[Warning! Story Relevance: 3/100.]

  [Warning! Existence will be erased when Story Relevance reaches 0/100.]

  Celestia nearly jumped out of her seat as the cold, emotionless announcement reverberated in her mind.

  Her heart pounded with a mix of anger and alarm. ‘Only 3 out of 100? Is my existence really hanging by a thread?’

  She felt a surge of indignation at the notion that she could simply cease to exist if she didn’t make herself more important in this world’s story. Her hands clenched on the armrests of her chair, and she was about to push on them to rise to her feet in defiance.

  But she caught herself just in time.

  A soft gasp from beside reminded her that she wasn't alone. Celestia forced her body to remain still.

  ‘Right. The maid.’

  She was in the middle of having her makeup done. If she suddenly leapt up, she might startle the poor girl attending to her and ruin the careful work in progress. Taking a slow breath, Celestia steadied herself, pushing down the flare of anger.

  Beside her, the maid’s hands trembled slightly as she resumed applying a light powder to Celestia’s face. In the large mirror in front of them, Celestia could see the maid’s reflection: a young woman in a crisp black-and-white uniform, tense with anxiety. The maid’s eyes were wide, flickering nervously between her task and Celestia’s expression.

  Clearly, her sudden movement and darkening scowl had not gone unnoticed.

  “I-I'm sorry, my lady,” the maid stammered softly, breaking the silence. “I’ll… I’ll be more careful. P-please forgive me. I’ll do it perfectly this time.” She bowed her head deeply, and a few strands of her neatly tied hair fell loose.

  The girl must have interpreted Celestia’s actions and silence as displeasure with her work.

  Celestia hadn’t meant to direct any of her irritation at the maid at all. It was that ridiculous Story Relevance warning that had almost made her lose her cool. But how could the maid possibly know that?

  To the servants, Celestia’s every mood was a dangerous needle to thread.

  After all, the original Celestia, whose body she now possessed, had a fearsome reputation within these manor walls. Harsh words, strict punishments, and even physical cruelty were all par for the course.

  No wonder the staff walked on eggshells around “her.”

  In the mirror, the maid risked a glance upward. Her face had gone pale, and she looked on the verge of tears. Celestia realized she must still be scowling.

  “Continue,” she said curtly, trying to keep her voice cool and controlled rather than furious. That single word came out a bit sharp.

  The maid nodded in haste. She leaned in again, dusting powder along Celestia’s jaw. As she did so, the cuffs of her uniform sleeves drew back a few inches, revealing her forearms.

  Celestia’s eyes drifted down and caught sight of the skin there.

  Crisscrossing the maid’s exposed arm were faint scars. Unnatural long, thin lines that could only have come from punishment. Some looked old and silvery, while a few were pinkish that looked relatively fresh.

  It seemed that the original Celestia had often lashed out at her servants over the smallest mistakes. This poor maid clearly had borne the brunt of that cruelty.

  Her gaze lingered on the scars. “Disgusting.”

  The maid froze, the powder puff hovering mid-air. She was holding her breath. “M-My lady…?” she whispered shakily. Celestia could see the fear in the maid’s face.

  Without a word, Celestia abruptly stood up from her seat. The chair legs scraped against the marble floor. The maid flinched back a step, dropping the powder puff. She squeezed her eyes shut and lifted an arm to cover her head.

  Celestia walked past her. Her long silk dressing gown swished against the floor as she moved to the nightstand beside her bed, opening a drawer.

  Clatter… Clink!

  Celestia shut the drawer. Turning back, she walked toward the maid, who stood stiffly by the chair, eyes still closed shut.

  Stopping directly in front of the maid, Celestia held out an ornate little container.

  “Take it.”

  The maid opened her eyes slowly. This wasn’t at all what she had anticipated.

  Slowly, she lifted her hands and accepted the container. Up close, she could see the gold filigree on the lid of the expensive ointment.

  Her confusion only grew.

  “That’s for the scars,” Celestia said, her tone harsh but the words themselves anything but. “Use it on your arms.”

  The maid’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp.

  Celestia’s red eyes narrowed, and she added, “I expect those unsightly marks to be gone. Do you understand?”

  To the maid, it would seem that Lady Celestia was giving this ointment not out of kindness, but because she couldn’t stand looking at such ugliness.

  “I... Yes, my lady. I understand,” she managed to say, her voice trembling. “Th-thank you, my lady.”

  This was how the original Celestia treated her servants? Absolutely disgusting. She clicked her tongue and made a dismissive motion with her hand. “Now, stop standing here and leave my room. Immediately.”

  The maid flinched at her tone. “O-of course!” she yelped.

  The maid’s back bumped against the door, and she fumbled for the handle. But then, she froze. “My lady…” she blurted out. “Your makeup... I haven’t finished—”

  Celestia arched an eyebrow, impatience flickering across her face.

  Honestly, the nerve of this girl… to hesitate after being ordered to leave.

  Celestia picked up the slim ebony eyeliner brush from the make-up kit. Her tone dripped with sarcasm as she waved the brush slightly. “Perhaps you’d like me to do your makeup next, too?”

  The maid’s eyes grew round. “N-No, my lady! That’s not what I—”

  “Then get out,” Celestia snapped. “I can’t expect you to do a proper job until those arms are appropriate. Understood?”

  “Yes, Lady Celestia! Thank you, milady!” She dropped into a quick, shaky curtsy, nearly dropping the ointment in her haste, and then turned and fled through the door. It closed softly behind her.

  Celestia laid down the brush on the table and sighed. Lady Celestia von Reingarde: the notorious villainess of the story she had read. And not even a heroine or a cool side character at that.

  And if that mysterious voice was to be believed, she was hanging on by a thread.

  She, a minor antagonist in the grand scheme of the plot.

  Her gaze dropped to her hands, which had subconsciously moved to touch the smooth skin of her cheek. The face in the mirror was undeniably beautiful; villainesses in these tales often were, but Celestia found herself noting the healthy, youthful glow of her skin in particular.

  Despite all the stress and her recent illness, her complexion was virtually flawless. She gave a soft, wry chuckle.

  In her past life, she had spent a small fortune on skincare products to maintain a fraction of this radiance.

  ‘If only all those skincare gurus knew the ultimate secret was to reincarnate into a teenage noblewoman…’ she mused.

  Setting aside those frivolous thoughts, Celestia steeled herself. She picked up the eyeliner brush once more.

  Soon, the woman staring back from the mirror looked flawlessly beautiful.

  Celestia carefully uncapped a crystal bottle of perfume and dabbed a little on her wrists. Now that she was presentable, it was time to turn her attention to the critical matter at hand: raising her Story Relevance.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  This world was a tower-climbing fantasy epic.

  Its premise was simple. A massive tower had appeared in the middle of the continent, its one hundred floors rising into the clouds. The world had changed upon its arrival, for the tower declared a trial: clear the tower within fifteen years, or the world would be destroyed.

  Of course, the main character just happened to be the most generic man alive.

  How generic? His name was Arthur.

  The tower itself was a carnival of clichés. Every floor represented a different trial: goblin caves, lava mountains, deserts, frozen wastelands. Each challenge was described as impossible, but Arthur always overcame them with either sudden bursts of strength or convenient items appearing at the last moment. Wherever there was a locked door, a key would fall into his lap. Wherever there was a deadly trap, his god-given instincts would miraculously flare for the first time, saving him.

  The tower’s deadline hung over the world, but hardly mattered. Every arc promised impending disaster, then undercut itself the moment Arthur stumbled into another miracle.

  By the halfway mark, the plot stopped pretending to be anything other than it was. Arthur was the chosen one, the only one who could save the world; the story bent over backwards to make him untouchable.

  She needed a plan…no, several plans to secure her place in this world’s narrative.

  But no matter. She had time.

  A melodic chime echoed through the hallway outside, the dinner bell.

  Celestia stood and left her room.

  A butler waiting outside gave a polite bow and slowly followed her as she walked to the dining hall. The journey through the mansion’s corridors was long, but soon she was at the tall double doors of the dining room, carved with the Reingarde family crest of a silver dragon intertwined with a rose.

  The doors were opened by servants, and Celestia was greeted with a graceful bow of a line of butlers and maids. Although the dining hall was an impressive chamber meant to host lavish banquets, this was a normal setting for the family of three. A long table stretched down the center, illuminated by the golden glow of a grand crystal chandelier.

  At the far end of the table sat her father, Duke Armond Reingarde, and to his right sat her mother, Duchess Evelyn Reingarde.

  “Father. Mother,” Celestia greeted as she approached her seat.

  The Duke inclined his head, his stern features softened by a flicker of relief. “Good evening, Celestia,” he replied. The Duchess offered a warm smile. “Good evening, my dear.”

  Celestia’s chair, the one across from her mother and at the Duke’s left hand, was pulled out for her by a maid.

  Dinner began in near silence. A maid poured wine into the Duke’s goblet and then Celestia’s. The first course, a delicate vegetable consommé was served. Celestia picked up her spoon and focused on her soup, content to avoid making eye contact for the moment.

  Her parents were oddly quiet as well. In the silence, only the subtle clink of silverware on porcelain could be heard. Celestia wondered if this was normal.

  From her understanding of the original Celestia’s personality and the clichés in the trope, the villainess girl would either dominate the conversation with complaints and demands or refuse to speak at all if something displeased her.

  Tonight, however, Celestia had no intention of throwing a tantrum over trivialities like the soup being too salty or whatever other things the old Celestia might’ve latched onto.

  Her mother was still sneaking concerned looks at her, as if expecting her to suddenly faint or explode, while her father was focused on eating, but there was a certain tightness in expression that suggested he was deep in thought.

  Celestia suppressed a sigh and maintained a neutral expression. ‘This is awkward.’

  Still, she reminded herself, these were the two people who cared for her well-being the most in this world. They deserved some reassurance, perhaps.

  After the soup was cleared, the main course arrived, roasted lamb with rosemary and glazed with caramelized carrots. The rich aroma wafted invitingly. Celestia realized she was quite hungry and, despite her nerves, the first bite of the succulent lamb was heavenly.

  As she savored a second bite, her mother finally broke the silence: “Celestia, my dear, are you feeling fully well now?”

  Celestia set down her fork gently and looked up. Duchess Evelyn was gazing at her with earnest, worried eyes. Celestia mustered a small smile. “Yes, Mother. I’m perfectly fine now,” she answered.

  You could hear a pin drop.

  The Duchess blinked rapidly, taken aback by the calm, courteous response. Duke Armond paused in cutting his meat, glancing between his wife and daughter.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then the Duchess suddenly pressed a hand to her chest in dramatic fashion. “Oh, heavens!” she exclaimed softly. She reached out and clutched her husband’s sleeve. “Honey, did you hear that? She said ‘Yes, Mother’ so nicely!” Her voice was filled with a mix of astonishment and concern. “Our Celestia must not be fully recovered, she’s never so... agreeable!”

  She had known being mild with her parents would be out of character, but she hadn’t expected this level of shock. “Mother, please. I feel fine,” she insisted, trying to keep the exasperation out of her tone.

  But the Duchess was already dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a napkin as if Celestia had spoken her last words on her deathbed. “My poor baby, she’s putting on a brave face! This isn’t like her at all...”

  Duke Armond cleared his throat. A subtle hint of a smile tugged at his lips, as if he were suppressing a chuckle. He covered his wife’s hand with his own reassuringly. “Now, now, Evelyn. She might still be recovering. No need to overreact,” he said, a trace of dry humor in his voice.

  “Overrreact? She’s being positively pleasant,” the Duchess fretted, though her dramatic tone had softened slightly, hearing the absurdity of her own words.

  The Duke gave a low chuckle. “Exactly. Look.” He raised an eyebrow at Celestia, “She’s ignoring us again.”

  Celestia, who had indeed decided the best course of action was to focus on her plate, nearly choked on her sip of water at her father’s remark.

  Despite her mortification, she had to bite back a tiny smile. Her father’s dry humor had diffused her mother’s panic. The Duchess let out a little breath of relief. She gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh and patted her flushed cheeks. “Perhaps I did get ahead of myself,” she murmured. “It’s just... we were so worried.”

  Celestia could recall faint impressions of when she first woke up in this body: her mother’s tearful face hovering above, her father barking orders for the physician. They truly cared. It was... oddly touching, something the original Celestia likely never appreciated, and something she had never experienced from her own parents. This was a new feeling for her.

  From there, the dinner returned to a peaceful quiet. The Duke and Duchess refrained from more probing questions, seemingly content that Celestia appeared stable.

  Now that the main course was done, uniformed servants entered to replace it with dessert.

  A fine porcelain plate was set down before Celestia, bearing an elegant slice of chocolate chiffon cake. It was layered with airy chocolate sponge and light cream, and topped with a glossy dollop of ganache and a single bright red cherry.

  Celestia’s eyes brightened at the sight. She had always had a sweet tooth, and it seemed this body was no different.

  The Duke raised his glass of wine and took a contented sip, while the Duchess picked up her fork, smiling at Celestia. “It’s your favorite, dear. Chiffon cake with cherry. The chef made it especially for you, hoping it would cheer you up.”

  She took a bite. It was heavenly… fluffy, exceptionally sweet, with rich cocoa and sweet-tart cherry flavors dancing on her tongue.

  Halfway through her cake, with only the gentle clicking of silverware breaking the silence, Celestia decided this was as good a time as any to bring up a request that had been on her mind since earlier.

  “Father,” she said.

  Duke Armond looked up from savoring his own dessert. “Yes, my dear Celestia?”

  Across the table, her mother also gave her attention, curious since Celestia rarely addressed her father directly unless she wanted something.

  Celestia folded her hands in her lap, sitting up straight. “I have a request.”

  The Duke’s eyebrows rose slightly. It was rare for Celestia to ask instead of demand. “Go on,” he encouraged.

  Celestia took a breath. “Arrange a weapons instructor for me. I wish to begin combat training as soon as possible.”

  Duke Armond, after a blink of surprise, leaned forward slightly. “What brought this on?” he asked, not negatively, but clearly the request had been unexpected. The Celestia they knew had never shown interest in martial pursuits, quite the opposite, she used to abhor sweating and would complain that training was for “knights and barbarians.”

  “For self-defense,” she explained calmly.

  She paused, searching for a reason they’d accept. “It would put my mind at ease to learn, even just the basics. I would prefer not to be completely helpless.”

  Duke Armond exchanged a glance with his wife. The Duchess seemed unconvinced, worry creasing her brow. But Celestia saw a spark in her father’s eyes. Was that approval? Pride?

  The Duke set down his glass firmly. “An excellent idea!” he declared, nodding. “With the threat from the Tower, one can never be too careful. If my daughter wishes to learn combat, I’ll certainly hire the finest instructor for you.”

  That was... easier than expected. She hadn’t even needed to argue. A small warmth bloomed in her chest at her father’s eagerness. The Duke was practically beaming; he clearly liked the idea of his daughter taking an interest in matters like these.

  Celestia responded, “I expect nothing less than the best, of course.”

  For some reason, she had this need to speak to them politely. There was an innate desire to connect to them, unlike what she felt with her original parents in her latter years.

  The Duchess looked between her husband and daughter, and though she was clearly still processing the idea of her delicate girl swing around chunks of iron, she gave Celestia a gentle smile.

  With that settled, the atmosphere at the table lightened. The Duke seemed pleased, the Duchess less anxious, and Celestia felt one step closer to being prepared for whatever might come.

  They continued with dessert, making light remarks about the cake. Celestia allowed herself to enjoy the rest of her slice without overthinking for once.

  When the last crumb was gone and the wine glasses were nearly empty, Celestia dabbed her mouth with her napkin. As the meal was essentially over and the Duke and Duchess looked content, she thought it courteous to excuse herself.

  She was about to speak up when her mother beat her to it. “Celestia, dear,” Duchess Evelyn began, “before you retire for the evening, there’s an important matter we need to discuss.”

  Celestia settled back into her chair, folding her hands on her lap.

  “It’s regarding the imperial ball at the palace this weekend,” Duchess Evelyn continued. “We received the invitation some weeks ago. It’s now only three days away” She paused, scanning Celestia’s face for a reaction. “Given that you were feeling unwell, your father and I thought perhaps you might not want to attend, and we could send our regrets...”

  Celestia held herself still, carefully considering her response. In truth, she had no information about this event. An imperial ball in three days… Did anything significant happen there in the novel? She couldn’t really recall any mention of it.

  At the very least, missing it would mean missing an opportunity to gain information or meet important figures.

  She realized her mother was waiting expectantly for her answer. Celestia cleared her throat softly. “Thank you for considering my health, Mother, but I’m feeling much better now. I will attend the imperial ball.”

  The Duchess visibly brightened, a genuine smile spreading on her face. “Oh, wonderful! I’m so glad.” It seemed a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “We’ll have to make sure your dress is prepared, and we’ll need to inform your fiancé, the Imperial Prince, of your attendance posthaste.”

  My what now?!

  Chapter 2: My What Now?!