Chapter 2: “My What Now?!”

[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.

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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.