A beautiful maiden who puts even flowers to shame. An 18 years old with perfect beauty that is both sexy and innocent, somewhere between a beautiful girl and a beautiful woman who is wet with morning dew.
In conclusion, I died in a carriage accident.
Yes, I died.
âperhaps.
Iâm standing in a blank white space right now.
In front of me is a boy dressed in white, with a lot of ridiculous clothing, sitting in a strange sphere-shaped chair floating in the air, fluffing around.
I donât really care, but it looks very uncomfortable.
I wonder if the boy is trying to return to his motherâs body, as he is sitting snugly in the spherical chair. I am worried. He probably grew up unloved by his parents.
With these thoughts in mind, I stand straight and tall in the blank space, gazing intently at the boy.
I wonder if the running lights of life are the instantaneous repetition of everything that has happened from birth to now.
I never expected a boy, a total stranger, to come to dominate my memory with his own face.
I am wearing a simple gray dress from the last day in my memory.
I feel no physical pain, and I am unexpectedly very  conscious.
I am sure I was in a carriage accident. The carriage carrying me must have turned over on its side and fell down the cliff. I must have fainted. I donât remember anything from the middle of the accident.
So why is this boy standing in front of me?
The boy, still sitting on the sphere, looked at me from top to bottom with a disturbed expression and sighed deeply.
He said, ââŠâŠ Lydith. Do you know how you died?â
How did I die?
I was surprised that this runaway would talk, but as a lady born into the Anne-Maria family, I must not show any upset expression on my face.
âIt must be because the carriage drove off the cliff. Itâs because we were rushing ahead like idiots on such a bad road. It was foolish.â I answered with pride.
The carriage seemed to be speeding up for some strange reason. And it was meandering. It was a narrow road in the mountains, and I knew it was dangerous.
However, I was tied up so that I could not run away, and I was in no position to say anything. There was nothing I could do.
I was so angry that I wanted to slap the coachman on the cheek and curse him if I could, but there was nothing I could do about it now because I am already dead.
âIâm not saying that, Iâm saying that you should really think about how you ended up tied up in that carriage, Lydith.â
The boy said, somewhat pompously.
âYou called me Lydith earlier, isnât it rude?
Because, of course, I donât know who you are.â
Even though he was a boy, it was an outrageous act for a  lady who is about to be married, to be called by name by a strange man so many times.
I am dead, so I can no longer be Rafaelâs bride, but this is a matter of courtesy.
âAt least call me Mistress Lydith or Duchess Anne Maria.â
Somehow, the boy made a reluctant face, as if he had eaten something extremely bitter, at my legitimate offer.
âI am Camisile, the only god of the earth consisting of seven kingdoms, including the kingdom of Evandia where you live. You may call me the Creator god.â
âYou should sleep on it before you talk in your sleep. And I wasnât named by you. I have a basic distrust of people who call others by rude names such as you.â
âI was going to take pity on you and save you, but now Iâm getting a little sick of you. âŠâŠâ
As I kindly offer my teaching advice, the Camisile boy wrinkles his brow.
I know that anyone who claims to be a god is either dangerous or pathetic.
âAnyway, whether you believe that I am a god or not does not change your destiny. But if you change your mind and repent, I will give you one more chance to hope.â
âWhat do you mean? I donât have an evil heart to repent. I am Lydith, the Daughter of the Snow Rose, always pure, just, beautiful, and educated to the bone.â
The snow rose is a blue rose that blooms even in the snow.
It is a very rare plant that blooms only in the deep snowy mountains.
Everyone praises me for being so noble, pure, and beautiful that I can be compared to that plant, and in fact, I believe they are right.
But I am not like that. Iâm not pretty.
âWhy donât you at least cling to me and ask me to bring you back to life?â
âI donât want to cling to you. What a queen needs is wisdom, strength, and a strong heart. If you say I am dead, I will accept it. Now, now, take me to hell or heaven. Wherever it is, I will make it.â
I put my hands on my hips and turned my chest away.
Camisile looked away. Iâm sure he must have seen my fluffy bosom, Surely my fluffy bosom must have been a sight for sore eyes, so fluffy that even the richest and ripest of grisly berries would run away barefooted.
I am so sinful that even a self-proclaimed god is captivated by me.
But that is the original sin of being born beautiful. It canât be helped.
Iâm sorry, but Iâm not a fan of boys.
âYou donât seem to understand anything at all, not one bit, so let me tell you. You bullied Cynthia Katze before she died.â
âCynthia-san?â
âYes, you were her enemy at every turn, and you were vainly involved with her, and you bullied her.â
âIt was educational guidance. I was teaching her the harshness of aristocratic society.â
I remember Baroness Cynthia Katze well.
She grew up in a convent and was recently discovered to be Baron Katzeâs bastard daughter and taken in by the baronâs family.
I was more beautiful than her, but she was a lovely young lady. There was nothing wrong with that.
I had been teaching Cynthia, as she was not really my problem, about what it meant to have the proper distance, civility, and respect for oneâs position.
I was trying to teach her what it meant to be civil, respectful, and a polite attitude.
âYou were right. But, you know, there is a way of doing things. Thatâs why you were made the ringleader of the abusers and sent to the whorehouse in a horse-drawn carriage.â
âI donât understand how that could be. I can understand breaking off an engagement at least a hundred percent.  But what kind of punishment is sending me to the whorehouse âŠâŠwell, I was going to reach the top in the whorehouse as well, so I didnât have any problem.â
âWhy are you so uselessly positive? If you had struggled and cry, you might not have died.â
âIf I am going to be so miserable, then itâs better to be dead. And you, did you say you were Camisile, a god? You call yourself a god, and yet you have the gall to pity the women who work in whorehouses?
There must be some women who are proud to be prostitutes because of the circumstances of brothels..
âWhether itâs a queen or a whore, it is a job. I have no intention of compromising my work. Itâs just that my position has changed, so there is no need to be pessimistic.â
âOh, thatâs⊠Well, Iâm sorry, Lydith. Anyway, you were set up. But, you know, there were some problems with your attitude and your behavior, so I thought Iâd give you a second chance because I had some sympathy for you.â
âYouâre being very condescending to give me a second chance.â
âYou know, Lydith,â he said, âYou should be a little more humble, modest, and choose your words a little more carefully. Sometimes you need to be cute. You are not such a bad person fundamentally, so you should be able to live a little longer without dying.â
Camisile ignored my response and clapped his hands once in front of me.
I was about to complain again, but before I could, my consciousness fell into darkness.