The Villainess is the Villainess [Otome Isekai LitRPG]

Book 3: Chapter 11 - The Limit [Part 1]

- Arthur C. Clarke.

Though he hid it well, Sir Frest had been less than agreeable about this whole outing. Miriam had found him sour and silent, casting dice in the barracks with his old comrades. He had only just settled in, and in his mind was now being dragged off to another “adventure” once more at the young noblewoman’s whim.

Still, he had gathered up an escort of a score of Knights, enough to ward off an attack by brigands but not enough to be a threat to any local lord. In short, he had done his duty. After all, Frest had not pledged to the line of the de Sariens, but to the Lady Seraphina herself.

And so Seraphina’s party left the de Sariens' estate, stopping at an inn in a village just before twilight, a smudge of warmth just beyond the reach of the Sarien castle town’s shadow. The innkeeper, a balding man with a crooked smile and a spine bowed from years, recognized her at once—the golden girl of the duchy, the Lady Seraphina herself. He bowed so deeply his knees cracked and refused her coin with trembling reverence.

“An honor, my lady,” he said, eyes fixed on her boots.

But Seraphina, well, she pressed him gently, then firmly, and in the end, the man accepted payment—if not for her, then for the others in her entourage. Seeing her looking slightly put out, he wisely did not argue further.

The next day, they continued their little journey. The road to the lumbermill dragged on in dull shades of gold and brown. Endless fields rolled like old quilts left in the autumnal sun, and the woods whispered nothing new. Even the birds seemed to grow bored of their own songs. The only break in the tedium came from the Fae creature, Tia, an invisible wisp of curiosity. She plagued Seraphina with questions about everything and anything outside the forest she had been bound to. Questions eventually even led to topics about grain, livestock, the price of bread, the purpose of taxes, and, more curiously, the means by which one might avoid paying them.

At first, Miriam thought the girl had gone quite mad. But then the quill began to float, scribbling midair in no hand she could see. Ink stained the parchment, and the stain widened until Miriam had no choice but to believe—or at least pretend to.

The mill itself was nestled deep within Count de Viserac’s lands, a man whose name left a taste like spoiled milk. Fortunately, the Count had been called to Aran. Seraphina breathed easier for it. Another supper at his estate would have been a sort of punishment she was not sure she would have been able to stand.

But his absence did not mean that his rough justice slept in his territory. As their carriage creaked through a hamlet near the mill, the sounds of panic and pleading halted their progress. Seraphina leaned forward, hand raised, and ordered the driver to stop.

In the field beyond, a man lay bound, his limbs stretched taut between two teams of oxen while a band played to accompany his suffering. His scream was loud enough to be a counterpoint to the music around him. Around him, a cluster of villagers watched and jeered. The execution had the air of festivity about it. Justice, Count de Viserac’s kind, was being served. And executions, in this barbaric realm, were just another form of entertainment for all the family.

Seraphina watched, her face unreadable. The law was the law, they would say. But law, she had come to learn, was often just a knife in a velvet sheath to be wielded more often than not for the benefit of those in power.

Eventually, the oxen proved stronger than flesh. Sinew tore, bone cracked, and the man’s final scream bled into the evening air. The musicians did not lay down their pipes. Vendors, sniffing profit, set pans on glowing coals, and the sweet sting of grilled onions drifted across the field.

“Milly, buy me four teams of oxen,” Seraphina said. A small smile tugged at her mouth, a hint of her old spark surfacing.

The maid blinked, wide‑eyed yet careful. “If I may ask, milady, what use have we for so many beasts?”

Seraphina folded her hands, voice smooth as cream. “We shall diversify. The children leaving our facilities will need honest work. Animal husbandry will suit them.” The lie slipped from her tongue as easily as breath.

***

All of the lumber mill's staff had come out to greet her, and Miriam introduced the Lady Seraphina as the charitable “sponsor” of the “training program for the Aranthan youth” that they ran here.

The oldest of the bunch, the senior manager of the mill, looked barely past seventeen, though he carried himself with the stiff-backed pride of a man twice that. He was slight of frame, with calloused hands. His hair, the color of old straw, was tied back in a short tail, though several strands had come loose to cling stubbornly to his brow. A thin scar traced his jaw, the sort earned not in battle, but perhaps from a snapped timber or a poorly judged swing of the axe blade.

Seventeen, she noted ruefully, was an age in this world when most would possibly have been married and finished their apprenticeships. It was a far cry from the modern Republic of Korea that Seraphina had originally come from. At seventeen, most children with even a shred of ambition would be diligently studying for their upcoming tests that would define the rest of their lives.

But despite the youth in his face—smooth cheeks, a dusting of freckles, and eyes too earnest for such a brutal land—he stood with practiced formality, and his general attire was neat, if a little plain.

“Greetings, Lady Seraphina,” they all chorused together.

Seraphina had been told that her picture was in every Bottlesworth Confectioneries’ facilities, and in every prominent position..

“The name is Daylen Voles, milady. I am understanding that you wish for a tour?” the senior manager asked.

“That is indeed correct, Master Voles,” the young noblewoman replied neutrally.

Seraphina noted the tremor in his voice as he greeted her, and the way his eyes darted to Miriam for cues. A child forced to manhood, thrust into responsibility in a world that did not wait for boys to grow up.

And the young lady needed their youth, their still-impressionable minds, if she was to forge them into the worker drones she required—those so thoroughly indoctrinated they took satisfaction in a hard day's work, some even coming to equate toil itself with pleasure.

Daylen stepped forward and gestured toward the nearest large building, a squat structure of timber and stone. Above its entrance hung a wooden sign, weathered by sun and sawdust, emblazoned with the facility’s motto in bold, carved letters: “Work shall make your mind free.”

"If it pleases you, come this way, milady. We'll begin with the main sawmill."

As he led Seraphina and Miriam through the facilities, Seraphina observed the workers closely. Boys and girls, some barely reaching her waist, others on the cusp of adulthood, moved with practiced efficiency. Daylen explained each section clearly, pride evident in his voice.

Inwardly, the young girl smiled to herself. I really am a force for good. She had given people like him purpose and employment.

"The main sawmill here processes the timber," he began, indicating the large structure filled with rhythmic sounds of saw blades biting through wood and the scent of freshly cut lumber. "We've improved efficiency greatly. Most workers here and apprentices are from Bottleworth's Confectioneries’ orphanages or facilities. As you can see, they've adapted well to discipline and schedules."

He pointed to a nearby shed, stocked neatly with tools. "Over there is the maintenance hut. Older apprentices learn tool repair and maintenance there, skills they can carry anywhere."

They passed another building, from which rose the warm aroma of fresh bread and stew. "That's the communal kitchen and dining hall," Daylen continued. "All workers receive hearty meals. We insist on nutritious fare to keep up their strength and development."

Seraphina caught sight of a line of modest cabins arranged around a clearing. Daylen followed her gaze and nodded, "Dormitories, milady. They are simple but warm. Most apprentices share quarters, though senior workers like myself have private rooms. Discipline is strictly maintained."

He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "There are occasional runaways, but they rarely go far. Most return willingly, knowing they're safer here than alone."

His earnest gaze met hers, seeking approval, perhaps afraid he'd spoken too much. Seraphina smiled faintly, her eyes glittering. "You've done well, Master Voles."

Daylen straightened, pride swelling visibly. "Thank you, milady. We strive each day to repay the faith Bottleworth's Confectioneries has placed in us."

As the tour concluded, Seraphina watched the workers resume their tasks without hesitation, like clockwork. Yes, she thought, her investment was already bearing fruit, and with some sense of triumph, she realized her vision was becoming a reality, unencumbered by such trivial things as “labor laws” or basic health and safety “regulations.”

“Now then, Milly, find us a place to stay for the evening while I cut down a few trees,” declared the young noblewoman, a playful spark in her eye. “I believe I can render them a little assistance as payment for such a wonderful tour.”

“Cutting trees? I mean… err… at once, milady,” Miriam replied, bowing quickly before scurrying off to carry out her mistress’s command.

“Sir Ferdiad Frest,” Seraphina called.

“Yes, Lady Seraphina,” the Knight answered, stepping forward.

“See if you can find me an axe, and fetch my gloves from the carriage, if you’d be so kind. Miriam will handle the lodgings.”

“It shall be as you command,” he replied with a nod, then turned on his heel and went to do as he was bidden.

It was time to see if she could grind out a few attribute points and a new skill.