Chapter 2

"I never appreciated water spinach before. Now I'd betray the gods for it!"

"Friends! Our suffering is finally over!"

Only the programmer said nothing. He looked as though his soul had left his body.

The team lead couldn't bear it and offered some gentle comfort.

"Yin, you're our hero. Have another helping."

"Yeah, eat up. Get your strength back," the artist added.

The programmer went even quieter.

Way to rub salt in the wound!

"Don't listen to him!" the scriptwriter hurried to intervene. "Eat! It's water spinach!"

The programmer nodded. After a few mouthfuls, two tears actually trickled from the corners of his eyes.

Even the palace maids beside us grew anxious at the sight and rushed to console us.

"My lady, His Majesty promoted you to Serving Lady after just one night. He must be very fond of you."

Not just the programmer, but every voice in our head fell silent.

Because in the original novel, the body's original owner had gone straight to Beauty after her first night.

Three promotions in the book. Just one for us. Apparently... the emperor hadn't been quite satisfied last night.

"Ahem. That's all right." The team lead coughed. "There's a first time for everything. It's perfectly normal to need practice."

"Exactly," HR chimed in. "You did really well!"

The project lead refused to be outdone. "Absolutely! Your technique last night left me in awe. Incredible!"

"Brilliant work! My only regret is that I couldn't film it!" The artist started clapping.

"Quite right!" I agreed. "I'm not sure I could have managed that myself!"

"Enough!"

The programmer slammed a hand on the table. He'd reached his limit.

We wisely shut up, heads bowed, trying to make ourselves as small as possible.

Whatever else had happened, we finally had something different to eat. That called for celebration.

Two ordinary, uneventful days passed.

Then an invitation arrived for a flower-viewing banquet hosted by the Noble Consort.

"The Noble Consort's banquet? That doesn't sound right." The scriptwriter puzzled over it.

I nodded. "In the book, the heroine's three promotions make the Noble Consort jealous. That's why she invites her—to put her in her place."

"But we're only a Serving Lady. Is she still jealous?"

"Maybe she's an equal-opportunity hater?"

"No way. I remember her character being too proud to even bother with someone like you."

Soon enough, though, we stopped caring what the Noble Consort was up to.

At the banquet, our eyes lit up at the pastries before us.

Our low rank put us right at the back, where nobody was likely to notice us. We dug in without restraint.

"Eat! Hurry! God, if I'd known there'd be pastries, I wouldn't have had lunch!"

"I want that yellow one! Let me taste it!"

"We brought two empty bags, didn't we? Quick, stuff them!"

"Hahahaha! Take them! Take everything!"

Inside our head, we were shrieking, crawling around like twisted creatures, and growling ominously.

The artist had the body today. He was a mild-mannered young man who agreed to everything we asked.

"Okay, this pink one. Want any more?"

"I'll just take two of the green ones. They don't look very appetizing."

"We're fine. Plenty of room left in the bags. I can fit more."

He kept packing away happily—until he realized something was wrong.

Why... had it gone so quiet?

We stiffly raised our head.

Every consort at the banquet was staring at us.

"Serving Lady Shen, were you a starving ghost in your last life?"

At the head of the gathering, the Noble Consort narrowed her foxlike eyes, impatience touching her beautiful face.

That expression, as though the whole world owed her something, was a perfect match for the emperor's.

No wonder they were married.

She snorted and casually pointed to the floor below her seat.

"If you can't behave, kneel here for ten minutes. Perhaps you'll remember your manners!"

The artist scrambled up, performed a stiff bow, and silently begged us for help.

"What do I do? This wasn't in the book!"

Neither was the heroine eating pastries like a starving ghost!

We closed our eyes and dutifully played dead.

The artist bit his lip in frustration and threw in a curse for good measure.

We knelt. But the scriptwriter was deeply troubled.

"Strange. Very strange."

"What is?" I asked.

"The Noble Consort comes from a duke's household. She's always looked down her nose at everyone. She's got no reason to be jealous of us now, so why start trouble?"

The scriptwriter shook her head. A die-hard fan of the novel, she knew its characters inside out.

"We only ate a few pastries. She's already locked in a bitter struggle with the empress. Why deliberately make another enemy?"

"It is odd," said the lead in charge.

"She doesn't even have grounds for jealousy," the scriptwriter continued. "Someone that proud wouldn't pick a fight for no reason."

Besides, the heroine's family had no powerful connections.

The programmer made a low sound and began to think.

As we argued, a shrill cry rang out in the distance.

"His Majesty arrives!"

With the male lead there, the Noble Consort couldn't very well keep punishing us. Her attention shifted at once.

"Your Majesty!"

The instant she saw him, her manner transformed. Her voice turned soft and coquettish.

"Admiring the flowers?"

Without any obvious change of expression, the male lead avoided her embrace.

"Yes."

She waved a hand. Attendants soon brought paper and brushes.

"What Your Majesty doesn't know is that we also planned to paint the flowers."

"He likes the great masters, and he enjoys painting himself. She's doing this on purpose," the scriptwriter explained enthusiastically.

"Tch. The Noble Consort rules the harem. Who'd dare beat her? This contest is rigged!"

"Just a little game between lovers."

Sure enough, the mention of painting caught his interest. He nodded at once.

"In that case, I'll add a prize. Whoever takes first place shall receive A Banquet of a Hundred Flowers."

"A Banquet of a Hundred Flowers?"

We were all stunned, not just the scriptwriter.

A Banquet of a Hundred Flowers—the crucial item that would help the heroine overthrow the empress later on!

If the Noble Consort was the early-game boss, then the empress, whom we hadn't even met yet, was the final boss. Unlike the comparatively simple Noble Consort, she was a scheming, vicious woman.

"The late empress embroidered it herself. There's a secret letter hidden inside—proof that the current empress's entire family colluded with the enemy and betrayed the country!"

"Didn't the heroine get it as a reward after giving birth?" the artist asked in astonishment.

"Maybe we've triggered a butterfly effect."

"Either way, we have to get it first." I frowned. "Without that letter, the empress will destroy this dynasty."

If we couldn't help the emperor bring her down as the heroine had in the novel, we wouldn't survive the chaos after the country fell.

"It's fine. Painting? You've come to the right professional." The artist snorted. "Leave it to me!"

Paper and brushes were handed out.

The artist took a deep breath.

The artist ground the ink.

The artist took up his brush.

The artist put brush to paper.

The artist painted.

The artist finished.

We stared at his work, speechless.

"Very artistic!" The team lead applauded.

"What an enchanting style." The scriptwriter smiled.

"I'd like to see anyone call that ugly," the finance manager declared.

"It really isn't bad," I said. "Could you just explain what, exactly, you painted?"

"Of course." The artist was perfectly serious. "This is... Asuka."

"Oh, so it's Kōkō."

"It's Kōkō!"

"No wonder my heart's racing."

But why the hell was it Asuka?!

"I... I couldn't help it!" The artist thumped the floor. "I haven't done realistic painting in years. I've forgotten how!"

"We do work for an anime game company, after all."

"Oh. That explains why we all have the same taste."

"But we can't just insist she's a flower!"

Just then, an attendant collected our painting.

Well, there went A Banquet of a Hundred Flowers. With nothing else to be done, we turned grief into appetite and attacked the pastries.

It's the taking part that counts.

It's the taking part that counts.

From his place at the head of the gathering, the emperor examined the paintings one by one.

When he reached ours, his gaze darkened.

"Who painted this?"

Being singled out was inevitable. With our comforting words behind him, the artist had prepared himself.

He drew a deep breath and stepped forward.

"Your Majesty, I did."

He advanced a step at a time.

The closer we got, the clearer the male lead's handsome features became.

"Come to think of it, doesn't his face look familiar?" the artist whispered to us.

"Of course it does. We slept with him three days ago."

"No impression at all. Must've been too dark."

"All I remember is that he wasn't very good at it."

The programmer burst into tears.

Just before we reached the emperor, disaster struck.

The artist had packed in too many pastries. The bag's drawstring suddenly snapped.

Pastries poured from our waist like a shower of goat droppings.

But that wasn't the important part.

The important part was the attendant's superb martial arts and lightning-fast reflexes.

He thought we were an assassin and the pastries were concealed weapons.

The instant they flew, he leapt in front of the male lead.

"Protect His Majesty—"

Before he could finish, he stepped on a pastry.

His foot slipped. Unable to stop himself, he hurtled straight at the emperor.

Caught completely off guard, the male lead was kicked right into the lake.

Everyone froze.

The m-male lead was in the water!

3.

"No!" I yelled. "That attendant only kicked him in because he slipped on our pastries. When the emperor gets out, he'll punish us whatever happens!"

"Then we have to earn a pardon!" The artist understood at once. "Got it!"

Before anyone could react, he launched us into the water.

"Don't be afraid, Your Majesty! I'm coming to save you!"

With a mighty shout, he began demonstrating the butterfly stroke he'd spent years perfecting.

"Faster! Hurry! He's a martial arts expert. He'll fly out any second!" I urged.

The artist went into overdrive and swam faster and faster.

We shot across the lake, our body surging up through great sheets of spray. For a moment, it looked as though wings had sprouted from our back.

Even the Noble Consort began applauding. A perfect ten!

Just as the male lead used his lightness skill to rise out of the water, the artist finally met our expectations—and caught his ankle!

Yanked off balance, the emperor plunged back in and swallowed a huge mouthful.

"He's definitely furious with you now. Don't let him speak, and win yourself some affection points while you're at it!" I rattled off.

"Serving Lady Shen—"

His face was thunderous, but the artist clapped a hand over his mouth before the roar could get out.

"I know what you want to say. Don't be frightened, Your Majesty! I'm here to save you!"

Eyes shining with tears, the artist clung to him.

"Your Majesty, you're my man. I won't let anything happen to you!"

The male lead looked as though he wanted to speak. He also looked as though he wanted to vomit.

Trapped in the artist's embrace, he couldn't move. He began slowly sinking.

"Quick! Get him to shore while he's still conscious!" the team lead ordered.

The artist nodded, hoisted the male lead onto our back, and once again unleashed his astonishing butterfly stroke.

Every time the emperor tried to speak, the artist unexpectedly dragged him underwater.

"Shen—glug glug—Serving La—glug glug glug—"

By the time we reached shore, he'd swallowed so much water he was about to pass out.

"Oh, heavens! I... I actually saved His Majesty!"

Making sure to emphasize "saved," the artist flung himself over the male lead and began to wail.

"Your Majesty, don't die! What would I do without you?"

At last, the male lead fulfilled our expectations. To the sound of the artist's sobbing, he reluctantly lost consciousness.

The next day, for our service in saving the emperor, we were promoted to Talented Lady and bestowed the title Yong.

Talented Lady Yong. Yong meant "brave."

We considered this in silence.

"What kind of guy calls a consort 'Brave'?"

"Is he making fun of us?"

"What else could it be?"

"Don't blame the word. It didn't do anything wrong."