In the dining room of Viscount Laval’s mansion, the crystal chandelier cast a warm golden glow. Silverware sparkled on the long table, but it couldn’t dispel the sticky strangeness lingering in the air.
Viscount Bernard de Laval sat at the head of the table, his fingers unconsciously tracing the slender stem of his wine glass.
This shrewd noble, who could usually laugh off even bankruptcy as an amusing business anecdote, was now sitting on pins and needles.
Unlike his anxious father, Alan was in a fantastic mood. No need to survive at the academy, no need to deal with that overpowered heroine. He even had the leisure to tell his father an urban legend.
“Father, do you remember the Old Oak Forest east of St. Nola Academy? I hear there’s a treasure hidden there, left behind by an ancient hero…”
As everyone knew, urban legends in games were always real.
Familiar with the original work, Alan knew that the Old Oak Forest really did hide a treasure.
But that treasure was exclusive to the heroine Livia. No one else could use it.
If only it could be sold for money, he wouldn’t have ended up broke every single playthrough.
“Huh? Oak Forest? Treasure? Oh, right, right… I’ve heard that tale…”
Bernard forced a smile to respond to Alan’s small talk, but beads of sweat kept forming on his forehead. His handkerchief rose and fell frequently, as if wiping away an invisible stain.
Anxiety.
He kept glancing toward the spot where the butler usually stood. Tonight, that loyal old butler was absent for some reason, a fact that only deepened Bernard’s unease.
Marianne Durand, standing beside the giant enamel-painted sideboard, took in the unusual behavior of both father and son.
As the head maid of the Laval household, she directed the other servants in serving the meal with precise, crisp movements. But her gaze, like an invisible thread, was tightly wound around the pair at the dining table.
Too strange.
Young Master Alan—that gloomy, sharp-tongued unfilial son who treated his father’s concern as an insult—was now smiling brightly, even starting conversations to ease his father’s tension.
And Lord Bernard, that doting father who always said “Any problem money can solve isn’t a problem”—he looked like a prisoner awaiting judgment.
What had happened? Or…
Had they noticed something?
A stone dropped into the still lake of Marianne’s heart, stirring up ripples that churned the sediment at the bottom.
“Miss Marianne?” A young maid carrying a silver platter of pan-seared eel looked at her cautiously. “This dish…”
Marianne snapped back to reality, suppressing the turmoil brewing inside her. She regained the elegant composure of a head maid.
“In order. Serve Lord Bernard first. Don’t pour too much sauce—his lordship has been having stomach trouble lately.”
Her voice was steady, betraying no ripple. Only she knew the storm raging within.
‘Marianne Durand, you’re fired.’
Alan’s words echoed in Marianne’s heart.
That demon young master said he wanted to compensate her, to set her free.
Why? Was that so-called “divine revelation” real? Did he truly want to reform?
The thought had barely surfaced before it was crushed by a deeper hatred.
‘Impossible! Countless days and nights of humiliation and abuse—these pains were already etched into my bones, the cold fuel that kept me alive.’
Her hatred for Alan was a vine nurtured in darkness, tangled and deep-rooted over the years. How could a few flippant words of “settling accounts” sever it?
But then, at an untimely moment, those eyes surfaced from the depths of her memory—
When Marianne pushed Alan into the icy lake, through the churning, murky water, she saw in the sinking Alan not the fear or anger she had expected, but a calm that bordered on relief.
In Alan’s gaze, there was even a hint of absurd guilt.
Marianne suddenly realized that this demon-like young master had deliberately handed her the chance for revenge!
‘Why? Why do you want to end your life? You’re the one who harmed me, yet you want to leave this world before me?!’
That look had hit her like a bucket of ice water, instantly extinguishing the flames of her vengeance, leaving behind only immense shock and a sense of guilt.
It was the clarity of that moment that made her jump into the water and drag that demon—who had tormented her yet given her family a glimmer of hope—back onto the shore.
Marianne’s fingers unconsciously curled into her palms.
The “boon” of the Crimson Spiral Order lay dormant inside her. The power of the false emblem was like a poisoned thorn embedded in her flesh. She had gained strength, yet still couldn’t deliver the killing blow to the unconscious Alan.
Was it the old butler’s pitying gaze—the man who had treated her like his own daughter—that had bound her hands? Or was it his later words, like thunder that had shattered her understanding?
“Child, don’t blame yourself too much… The young master… told me in private to take good care of you… The medicine I brought you was actually bought on his orders. He said you have a younger brother to support…”
‘Lies! This must be a kind lie the butler made up to comfort me! That demon who delighted in my pain, how could he—?!’
But this lie was so clumsy, so meaningless. Why would the butler lie like that?
Guilt coiled around her heart like poisonous ivy, squeezing until she couldn’t breathe.
While Alan was unconscious, the bloody scent of the Crimson Spiral Order’s underground altar, the soul-tearing pain of the false emblem transplant, the leader’s fanatical sermons and seductive whispers—these images repeatedly seared Marianne’s nerves.
When she pushed Alan into the water… that explosive, mind-consuming surge of savage pleasure—was it truly entirely her own? Or was there a trace… that had been guided and amplified by some unnameable existence?
She had fallen so deep that she had forgotten the girl who, under the starry sky of the border village, clumsily healed her with the faint power of a newly awakened emblem, who would spread her arms to stand between her and the bandits—
She had broken her promise to Livia.
She had sunk into the abyss, covered in filth that could never be washed clean.
Someone like her… didn’t deserve to see the sunlight again, much less to stand beside Livia.
So when Alan woke up, she chose to confess, like awaiting a final judgment.
She was tired of deception, tired of hatred, tired of herself. After becoming a cultist, death was her only release, the last barrier to protect her family.
Yet Alan didn’t turn her over to the law. He simply planned to fire her, even offering compensation for “mental distress.”
She had dreamed of this scene countless times. But when this belated “mercy” finally arrived, it hurt more than any punishment.
‘If only… if only it had come earlier… before I had completely tainted my soul with hatred and the power of an evil god… How wonderful that would have been…’
Too late.
Everything was too late.
She could no longer turn back.
***
The dinner was far more lavish than Alan had expected.
Honey-mustard eggs were silky and appetizing; the gold-leaf oxtail soup was rich and mellow; the braised wild rabbit in red wine was tender and flavorful; the truffle-stuffed roast pheasant had an aggressive fragrance…
One delicacy after another was served like a flowing stream, silver platters overlapping, aromas rising in the candlelight.
This spread was a world apart from the run-down Laval household Alan remembered—where he had to mooch off the school cafeteria and his father shamelessly “visited” other houses for free meals.
Alan knew full well that tonight’s extravagance was just the dying gasp of a declining family. He should have advised his father to be frugal.
But the shadow of death hung over Alan at all times. Life’s precious moments were short; every day alive had to be lived as if it were the last.
As the saying goes, a spendthrift son doesn’t feel the pain of selling off his father’s estate. Let Dad worry about the family’s revival later.
Whether he’d even live to see that day was another matter.
When a servant placed a portion of the especially aromatic, spice-laden truffle-stuffed roast pheasant on his plate, Alan forked a piece and brought it to his mouth.
The earthy aroma of top-grade truffles, the umami of poultry, and the complex, mellow flavors of spices—the sharpness of pepper, the warmth of cinnamon, the bite of cloves—merged perfectly, playing a symphony of luxury on his taste buds.
Alan let out a satisfied sigh. This was the life a villain young master deserved!
Scrounging for meals at the academy, he had endured countless disdainful looks.
Being able to enjoy such a luxurious dinner at home was pure bliss!
Yet amidst this satisfaction, a thread of cold dissonance slithered through his nerves like a venomous snake.
Alan’s paranoid streak struck again!
The setting of Star Love Song was a fictional medieval European society…
There was no Age of Exploration! No da Gama, no Columbus, no world-changing Columbian Exchange!
Then where did these spices—pepper, cinnamon, cloves—obviously from distant tropical regions, worth their weight in gold… where did they come from?
Such a large, stable supply that even a financially precarious viscount’s household could use top-tier exotic spices casually? That couldn’t be from incidental expeditions!
Behind this must be a vast, stable, and monopolized trade network.
The development team were obsessive details freaks who had designed a thousand ways for Alan de Laval to die. Would such a “bug” that violated the basic world-building be a mere oversight?
Alan set down his knife and fork. The silverware clinked softly against the porcelain plate. He turned to his unsettled father and asked curiously:
“Father, tonight’s meal is truly astonishing. Especially the spices—the layers of flavor are unforgettable.” He pointed at the leftover sauce on his plate.
“But I’m curious… the kingdom doesn’t seem to produce precious spices like pepper or cinnamon. Where do they come from? They must be expensive. Given our current situation…”
He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air: ‘How can we afford to eat like this?’
His son’s question was like a lifeline, giving the anxious Bernard a chance to reclaim his superiority as a “well-traveled” noble. He straightened his slightly paunchy belly, a familiar, slightly boastful smile creeping back onto his face.
“Ah! Spices! They’re a great way to show status and taste!” He launched into an enthusiastic explanation. “Common herbs like fennel, rosemary, and lavender—we can grow some of those on our own land.”
“Others, like nutmeg and ginger, come from the warm southern grand duchies or even farther eastern countries, shipped across the ocean by merchant vessels. The journey is long, pirates are rampant, so the prices naturally skyrocket.”
“As for the top-tier ones, like the pepper, cinnamon, and cloves you just ate—only the Church has a stable supply channel!”
The Church?
Alan’s pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. He inquired:
“Do you know where the Church gets those precious spices?”
“As for exactly where…” Bernard shrugged and made a cryptic gesture, his face full of reverence.
“Only the bigwigs in red robes in the Holy City know that. It’s a secret of the Church. A sacred secret! Mortals cannot pry into it.”
A sacred secret?
Alan’s heart felt like it had been struck by a hammer, then began to race! Clues scattered like pearls were suddenly strung together by this thread called “the Church”!
Neither the original Star Love Song nor its setting guide gave clear answers about the truth of the world and the emblems. Only that cryptic Church route vaguely revealed the tip of the iceberg of the vast world-building.
Alan thought of the key item that could break his deadlock!
In the Church route, the Inquisition Tribunal chased Livia, who possessed the star emblem, all over the world. They relied on artifacts that could suppress the power of the emblem!
A monopoly network on spices. Sacred secrets. Artifacts that could counter emblems… This wasn’t just a religious organization.
It was the ultimate hidden faction holding the core secrets and vast resources of this world!
A wild and tempting idea exploded in Alan’s mind, like lightning in the darkness:
‘What if… what if I could get in with the Church—even obtain an artifact that suppresses the power of emblems…’
‘Then Livia von Stern, that heaven’s favored daughter with the star emblem who has crushed me under her heel countless times… wouldn’t she be…’
“Pfft…”
Alan quickly lowered his head, pretending to be choked by the soup, coughing violently to hide the sinister smile that was threatening to split his face from ear to ear.
‘Hahaha! Livia von Stern! Your doom is coming!’
‘What perfect heroine? What star emblem? Facing the double-dimensional strike of a reincarnator plus a Church artifact, you’re just a paper tiger!’
Alan couldn’t help but slip into the role of a fodder villain.
He began to fantasize: Livia von Stern, pinned down and helpless by the Church artifact; her flawless face, the icy facade finally cracking, revealing an expression of humiliation, shock, and disbelief.
And he, with a sinister smile, would elegantly lift her stubborn chin with the tip of his sword and demand:
‘Tell me, who’s the fodder now?’
What a delightfully satisfying scene that would be!
Just as Alan’s internal theater reached its climax, Viscount Bernard, who had been fidgeting and trying to finish his food, suddenly remembered something extremely important yet trivial that he had forgotten. He slapped his forehead with a crisp smack.
“Oh! Right!” He looked up at his son, who was still lost in his fantasy, with a complex expression mixing relief and lingering fear.
“Speaking of which, son, I almost forgot to tell you. Your fiancée seems to be coming to visit you tomorrow.”
The world fell silent.
The faint clink of cutlery against porcelain, the crackling of wood in the fireplace, the occasional hoot of an owl outside the window… All sounds seemed to be abruptly choked off by an invisible hand.
The villainous smile, not yet faded from Alan’s face due to his fantasy, froze completely.
He slowly, stiffly turned his head to look at his cheap father.
In those eyes that had just been burning with the flames of revenge, there was now only pure, abyss-deep bewilderment.
‘F-fiancée?!’
‘What kind of interdimensional joke is this?!’
He—Alan de Laval, the notorious, universally loathed worthless aristocrat of the royal capital, the disgrace of the nobility, the future penniless young master.
Just last playthrough, he was publicly executed by the Crown Prince at the graduation banquet and stabbed to death by the heroine—
How in the world could he have a fiancée?!
For him to have a fiancée completely violated the underlying logic of Star Love Song’s world-building!
What family’s misguided young lady would be so “perverse” as to jump onto this sinking ship that was about to go bankrupt? Did she have a death wish? Or had her whole family been brainwashed by a cult?
“Huh?!” Alan’s voice shot up, filled with incredulous absurdity.
“Me?! A fiancée?! Father, are you sure you didn’t drink your cheap malt liquor for breakfast today?”
“Or has our family gotten so poor that we need to sell off my ‘engagement’ to pay off debts? Which girl is so… uh, blessed with unique insight, to dare get engaged to someone like me?!”
Bernard, flushed by his son’s rapid-fire questions, wiped his brow awkwardly, even though no sweat was there.
“Er… well… it happened just a few days ago. You know, the Border Count’s family that just moved to the capital.”
Border Count?!
‘That sounds familiar. Isn’t Livia’s father also a Border Count?’
A bad feeling slowly crept into Alan’s heart.
Bernard didn’t notice his son’s suddenly pale face and continued on his own.
“A Border Count is technically a higher-ranking noble on par with a Marquess, but their roots are in a remote border region. They have no connections in the capital. They’re just ‘country bumpkins’ granted a title by the royal family, nothing but an empty rank.”
“Most nobles in the capital look down on them, think they’re hicks. So their family probably wants to find an ally to help each other gain a foothold, right? And our family… well, you know the situation… also needs a little ‘boost.’ Ah!”
Bernard vaguely glossed over their family’s imminent bankruptcy.
“So you sold me out?” Alan couldn’t help but retort. “You could have at least told me before selling! Or at least split the proceeds with me!”
“Her ladyship, the Border Countess, came to propose the alliance herself. I did ask for your opinion!” Bernard tried to defend himself.
“That day you came back from your ‘stroll’ in the Lower City, you seemed in a decent mood? I told you about the Border Count wanting a marriage alliance and asked what you thought.”
“You said, ‘Oh, whatever. Honestly, if any girl with a working brain actually meets a scumbag like me, she’d pack up and run off with a carriage overnight.”
“Go ahead and make the arrangement—at least we can get some free gifts out of it.’ You seemed to agree readily enough, so I… I accepted the Border Countess’s offer.”
Alan’s mind felt like it had been struck by a sledgehammer! Fragments of the original owner’s memories churned up—it really had happened!
This engagement did exist, but just as the original owner had predicted, it fell through for various reasons. His so-called fiancée never even appeared, so naturally, it never entered his “death cycle radar.”
Since this fiancée visit had never occurred in any of his countless cycles, why would it trigger this time?
The world line had changed. Alan couldn’t predict what would happen next.
But he knew one thing—nothing about this was simple!
Would this world, so hostile to him, ever grant him even a shred of happiness?
‘No way. She must be the Goddess of Death disguised as my fiancée, coming to claim my soul!’
Alan felt a chill rise from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head. He grabbed the edge of the table, his knuckles white from the strain. His voice trembled, even he didn’t notice.
“W-wait! Father, what is the Border Count’s daughter’s name?”
Bernard frowned, trying to recall. “Hmm… I think it’s… Livia? Yes, Livia von Stern. I heard she’s a somewhat talented girl? But she’s from the countryside. How impressive could she be?”
“BUH—!!!”
Alan was struck by an invisible lightning bolt, frozen in his seat. His eyes bulged, his face drained of all color, leaving only the ultimate shock and sheer absurdity of being struck by divine lightning.
Livia von Stern?!
His… fiancée?!
That Goddess of Death who had nailed him to the floor last playthrough?!
That overpowered heroine he had just fantasized about torturing a hundred times over with a Church artifact?!
Damnit! What the hell is this joke?! AAAAGH!!!