oh, really? This actually worked?’

His father’s religious piety and desperate desire to save his son were, quite simply, the best possible assists!

Allen subtly glanced at Marianne out of the corner of his eye.

Upon hearing words like ‘turn over a new leaf,’ ‘cleanse impurities,’ and ‘God’s grace,’ especially sensing Viscount Bernard’s fervent religious emotion, Marianne, who had only been cautious moments before, suddenly turned deathly pale.

In her crimson eyes, panic and terror surged like a tide, and her body even swayed imperceptibly.

Marianne’s reaction made Allen sigh silently within; his last sliver of hope for her was extinguished.

‘It seems I really can’t save you, Marianne.’

Once Marianne’s identity as a cultist was exposed to the Church, a fate a hundred times more terrifying than mere death awaited her—

To undergo the most horrific torture and ‘purification’ in the deepest dungeons of the Inquisition.

‘Marianne, what will you do next?’

Allen instantly recalled the opening event of the Church Route, and a complex plan gradually formed in his mind.

“Good! Good! Turn over a new leaf! We’ll start anew! Thank the Lord for His grace!” Bernard, incoherent with excitement, suddenly shouted towards the door, “Butler! Old Jean!”

An elderly man with white hair, impeccably dressed in a starched black wool butler’s uniform, appeared silently like a ghost.

His back was slightly stooped, his face as benevolent as a grandfather’s, yet his eyes were sharp and remarkably clear.

Butler Jean Leclerc bowed silently: “Master, you called?”

His gaze quickly swept over Allen, carrying both genuine concern and subtle scrutiny.

“Tonight! Prepare a family feast! The absolute best! To celebrate Allen’s rebirth! Bring out that bottle from the cellar… that bottle…”

Bernard excitedly waved his arms, as if he were hosting a grand banquet for the king himself.

The old butler stepped forward, leaning close to Bernard’s ear, his voice extremely low, carrying a hint of undeniable worry: “Master, that finest bottle of Southern champagne… was one of the collateral items you mortgaged to Madame Mornay last month for an emergency loan… And,” he paused, his voice even lower, “due to unpaid wages, Mr. Robert the chef… is still on strike. He says… he refuses to set foot in the kitchen until all arrears are settled.”

A flicker of acute embarrassment and profound heartache crossed Bernard’s face; his soaring spirits deflated visibly, like a punctured balloon.

He instinctively glanced at his son on the bed, ‘bathed in divine grace, awaiting rebirth.’

Sensing his father’s gaze, Allen opportunely lowered his eyelids, his long lashes casting shadows on his pale face, making him appear fragile and utterly innocent.

‘My son… he’s so pitiful…’

Viscount Bernard took a sharp breath, as if steeling himself with a do-or-die resolve, then straightened his back, and with a tragic grandeur that implied ‘at worst, the whole family will starve tomorrow,’ waved his hand dismissively:

“Never mind that! At least… at least tonight! My son will have a good meal! Go! Tell Robert that the money… the money will be paid! Immediately! Right now! Allen needs to celebrate his rebirth!”

He practically roared, as if the sheer volume of his voice alone could dispel the ominous, looming clouds of bankruptcy.

Old Butler Jean sighed silently, a hint of helplessness flashing in his eyes, but he still bowed respectfully: “Yes, Master.”

With that, the old butler’s gaze swept over the pale-faced Marianne, and he reminded her:

“Head maid, come with me. We need hands to prepare the dinner.”

Marianne awoke as if from a trance, her body stiff as she followed the old butler out, her steps somewhat unsteady, her head bowed throughout, not daring to look towards the bed again.

Only the father and son remained in the room.

Bernard, still mortified by the earlier embarrassment and the grim reality of his family’s finances, struggled to maintain face. He patted Allen’s shoulder, forcing a smile: “Rest well, my child. We’ll have a proper celebration tonight.”

He turned to slip away, seemingly desperate to deal with the mounting mess.

“Father.”

Allen’s voice came from behind him, calm yet imbued with a resolute strength that settled the heart.

Bernard’s steps halted, and he turned back.

“What is it, my dearest son?”

Allen’s gaze was piercing, and in the depths of his eyes churned the bone-deep suspicion accumulated over countless cycles.

The world’s malice shadowed him relentlessly; he trusted no one but his father, whose fate mirrored his own.

Allen looked directly at his father, speaking in a tone almost cold, like someone meticulously analyzing a script:

“Wait a moment. Before we celebrate… there’s something I must confess to you.”

Bernard saw his son’s unusually serious, even somewhat compassionate gaze, and his heart inexplicably tightened, yet he forced a smile: “Oh, my dearest son, speak your mind if you have any requests! Your old man here…”

He had intended to make a grand promise, but the thought of his empty purse instantly sapped half his confidence.

Allen interrupted him, speaking each word with crystal clarity:

“No requests. I merely wish to inform you that if we do nothing… tonight, or perhaps tomorrow night, but very soon—you, and I, will both die.”