The noble Princess finally apologized.
Everyone burst into laughter, tossing out sarcastic jests, then continued drinking and making merry.
No one paid attention to Margaret.
It was as if she wasn’t a noble Princess at all, but just an insignificant, already forgotten trouble.
But to Margaret, this kind of disregard was even more severe than being pointed at and scolded, even more unbearable than being slapped.
She pressed her lips together, tears streaming down, hugging herself helplessly.
Her rose-red nails nearly tore through the fabric of her dress, digging deep into the tender flesh of her forearm.
It shattered her dignity.
And yet they still treated her lightly.
It was blatant contempt, the arrogance of self-proclaimed equality.
Monarch and Subject, the hierarchy of status, the rules everyone agreed upon—why did they deny them?
Why, after denying them, could they still be so happy?
Margaret couldn’t understand, couldn’t accept, and even more, couldn’t forgive!
A surge of emotions flooded her heart.
She dared not examine them closely, for deep down, it was envy.
Could a Princess envy commoners?
Could a Princess possibly envy commoners?
Margaret hated herself for such ridiculous thoughts, but she couldn’t stop the flames of inferiority burning within.
Her mind drifted farther and farther away with the swirling dust.
[Father~ Father~ does your daughter really have to marry the Hero?]
[Yes.]
[But… your daughter doesn’t even know him. She doesn’t know if he’ll enjoy the dramas your daughter likes, she doesn’t know if he’ll like the bunnies your daughter raises. What if he’s ugly? What if he’s mean? Father… can you let him marry someone else?]
[Margaret, my good girl, you are my most obedient daughter. You must listen.]
[Father…]
In truth, she wanted not to listen.
But Father was the most valiant, grand, and noble man in the world.
Father loved her, even though that love always came with demands; she loved Father, even though that love was steeped in obedience.
They were the most distant Monarch and Subject in the world, yet also the closest.
“I… I hate you all…”
Margaret muttered softly, the words catching in her throat, choking with sobs.
But by then, no one cared about her anymore.
Everyone’s focus was on the Hero.
They were all fighting to pour drinks for the Hero.
“Brother Jon, you say something too! Say something!”
Glasses clinked as someone called out.
“Me? I can’t… I only learned Demon Lord jokes…”
Jon hurriedly shook his head.
“Just say anything! Anything at all!”
In the end, Jon was dragged up.
He stood among the commoners, cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and fell silent for a long time.
He tried to recall the speeches his officers made during holidays at the camp.
Vague memories were pieced together.
“Today… is a good start…”
Stuck again.
After a while, Jon laughed at himself, scratching his head awkwardly.
“I forgot the middle, forgot the end, only remembered the last line—‘Everyone eat and drink well! Let’s eat!’”
The crowd burst into laughter.
The noisy cheers startled Lia, who was dozing on the Hero’s head.
Lia sat up with a start, pretending to rub her eyes, glanced around blankly, and realizing it was just more drunken nonsense at the table, sighed.
Look at this crowd: a rebellious Hero, headstrong townsfolk, and a scheming Demon Lord behind the scenes—might as well call it Water Margin Branch No. 2!
After sighing, Lia flopped back down, grabbed the Hero’s golden hair, and used it as a blanket for her legs.
She closed her eyes, continuing to think about how to develop the Pupu Magic Industry based on the current state of “Hope Town”.
Sigh… Another day of racking my brain for my archenemy Hero~
Without me, this family would fall apart sooner or later!
The more Lia thought about it, the more she felt the Hero should kowtow to her—not just once, but enough to build her a monument, at least a meter tall.
Thunder rumbled.
Even the pouring rain couldn’t extinguish the laughter.
It rose into the sky, mixing with the clouds, only to be tainted by dust and turned into a muffled roar, tearing across the sky and stabbing into distant valleys and mountains.
Looking far away.
Old York suddenly felt a chill in his heart.
Having failed to ‘progress’ by clinging to the Princess’s thigh, Old York had fled Hope Town and rejoined his family and fellow villagers who had already left.
At first, he was angry, feeling his goodwill had been treated like dirt by the Princess.
But as he traveled, he consoled himself, making up excuses for the Princess, and in the end, beat his chest and regretted it deeply.
—I’m just an honorary knight! How could I dare to aspire to be the servant of someone as noble as the Princess? Isn’t that putting her in a difficult spot?
Sigh, if only I’d lowered myself a bit more, begged to be the ‘Princess’s Maid’s servant’, maybe she would have agreed.
“Head of the family, after this… where are we going?”
Behind him, a frail old woman asked Old York timidly.
A flicker of impatience crossed Old York’s brow.
In front of his wife and children, he put on an official air.
“Ask, ask, always asking! I said already! Just follow your Town Mayor! Are you deaf?”
His two sons shrank back, trembling, clearly afraid of him.
Seeing their cowardice made him angry.
He couldn’t help but grab his cane and, just like in his younger days, gave both sons a good beating.
Really, were these even his sons? Not one of them resembled him.
At their age, he had already earned an honorary knight’s title by reporting a neighbor for ‘insulting and defaming His Majesty’, bringing honor to his family!
In ten miles around, what other young man could be as promising as him?
From that day on, everyone praised him: “This young man is outstanding; he’s sure to be an official someday.”
Over time, even Old York believed it: he was destined to be an official!
If he hadn’t become one, it must have been bad luck.
And he waited for decades.
He saved money, gritting his teeth, bought fine, elegant clothes like real city officials, carried the Imperial Law, and the Imperial Nobility Directory.
He painstakingly learned the etiquette of officials and nobles, mimicked their speech.
At home, his word was law; outside, he was slick and amiable, honing his skills to survive in the bureaucracy.
He really only lacked that one opportunity.
How regrettable…
The rain fell harder.
The dark sky in the distance opened like a giant mouth, spewing gray-white decay.
Besides the familiar villagers of Lunya Village, many disaster-stricken refugees unsure of where to go had attached themselves to the group.
Unknowingly, the numbers swelled to nearly a thousand.
Suddenly, Old York had a flash of inspiration.
Damn it, if that spineless old Jonathan could make himself a Town Mayor, why can’t I?
Thus, Old York began using his ‘exquisite’ political skills, organizing the refugees into his group and tricking a few fools out of their coins to fatten his own pocket.
He copied Jonathan, forming a Security Team and establishing a Public Treasury—except he didn’t donate himself, only tricked others, so naturally, no one paid attention, and the ‘Public Treasury’ in his left pocket stayed empty.
Old York felt this was a great pity, cursing the bunch for lacking vision and a spirit of contribution.
The growing procession marched west, walking all through the night.
Old York had heard that there were several Great Cities rich in the west, and he planned to settle down further west.
Until—
As dawn approached, a faint gray line appeared in the dim, rainy distance.
Old York wanted to shout in excitement, but in the next moment, the joy turned to cold shock, and the words died in his throat.
Refugees.
Countless refugees, stretching beyond sight, were shambling toward them like locusts or ants.
Covered in mud and starving, they had long forgotten everything that could be forgotten, clinging only to one last will—to survive!
Some refugees eyed Old York’s belongings and began to gather around.
Fear gripped his heart, but he still straightened his back, cleared his throat, and adopted an official’s air.
“I am an honorary knight, personally appointed by the Empire in Era 1377—”
Splurt.
A sharp kitchen knife plunged into Old York’s stomach, cutting off his words.
His family and villagers behind him screamed, abandoned their possessions, and fled in panic.
Strength drained away with the rain.
Old York struggled to raise his head.
His eyes bulged, staring blankly at the backs of the refugees descending into madness under the collapse of order—violence, murder, plunder.
So, in the face of survival, nothing else mattered.
“I am… I am… an honorary kni…”
Dazed, only that phrase remained in his mind.
But before he could finish, his head lolled to the side and his eyes dimmed.
Rain.
Poured down.