Chapter 10

“I’m sorry.”

First, I should bow my head. If the person involved wants, I’m even willing to kneel and bang my head on the ground.

Callian, who had been reviewing documents in the office, furrowed his brow deeply – it would cause wrinkles – and slowly spoke.

“What’s going on now,”

“At the banquet… I’m sorry. I was at fault.”

If you’re going to remember it anyway, then either forget it or finish it if you can’t understand the situation. I prepared to kneel on the office carpet, reflecting on my past actions.

“What are you doing right now?”

“I’m getting ready to bow my head. Between kneeling and lying flat or banging my head and supporting it with my legs, which one do you prefer?”

“What’s that-“

“Don’t you know, like lying down and stretching? Anyway, I really have no words, even if I had twelve mouths…”

“Wait, wait. Stop.”

When I tried to place my palm on the ground dramatically, Callian hurriedly stood up and raised his hand in protest. The nerve, does he have a hard head?

“It’s not necessary.”

“What do you mean? An apology? The spouse approved by His Majesty?”

“Adriana, you need to recognize that you are a noble yourself. An apology is not necessary.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“I’ll just not apologize! I’m really sorry, but if you want a noble spouse, go to the palace now and ask the Emperor to annul the marriage. I’ll obediently comply.”

“Just apologized to me,”

“Ah, I’m sorry for misbehaving after drinking, but I don’t have the spirit of a noble. If you’re disappointed, should I just kneel down?”

“Are your knees that light?”

“Honestly, isn’t it easier to kneel once than to speak a thousand words?”

Isn’t bending the knee more profitable than verbose explanations? It’s not like your joints wear out from lowering your gaze once, and you can also demonstrate sincerity.

Callian furrowed his brow like a student who had encountered an unexpected exam question. Although the facial muscles barely moved with enthusiasm, to the best of his ability, the esteemed Northern Grand Duke was still amazed.

“You really-“

“Consistent, aren’t I?”

“…Leave me speechless.”

“Huh? Callian doesn’t talk much anyway.”

Maybe it’s just me, but Callian tends to nag subtly. Usually, he just says “I see,” “Is that so?” or “Hmm.” He raises or lowers his eyebrows by millimeters, at most.

“Even about this, really…”

“Isn’t it charming?”

“Ha…”

Callian waved his hand as if he had nothing more to say.

“Yes, well. Have a good night.”

The study was arranged in line with Callian’s taste, clean and minimalist. It might be awkward to say “arranged” because it was so simple, but all the furniture inside was luxurious, and the paintings on the walls were landscapes that seemed to have used an enormous amount of paint.

Long, deep bookshelves, a wide wooden table that matched the owner’s height, and a thick carpet that protected against the chill.

“…Ah. If you really want to apologize, quitting drinking is a-“

“Yes? You want me to bang my head right now?”

“Just quit drinking-“

“Isn’t it a gentleman’s duty to overlook a lady’s mistake as if he didn’t notice? Well then, I should be off. I have to read the book I borrowed from the library.”

I shook the hardcover book bound in dark green leather, <The Art of Casting 1500>, and distanced myself from Callian step by step.

After apologizing, I felt relieved. Following my fragile conscience, a lake-like peace washed over me like a strong river.

Something like this.

A big problem arose. I wanted to raise my middle finger towards a god I didn’t even believe in. It had always been like this since I became a person in this absurd world, not knowing who I was. But today, I wanted to smack the gods even more.

It’s said that hitting the right cheek when someone slaps your left cheek is what the world does, but isn’t this just too much?

One of the two things that infuriate a person the most is holding back words –

“Huuu….”

The sky was clear, and the sun was shining brightly. The garden here was more delicate and splendid than the rough and natural state of the wilderness.

There were charming flowers and sprouts that would lift one’s spirits in the spring, but right now, I just wanted to bury my head in that soil and cry.

Sob, sob.

“Madam?”

“Yes?”

“What is this? That dog’s corpse?”

“-No, it’s not.”

“Yes?”

“It’s not a dog’s corpse.”

“Then what is it?”

It was rice (once). I held back the words I wanted to say and went back to the mansion feeling lonely.

The sun was warm, but it was far from enough to brighten my heart.

If it was going to be like this from the beginning, I shouldn’t have had any expectations. When the servant buried the rice (that once was) deep in the garden that was managed by the servants, it felt like my hopes were buried along with it.

So, the rice I ordered in a moment of drunkenness not long ago was fake. No, it’s not right to call it fake. In this world, it’s the real thing. But the taste, the taste –

“The rice I know doesn’t taste like this….”

I tried soaking it longer than I remembered and even used less water, but the rice I cooked in the pot was not the taste I knew at all. It wasn’t a matter of whether it was white rice or brown rice, or if it was freshly cooked or old.

It was simply, entirely, a completely different taste. This was not the rice I knew.

I chased the servants out of the kitchen and tried cooking rice on my own, experimenting about five times, but the result was always the same.

It wasn’t a matter of my skill. What I did was no different from trying to make sweet potato pizza with coconut.

“Huuuu, xx….”

I remembered my older sister, who used to work and still cooked rice, prepared side dishes, and made soup once every three days.

“Ah, you’re such a lazybones. Don’t you know how hard it is to cook rice? You think just doing the dishes now and then is enough? You don’t appreciate the gratitude for the meal being prepared.”

I felt sorry for my sister… If I were to tell her that I, who used to panic and stay away from fire, was now cooking rice in a pot by myself, she might have fainted. In the end, it was a complete failure.

“Madam, what would you like for lunch?”

“I’ll eat at the restaurant.”

Roasted potatoes, cream soup, white bread, a slightly bloody steak, and chicory mixed with tangy and salty dressing were neatly arranged on a plate.

The bread was bland, the soup was heavy, and the potatoes—let’s not dwell on them.

Isn’t the real way to enjoy potatoes to smother them in chili sauce and cheese? Or perhaps mash them with a grater, season them with salt, and pan-fry them flat?

Leaving food behind was an act of disrespecting the capital invested in the food, so I moved my fork and knife diligently, but for some reason, I didn’t feel satisfied.

“Is it delicious?”

“It’s not bad.”

I had tried to research a hundred different ways to cook rice, but it seemed like I was in trouble now.

Unlike me, who emptied my plate while swallowing my internal tears, Callian toyed with his spoon expressionlessly.

Indeed, he seemed more like someone consuming nutrients for survival rather than savoring the taste.

“Doesn’t the food suit your taste?”

“It’s not to my liking.”

“If it’s too bland,”

“It’s not that it’s salty; I want something spicy.”

“Is that so?”

“Do you like spicy food?”

“I don’t have strong preferences for what I eat.”

It was a soldier-like response. He wasn’t a full-fledged soldier, but as the lord of a territory bordering on the frontier, Callian was accustomed to war and war-like situations.

I didn’t know for sure, but I felt a bit disappointed at this moment. If he were a picky eater, I might have been more at ease.

“It would be nice if you had something you liked.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because that would make life more abundant.”

“Is alcohol that for you?”

“Well, yes?”

The pudding that came with the meal was somewhat edible. I was relieved that it tasted like a dessert I was familiar with. If there hadn’t been creamy crème brûlée and moist macarons, I might have ended up drinking alcohol all day long, even if I became addicted.

“Well, then, it’s better if there isn’t anything.”

This guy. I wondered if I should hit Callian on the head with an empty bottle. The Grand Duke, who was a skilled individual beyond the scope of a human, would easily avoid it.

“I have something I’m curious about.”

“Again?”

“Just listen for now. Are there books that are not in the Royal Library?”

“Almost all books distributed within the Empire are there. Unless they’re deliberately hidden.”

“What about books on magic? There’s a Mage Association here, and there’s also the Tower of Magic. Are there books that they manage separately?”

“-If it’s about magic… Your guess is probably correct; the Tower collects its own ancient texts. But we have enough books even in Winter.”

Callian rested his chin on his right hand and answered thoughtfully. I wanted to retort that he shouldn’t rest his arms on the dining table, but I held back.

“I want to make alcohol smoothly.”

I hadn’t read any novels about the Northern Grand Duke having a dislocated jaw or being diagnosed with scoliosis.

The library under the Mage Association was located within the Tower. Outsiders could enter, but they needed prior permission, and they could be denied entry at the discretion of the administrator. Even if the reason for refusal was simply “not in the mood,” the applicant couldn’t argue.

In a way, it was a more powerful authority than the royal palace. It was effective only within the Tower, but nonetheless.

“Your name, please?”

“I’m Adriana de Winter.”

Writing the prior application was a bit of a headache, but since I got permission, I figured it was a good thing. I followed the employee’s guidance as I descended further below the tower.

When you hear “tower,” you might think it’s narrow and tall, but in reality, it was spacious and tall. It gave the impression of using the available space to its fullest on a limited plot of land.

Some items appeared right in front of my nose, while others stretched out into the distance, only visible up close. It was an unfriendly arrangement that didn’t consider people without magic.

“When you go back, you just need to walk the same path you came.”

The employee, with a voice soaked in chronic fatigue, explained and then disappeared like dust. Setting most wizards as crazy in novels might be because only the insane can endure the customary overwork while in their right minds.

Healthy wizards die from overwork, and only wizards who have lost their minds survive.

“What book are you looking for?”

“Do you have any books related to, um, different worlds?”

The person who suddenly appeared from behind was at least two heads taller than me. Their long arms and legs moved sluggishly, like a tired giraffe.

“Of course, we have those. Precisely which ones—”

“Encountering the souls of different worlds or something like that?”

As I followed their curly hair, a neatly organized bookshelf appeared. The books, of course, seemed to have little consideration for readability or legibility.

“Oh, I think I can choose from these. Thank you for your help.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ve been awake for about 200 hours, so anything feels like a new experience.”

“….What?”

Let’s add one more thing: the Labor Standards Act! I gave up trying to calculate a wizard’s night shift based on South Korea’s legal working hours.

“I didn’t know I’d still be alive after being awake for 200 hours….”

“Ordinary people would have died, but I’m special.”

Pumpkin-colored eyes gleamed with madness.

Short hair was curly and shiny, whether it was from moisture or oil, it was hard to tell if it was madness.

Whether that pitiful magician was crazy or not, the books he recommended were genuine.

It was too bothersome to check the contents one by one, so I skimmed through the table of contents, but it seemed like this much would be enough.

If this didn’t work, I could only hope for next year.

“Adriana.”

“How did you know my name?”

“Is this world over here, manageable for you?”

Round eyes twisted mischievously.

A sociable and crazy wizard. In ordinary novels, there was usually only one character like this.