Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 37: The Third Time

In the world I came from, where conventional morality governed people’s views, my brother and father were the kind of men who deserved to die.

At least, that’s how it seemed.

Here, though, they weren’t so irredeemable.

Slaves weren’t considered people, and rough treatment of livestock might have been seen as a minor fault but not something worth dying over.

I had thought the same way, too.

“Erica, stop right there,” Evan interrupted.

“What do you mean, ‘right there’?”

“It’s not right to speak of the dead like that, no matter what they’ve done…”

But that no longer mattered to me.

The things I used to care about had all been thrown into the gutter.

Most people put themselves first.

I was doing the same, abandoning everything for my own sake—so why was Evan pushing his standards on me?

“…It doesn’t matter. Just listen. This is all karma.

It all started to unravel in my generation.”

If I hadn’t ended up in this young lady’s body and sifted through her memories, I might never have realized it.

“The coffee we drink after meals, the sugar in the cookies, the cotton that makes our warm blankets—

Where do you think it all comes from, Vivian? Where do you think the sugar in your beloved confections and the tea leaves you steep come from?”

I pointed at Vivian, throwing the question at her. She hesitated before answering.

“…I assume they come from farmers.”

“Ha, that’s a funny joke. …Well, farmers, I suppose?

But they’re nothing like the farmers who own their land and plow their fields here in the empire.”

“They didn’t come from the Schwerin family, who claim they only fight those who bear arms, riding their noble steeds and wielding their shiny swords.

Have you ever heard of farmers growing sugar or tea there?”

Vivian shook her head.

When I brought up Evan’s family, he spoke up, sounding exasperated, maybe even on the verge of telling me to stop.

“Why do you keep bringing up my family?”

I thought about his question for a while before the answer became clear in my mind.

“Why? Because I envy you. Mecklenburg had no such thing as honor.

We sent expendable soldiers to fight, turning those dark-skinned savages who wielded little more than stones into slaves, enriching the empire in the process.

While you played at noble knighthood, we amassed wealth through every filthy deed you could imagine.”

Our family grew to rival the other great houses in size, but we were seen as barbarians while they were esteemed as virtuous.

Father might have had his own insecurities about that.

Despite his obsession with elegance, etiquette, and propriety, he never spoke of honor.

Maybe that’s how someone like Erica Mecklenburg came to be—twisted and broken.

“You all, with your vast lands and steady income, could sustain an entire order of knights on just your taxes.

But not us. That’s why we went to sea!”

Though the family had already fallen apart, I—or this young lady—spoke with pride and exhilaration.

“We ventured out to the sea and turned useless lands, fit only for habitation, into something more valuable than anything else.

We brought back countless slaves, put them to work on plantations without paying a single coin, whipped them, and if they disobeyed, we’d cut off their hands.

Only one hand, of course—cutting off both would render them useless. They’d work until they died, though.”

Vivian’s expression looked almost dazed, as if her mind had snapped a little from hearing me speak.

It’s no wonder—she likely imagined sugar and nutmeg being cultivated like wheat and barley, not this grim reality.

“That’s how our family became great.”

There’s probably a former runaway slave among Vivian’s acquaintances.

And she likely believes, as a matter of course, that slaves are people too.

No one would have explained to a sheltered lady like her the horrors of the place that person had escaped from.

“Yet despite our success, it all fell apart in an instant.

Like someone crushing an ant scurrying about.”

Perhaps the Emperor despised seeing a lowly family amassing such vast wealth.

“Up to this point, you might think it’s all just bad luck.

A streak of misfortune, divine retribution for the wicked Mecklenburgs. You could think that.”

“…Erica, no matter what, it’s still your family.

It’s your roots. Talking about them as if they’re worthless—”

“Why not? One day they were overrun by fanatics, dragons, and rebels—pfft.

Evan, if your precious knights couldn’t fend off a rebellion led by crippled men who couldn’t even use their dominant hand,

then yeah, it’s a useless, pathetic family.”

It wasn’t some natural downfall—it was just a contrived collapse for the sake of some morality tale.

“Ridiculous things kept piling up.

But what’s the point of holding on to my roots? It doesn’t matter. All I want is to find some way to be happy.

But this cursed family name keeps dragging me down.”

“Still, you shouldn’t talk like that.

Especially since you were the type to impose your standards on others.”

No matter how much I say, the result will stay the same.

I never imposed anything. I just wanted people to act according to principles and common sense.

All I did was make subtle suggestions, never forcing anyone.

“I never forced anyone!!”

I shouted, emotions boiling over, and all eyes in the room turned to me.

Most of those gazes held pity, worry, or even contempt, as if looking at something beneath them.

But Vivian’s shock was the most striking.

Her normally bright, determined eyes glistened with unshed tears as she looked at me, as though she might cry at any moment.

She flailed her hands helplessly in the air, trying and failing to find the words to say.

And even that sight filled me with loathing.

“You can so easily dismiss me, but I can’t even open my mouth without being told I shouldn’t speak! Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

“When did I ever say that?”

Ah, perhaps not after my head flew off in the marketplace.

“Right, when did I say that?”

At my words, Evan looked at me with a baffled expression, as if he was staring at someone completely unhinged.

“Why don’t you use that brilliant magic of yours to chop off my head and play around with my brain? Then you’d know exactly what happened.”

Tracing my forehead with a finger, I smiled—a smile that might have seemed cheerful, even playful.

“Why don’t you give it a try? Crack open my skull and check the contents. Then you can see for yourself whether I’m lying or not.”

I grabbed a handful of my hair and tugged.

There was a faint snapping sound as strands came loose, weak and lifeless.

It wasn’t that the hair had been pulled out by the roots; it simply broke off easily and fell into my hand.

I looked at Evan and spoke softly, in a voice so low that it might have been mistaken for muttering to myself.

“Evan, I hate you.

You’re so ambiguous in everything you do, wrapped up in that pathetic excuse for pride. And the things you’ve said to me… I can’t forget them. That’s why I hate you even more.”

Next, I turned to Vivian. My voice was slightly louder this time.

“Vivian, I hate you.

You knew I liked Evan. You knew that’s why I didn’t like you. And yet you kept coming closer.

You’re so infuriating because you’re not malicious about it.

Every time I envy you, every time I feel jealous of you, I want to die.

And yet, I envy how you care so little about love or affection from others.”

I wasn’t sure if I truly hated them, but I said it all anyway. It didn’t matter now; this was the end.

From a distance, Lydia appeared, finishing her lunch and walking back to the classroom with her usual entourage.

That pathetic girl glanced at Evan and seemed to sense the tension in the air. Deciding to avoid the scene, she started to move away.

When Evan stepped toward Lydia, possibly to say something, I reached into my bag and pulled out the object hidden inside.

As they exchanged words, their voices grew louder. Lydia seemed agitated now, and the focus shifted entirely to their argument.

I stood up and casually walked toward them.

Then, without hesitation, I fired a single shot at Lydia.

A red blotch spread over her stomach, as if a drop of crimson paint had splattered and expanded.

She clutched her abdomen, slid down the wall, and collapsed onto the floor.

I brought the barrel to her forehead and pulled the trigger again.

It exploded.

Evan and Vivian stared at me, their faces frozen in shock and horror.

Next, I turned the gun on Vivian.

Evan began chanting a spell, unable to attack me but covering Vivian with a defensive barrier.

Our eyes met—first mine with Evan’s, then with Vivian’s.

I smiled, a little too brightly, perhaps even frivolously.

After all, I’d never blown my head off in one go before, so who knows if it would hurt or not?

Oh, but shooting yourself in the head really does leave a mess.

I hate that.

But I hate this situation even more.

Unable to pull the trigger, I shifted the gun’s aim.

The cold barrel pressed against my temple.

If dying could turn back time, if it could free me from this wretched fate,

then it would be worth doing.

Even if I had to repeat it over and over.

This isn’t running away from death.

I’ve already realized there’s no escaping it.

For others, it’s just the result. For me, it’s the blurry, uncertain process of achieving some vague goal.

“Let’s meet again.”