Finally gaining Cinderella’s approval, Lulumia energetically pulled the pile of homework—stacked up like a small mountain—over to her side.
Just as she had said, most of the homework submitted by the students were reflections on using magic, much like the book reports from her middle school days. So even though she only had level 1 magic power, she could still understand them.
After all, Cinderella only occasionally attended classes and couldn’t possibly teach anything substantial. The homework she assigned was naturally just symbolic, a perfunctory task. Reflections like these didn’t require her to expend any effort critiquing them, and the Academy could justify it—pleasing both sides.
It was just hard on the students. Because the one collecting the homework was that uniquely positioned Fourth Princess, the assignments were a rare chance to get close to her. So the students racked their brains to show off in front of the Fourth Princess, only for their painstaking work to be ignored by her.
Wasn’t this a kind of bootlicking?
Lulumia couldn’t help but think as she corrected the homework.
Sometimes she felt Cinderella had really gotten herself a good gig. Watching these adolescent students wrack their brains and do their best to please through flowery words, there was a sense of amusement, like watching monkeys perform at the zoo.
She could almost imagine the students sweating, quoting book after book, all just to coax a smile out of Cinderella.
Yet all the homework landed in her own hands, so the one laughing ended up being herself.
As she thought of these things, Lulumia happily wrote “Read” on the notebooks.
That’s not to say she was perfunctory with every assignment. She made sure to set aside those with rougher handwriting, clearly written by boys, and read them with special attention. Their content often had a different flavor than the girls’.
Especially those with long names, complete with family surnames—their writing was filled with strong flattery and even hints of romance. Students at this age had no sense of boundaries; their words were too direct. Ordinary people would find it cringeworthy—fortunately, Lulumia was no ordinary person. She was a bit of a mental case, and reading others’ love letters only made her snicker inside.
Sometimes the atmosphere became so intense that even the Fourth Princess could sense the sickly aura Lulumia was giving off. She’d frown and glance over.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I remembered something that made me happy,” Lulumia replied, dead serious.
“What happy thing?”
My wife had a baby.
Lulumia answered cheekily in her mind, though she kept her face solemn.
“It’s just a small matter, Your Highness wouldn’t be interested.”
“Just get on with your work, and focus,” Cinderella admonished, returning to her book. Lulumia quickly composed herself, thinking she was getting a bit carried away. She put aside the boys’ reflection essays expressing affection for Cinderella, and casually asked, as if by accident.
“What should I do with these assignments that greet you? Some say your eyes are as pure and beautiful as the moon, your lips like flower petals…”
“Tell them to shut up,” Cinderella said, her tone full of disgust. She wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the homework the students handed in, and she knew exactly what Lulumia was referring to.
“Uh… should I just write ‘shut up’ directly? Won’t that cause trouble?” Lulumia pretended to hesitate.
“They’re just a bunch of idiots. If they have the guts, let them show those stacks of trash to anyone else,” Cinderella said coldly.
“Oh,” Lulumia nodded innocently, though inwardly she was elated. What a golden opportunity to mess with them—she wasn’t about to let it go.
So, instead of simply writing “Read,” she gleefully wrote at the end of these assignments: “If you write this kind of nonsense again, I’ll call your parents.” After all, they wouldn’t dare bring their homework to question the Fourth Princess—more likely, they’d just blame themselves for doing something wrong, brooding in their dorms for ages, savoring the pain of heartbreak over and over.
Lulumia: Hehe.
And then.
[Title acquired: “Youth Crusher”]
[Virtue Value: 17↓ (decreased by 2, shattered adolescent boys’ beautiful dreams)]
What the—?!
Lulumia’s smile froze instantly.
Lulumia: Not hehe.
She didn’t dare anymore.
Her entire vibe became serious in a flash—she was now even more focused than Cinderella reading a book, sitting upright, transformed into a merciless “Read” machine.
Though she was curious what would happen if her Virtue Value hit zero, she really didn’t dare risk her life to find out.
With so many assignments piled together, it was impossible to tell which belonged to which class, so Lulumia picked up another task: sorting homework by class. This was a headache for her, and she finally got a list of class members from the administrator, then matched the assignments accordingly.
After over an hour, Lulumia finally found Lige’s assignment. Seizing the chance, she quietly wrote words of encouragement on it. She had thought her panel would react again, but nothing happened, which made her quietly breathe a sigh of relief. It seemed that level of editing wasn’t enough to affect her Virtue Value.
Just as Lulumia was contemplating her status panel, several more students approached with assignments. They were class representatives from various classes, banding together for courage. At the front was a rather plain-looking girl with two braided pigtails, nervously presenting her homework. With Cinderella’s impatient aura at being interrupted, the girl even spoke with a trembling voice.
“F-Fourth Princess, this is from a while ago…”
“Take it back,” Cinderella replied.
“Uh…”
The girl froze in place, not knowing what to do.
Lulumia recognized this girl—she’d been rejected by Cinderella just yesterday. After a moment’s thought, Lulumia pressed her fist lightly to her lips, cleared her throat, and stood up.
“Leave it to me, and the rest as well. Just put all your assignments here. Don’t disturb Her Highness while she’s reading from now on.”
“O-Okay!”
The plain girl was instantly relieved, not looking down on the young Lulumia at all—in fact, she was so moved she nearly burst into tears. She excitedly put the homework in front of Lulumia, then, realizing that wasn’t polite enough, respectfully lifted the stack and handed it to Lulumia with both hands.
The other students—some looking fifteen or sixteen, others even twenty—also breathed a sigh of relief and nodded gratefully to Lulumia. At Saint Istrel Academy, classes were assigned by magical proficiency, not age, so it wasn’t uncommon for twenty-year-olds and fifteen-year-olds to be in the same class.
After handing over all the homework, the students quickly left as if fleeing.
The library fell quiet again. Lulumia opened the notebooks, the quill dipped in ink making a faint scratching sound on the paper. On the entire third floor, only motes of dust floated in the sunlight.
“What exactly are you trying to do?”
Suddenly, Cinderella asked. She set down her pen and paper, her eyes blazing as she stared at Lulumia, who seemed to be idling around. She hadn’t said anything these past few days, but Cinderella was well aware that Lulumia had something to ask of her. Lulumia possessed a cunning far beyond her years—just look at those who came to turn in homework; who else had a skin as thick as Lulumia’s?
The opportunity had finally arrived.
Sensing Cinderella’s seriousness, Lulumia was overjoyed. She set the homework aside and chuckled.
“There’s something I’d like Your Highness’s help with…” Seeing Cinderella’s face darken, Lulumia quickly explained, “It’s not about asking for leniency with deadlines—I actually want to borrow some money from you.”
“Borrow money?”
The irritation faded from Cinderella’s brow. She crossed her arms, looking Lulumia up and down with interest. No matter how she looked at it, this Lulumia wasn’t the same person as the one who’d borrowed money from her before.
Her tone became more languid and arrogant.
“Why? If you can give me a convincing reason, I’ll lend it to you.”
Come on, this isn’t how you talked to the original Lulumia when she borrowed money from you.
Lulumia grumbled inwardly, but she’d prepared for this and knew it wouldn’t be easy.
“I want to create something unprecedented. With its help, a person could become a national star overnight or effortlessly crush their political rivals.”
“Oh?”
Cinderella’s eyelids twitched. What she didn’t know was that Lulumia had her eyes on Cinderella’s “Neglected Heir” title in her status panel. Though born a crown princess, she’d been relegated to the role of envoy—her low priority in the succession was obvious.
Lulumia produced her carefully crafted pitch.
“I want to make something called a newspaper. It’s a medium that lowers the barrier for people to get information, broadcasting all the big and small news in the city.”
“In simple terms, it collects information from around town, from monster sightings to lost kittens and puppies, from smugglers being captured to the rise and fall of noble families, to new workshops opening and jobs being posted. After verifying and compiling this information, we print it on paper using a printing press and then sell it. That’s what a newspaper is.”
“The printing press is much more efficient than copying by hand, so you can quickly produce large quantities. Since the focus is on timely and entertaining news, even if the quality isn’t as polished as a bound book, there’s still a market for it.”
“The most important part is: the content is entirely up to us. People do good and bad things, and every event has both a positive and negative side. If we control the narrative, we can choose what to report. If we want someone to be a hero, we focus on their good deeds. If we want them to be a villain, no amount of explanation will clear their name.”
Cinderella listened intently, so Lulumia continued. But before she could go on, Cinderella raised a hand to stop her.
Even for her, Lulumia’s proposal was hard to grasp. What river? What selective reporting? Just as nobody could imagine what a printing press looked like before seeing one, it was hard to understand without a real example.
“Do you have a concrete example?”
“Yes,” Lulumia answered confidently.
“Take those students from earlier. If I want to praise them, I could write: ‘So-and-so sacrificed their free time to consult with the Fourth Princess, demonstrating a spirit of diligence worthy of emulation.’ If I want to mock them, I could write: ‘So-and-so was so lazy they went to the library to disturb the Fourth Princess while she was studying magic and got thrown out.’”
“That’s what selective reporting means. Once you master this, you can turn anyone into a laughingstock. People love that kind of juicy gossip.”
“Hm…”
This time, Cinderella understood. She gave Lulumia an astonished look, increasingly surprised at her transformation. This kind of “Spring and Autumn Annals” technique was nothing short of “magic” for this era.
Lulumia saw the reaction and mentally took note.
Heh, little sister, the wonders of journalism don’t stop here—you’ve got a lot more to learn.
She whistled inwardly.
“If you increase positive coverage of Your Highness, your reputation will greatly improve. Once you take this technology back to the Seran Empire, it’ll definitely bring you considerable returns.”
But Cinderella wasn’t as easy to fool as Lulumia hoped. Her deep red eyes flashed with thought, and after a moment, she raised an obvious question.
“‘People love juicy gossip’—so you plan to sell these newspapers to commoners? They’re illiterate; they wouldn’t spend money on it. If you sell to nobles, you’ll offend too many people for it to ever scale up.”
“There’s a solution for that too.”
A sly cat’s smile curled at the corners of Lulumia’s mouth.
The earliest newspapers also faced the problem of low literacy rates among the populace. How did they solve it? She could simply copy their approach.
The predecessors plant the tree, the successors rest in its shade.
So refreshing.
Lulumia couldn’t help but sigh.