Lulumia standing before her was not dressed in that conservative church gown, but had instead changed into the outfit Tilan had specially bought for her—Tilan had prepared many outfits, but this one, with a round-topped straw hat, a white dress, and open-toed sandals that revealed her delicate ankles and dainty toes, was a fresh ensemble Lulumia had picked out herself from all the elaborate dresses.
At the time, Tilan wondered what was so attractive about this outfit—it simply looked like something a village girl from the countryside would wear, and she even thought Lulumia might be strapped for cash and chose such a plain set only to save money.
But when Lulumia put it on, hands resting lightly on the brim of her straw hat, turning back to her with a sweet smile, she realized that the one in poverty was herself.
Lulumia’s pure and innocent air, untouched by the world, made her, already tainted by the dust of mundane life, realize just how filthy and spiritually barren she truly was.
In comparison, Lulumia seemed utterly transcendent, a transparent and dazzling angel who had stepped out from the noisy world.
But truth be told, Lulumia did choose this cheap-looking outfit simply because she had no money. Who else would pick summer clothes in the chilly depths of autumn? Only someone broke and still wanting to shop would do something so foolish.
If not for the fireplace in Tilan’s house, she wouldn’t be caught dead in something this thin that could freeze a person solid.
After gazing in infatuation for a while, Tilan’s attention fell to Lulumia’s healthy thighs under the table. At her strong urging, Lulumia had broken the rule that beach sandals must be worn barefoot and changed into sheer white over-the-knee socks. Watching the patch of fair skin between sock edge and dress hem, Tilan couldn’t resist hooking her finger under the sock and letting it go with a “snap.”
“Snap.”
Lulumia jolted, shooting Tilan a reproachful look, “What are you doing?”
“I was wondering if you’re cold? Isn’t it chilly out? Why not put on a cloak?”
“I’m not cold.”
Lulumia knew perfectly well what cloak Tilan meant—that hooded cloak, the one with mink fur trim in red. No need to ask; it was definitely expensive.
But if she refused outright, she’d seem too insensitive, and she had to act a bit like the original host, but not quite the same. So Lulumia blinked, an idea flashing through her mind.
Suddenly, she tilted her head, leaning right onto Tilan’s shoulder, then tugged one end of Tilan’s shawl over her own shoulder, sharing the shawl between them.
Her shoulder instantly felt much warmer, carrying a faint scent of Tilan’s lilacs.
She curled her lips into a playful smile, “Now I’m not cold.”
“Uh…”
Tilan froze for a second—this was the first time Lulumia had ever taken the initiative. Usually, when she was with Lulumia, Lulumia was just a clueless fool, and Tilan had to guide her every step like an older sister playing with a child. Sometimes Lulumia was even rather rebellious, but never had she ever acted this coquettish toward her.
Now, though she was still like a child, she gave off a completely different feeling…
“Tilan is so warm.” Lulumia added softly.
“Warm… warm, you say…”
“Of course it’s warm.”
“That’s good then.”
Tilan’s heart thudded wildly. She actually hesitated for a moment, before, after quite a while, slowly and awkwardly reaching out her right hand to tentatively embrace Lulumia’s shoulder, pulling her closer.
She was especially nervous, holding her breath, afraid Lulumia might squirm away, but Lulumia didn’t react at all. Instead, she simply turned back to her book as if nothing had changed in the atmosphere, and even hummed a tune to herself.
Tilan was taken aback and couldn’t help but deflate.
In the end, she’s still a fool.
What am I even thinking?
She’s making me foolish too.
Her shoulders slumped and Tilan gave a silent, bitter laugh.
And so she let Lulumia snuggle close to her shoulder, one of them reading quietly while the other listened to the crackling of firewood in the fireplace.
Not long after, the servant who had gone out to buy oil returned. Lulumia, just like a cat who heard the dinner bell, bounced up, tossing aside the World History she had just been reading, and borrowed an Old Oil Lamp from the servant in the house to start tinkering.
“What are you doing?” Tilan asked curiously. Usually, Lulumia only got so absorbed when she saw something really interesting.
“Making ink.”
“Ink? Or paint? We have both at home.”
“Ordinary ink won’t do. I need oil-based ink.” Lulumia, removing the lamp’s glass shade, explained patiently, “Normal ink doesn’t stick to Press Type easily; it has to be oil-based ink.”
“Oh…”
Tilan didn’t understand, but didn’t interrupt her either. Lulumia had explained the newspaper’s purpose to her at the shop in detail. As the daughter of a merchant, Tilan could already see how much this thing called a newspaper would disrupt current business models once it launched.
Even if she didn’t want to see Lulumia making money, it was still better than the Fourth Princess tearing her apart. Five thousand gold coins was far, far beyond her own means.
So Lulumia was given her own undisturbed time to focus.
Oil-based ink meant an adhesive, viscous kind of ink. The success of Gutenberg’s printing press wasn’t just about building the machine, but also improving the ink and Press Type. All three, combined as a system, brought about the printing revolution.
Now, Lulumia had already solved the printing press, the metal Press Type was in the works, and only the ink remained. As a science graduate, she recalled that the ink used for Gutenberg’s press was apparently made by mixing Linseed Oil with Lampblack.
Lampblack was easy enough—just scrape the black soot off the lamp’s glass. It was basically the black smoke produced by incomplete combustion of carbon-rich organic material.
The key was Linseed Oil.
Lulumia had discovered long ago that most commoners in this world wore Flax clothes. When she’d first gone to a fabric store to buy clothes, she’d asked the merchant if they sold Linseed Oil. The merchant’s answer was blunt—he’d never heard of Linseed Oil.
Not only that, but in this magical world, Flax didn’t even have seeds. It grew like bamboo, propagating through spreading underground rhizomes—a kind of asexual reproduction that didn’t require seeds at all.
That was why Lulumia hadn’t just asked Tilan directly for Linseed Oil, but picked out a few other oils instead.
She scraped the black soot from the lamp shade, dividing it into several portions, but just as she was about to mix the soot with different oils, her hand suddenly stopped, staring at the little glass bottle of oil in a daze.
“What’s wrong? Is there a problem with the oil?” Tilan straightened up to ask.
“There is, a little… these oils are too thin, not what I expected.”
The key property of ink is high viscosity to work with Press Type, but the oils here were much thinner than she imagined. She doubted whether mixing them with Lampblack would achieve the result she wanted.
Tilan’s expression grew odd, her gaze at Lulumia as if she were an idiot.
“Lumia wants sticky oil? You should have just said so at the start. Refined Slime Oil is very sticky. Poor families who can’t afford candles use Slime Oil in their lamps—it’s easy to snuff out and not very good, but it’s sticky.”
“Ah…”
That’s right, the key is the Refining Technique.
Tilan reminded Lulumia—if you want Linseed Oil to be viscous enough for ink, you need a refining process.
That means adding driers to the oil and simmering it, a method to speed up its thickening. Tilan had mentioned “refined Slime Oil,” which meant this world already had the technology to make oils viscous, and even offered a cheap, ready-made oil for ink.
Even if the Slime Oil here couldn’t be used directly, the refining process existed, saving her the trouble of figuring it out herself. Any way you looked at it, it was a good thing.
It was perfectly normal for a magic world to have a few magical twists. How could she have forgotten the existence of Alchemists?
Lulumia’s eyes shone as she grasped Tilan’s hands. “Tilan, you’re so smart!”
“Of course I’m smart…” Tilan jumped in surprise, “But wash your hands first, don’t get your clothes dirty. If the Holy Son sees you later, he’ll blame me for being a poor hostess.”
“Oh, oh.” Only then did Lulumia notice her hands were as black as if she’d just crawled out of a coal mine, and she’d gotten Tilan’s hands all smeared too. She smiled sheepishly, “Sorry about that.”
“Ah, it’s not the first time.”
Tilan sighed, helpless. She stood and draped her shawl over Lulumia’s cold, bare shoulders.
“Go wash your hands. It’s almost dinnertime.” “Okay!”
Lulumia answered excitedly.
The three pieces needed for the printing press were almost assembled—summoning that legendary, one-hit-kill special victory was right before her eyes!
[Title earned: ‘Tilan’s Cherished’, ‘Green Tea’, ‘Ink Inventor’]
[Mindfulness Points: 16 (Deceiving Tilan’s feelings should have cost 4 points, but Tilan’s own Mindfulness Points are even lower, so only 1 point lost)]
Huh? What do you mean Tilan’s Mindfulness Points are even lower?
Staring at the text on the screen, Lulumia, caught in her excitement, was stunned.