Too Lazy to be a Villainess-Chapter 127: The Saint of National Holidays

[Lavinia’s POV]

[Imperial Palace—Imperial Chamber, After Parade Night]

Now that I think about it... Doesn’t the female lead of this novel have black hair and shiny black eyes?

Just like that girl in the crowd today. The one clutching her chest like her heart was trying to do cartwheels...

The one not looking at me or Papa...

But staring—completely mesmerized—at Osric.

...

....

...

"There are probably thousands of people with those features," I mumbled flatly, throwing myself back onto my bed like a heroine in a very tragic romance. "Totally normal. Completely unrelated. Definitely not the start of some slow-burn, sword-crossed love story. Nope. Not at all."

I buried my face into my pillow. Hard.

The truth?

The story probably wouldn’t even start properly until I turned fifteen.

Which meant I still had five long years to go. Five years of royal etiquette classes, history scrolls longer than banquet tables, and having to behave like a "refined symbol of national pride" even when I desperately wanted to kick things and eat cookies off the floor like a real person.

But still...

Today had been amazing.

The parade. The cheers. The explosion of phoenix kites. The scent of flowers, sugar, and sun on every breeze. The boy who fainted at the sight of Marshi. Papa pretending he didn’t love the attention, even though his imperial scowl softened every time I waved.

I smiled up at the ceiling, limbs sprawled like lazy seaweed. "I hope I can visit my cities more often," I whispered, half to the moon, half to myself. "I want to see it all again. The people. The lights. Everything."

"What are you mumbling about by yourself now?" came a voice from the doorway.

I yelped and sat bolt upright like the ceiling had shouted at me.

"Papa!" I blinked. "How long have you been standing there?"

He ignored the question, walked in with a book like a royal storm cloud wrapped in velvet, and sat beside me on the bed.

"Papa," I said sweetly, shifting gears immediately, because subtlety is for court politics and not bedtime negotiations. "Can I visit the cities more often? Maybe... once a week?" freewebnøvel_com

Papa raised a brow. "Sure."

My eyes lit up like festival lanterns.

"But not now," he added.

Boom. Flicker. Lanterns out.

"Then when?" I pouted.

He hummed—a dangerous sound, usually reserved for moments before pronouncing judgment or deciding on dessert.

"Maybe... when you turn fifteen."

I stared at him.

"For a second," I said slowly, "I thought you were going to say, ’whenever there’s a festival.’"

He didn’t respond. Which meant he was going to say that. But changed course halfway through.

Suspicious.

"Papa..." I narrowed my eyes. "What kind of festivals do we even celebrate in our kingdom?"

He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms like he was about to deliver a lecture with devastating seriousness. "Many."

I waited.

He cleared his throat like he was preparing to recite ancient scrolls.

"There’s the Lantern Festival," he began. "Your First Word Festival. Your First Step Festival. Your First Tooth Festival. Your First Royal Decree Festival. Your Birthday Festival, of course. Your First Time Holding a Fork Correctly Festival. The Day You Didn’t Cry During Bath Time Festival—"

"WHAT?!" I sat up so fast my crown nearly impaled the headboard.

"—The Day You Weren’t Scared of the Head-Rolling Execution Reenactment Festival," Papa continued smoothly, like he was reading a weather report.

I blinked. "We... we actually celebrate that?"

He gave me a very regal, very serious nod—his eyes glinting with obvious amusement.

"Indeed. A proud national milestone. You didn’t cry. You didn’t faint," he said, sipping nonexistent wine like he was reliving the memory. "The citizens threw petals. A marching band played. You were brave. The Empire rejoiced."

I stared at him, slack-jawed. "So what you’re saying is..."

"These are national holidays," he confirmed solemnly. "With parades. Fireworks. Economic disruption. Balloon vendors with inflated egos."

I went utterly, completely, cosmically dumbfounded.

"I... I see..." I whispered, eyes wide. "So... basically... I’m the reason the kingdom’s economy is crying itself to sleep?"

Papa gave me a look. "Only mildly."

"Do the people know how many days off they get because of me?"

"They do. They call you the Saint of National Holidays."

I flopped back into bed with the most dramatic sigh a ten-year-old has ever sighed. "I’m a menace in moonlace."

"You’re our Empress," Papa corrected gently, patting my head.

"I’m an expensive Empress."

"Good things cost money."

I blinked. "So I’m a... luxury item?"

"Precisely."

I groaned dramatically into my pillow. "I can’t believe there are so many national holidays dedicated to... me!" I flopped like a dying fish. "I’m single-handedly responsible for half the Empire’s missed workdays and sugar shortages!"

"I’m going to sleep before I learn I have a National First Haircut Celebration too." I declared, rolling over like I was done with this monarchy nonsense.

He paused.

I peeked out from under the blanket, my voice small and suspicious. "Papa?"

He didn’t even flinch. "...That one’s next spring."

I sat up like a ghost had yanked me. "WHY— Why would you do that, Papa?!"

He looked me dead in the eye. Unbothered. Completely unapologetic.

"Because," he said flatly, "I am the Emperor."

...

...

...

I flopped back down with the weight of all royal burdens. "I have no words. None. I’m going to sleep before I find out there’s a National Day of First Hair-Tangle Untangling."

There was a pause.

Then his voice, far too casual to be innocent, floated over.

"Don’t you want the book?"

I peeked out from under my blanket. "Book? What book?"

He reached into the folds of his cloak like some smug bedtime sorcerer and pulled out a large, dusty tome, placing it dramatically in front of me.

"Here. This was written by the First Emperor’s assistant during his reign about Rakshar. Might find what you’re looking for.... Hope so."

I blinked. "Oh... right." I had questions. So many questions. About Marshi. His origins. His powers. His occasional judgmental growling. "Will I actually get answers from here, Papa?"

Papa shrugged, sliding onto the bed beside me like this was all part of his royal bedtime routine. "Gods know," he said lazily. "I never read it. No one ever did. We mostly use it to flatten scrolls."

I sat up and looked at the book. The cover was cracked leather, ancient and ominous, and embossed with the title in fading gold:

"Records of the Divine Companions."

It looked old enough to crumble if I breathed on it too hard. The kind of book that probably hadn’t been opened in centuries, full of secrets dust forgot existed.

I reached for it carefully, heart skipping. Then Papa’s hand darted out like a viper. Snap!

He slammed the book shut.

"Sleep," he said firmly, already putting the book on the side table like I was an overly curious cat who couldn’t be trusted.

"Papa!"

"Tomorrow," he said, voice final. "If you stay up now, you’ll be a yawning royal disgrace at breakfast."

I groaned, flopping back. "Fine, fine! I’ll read about Marshi’s secret immortal destiny and divine birthright tomorrow."

He smirked.

I huffed.

Then I slid closer to him with a pout, burrowing beneath the blankets. "But if the Empire falls overnight because I didn’t read that book in time..."

"You’ll still have to eat your vegetables at breakfast," he said smoothly.

I groaned again, flopping back onto the pillows like a defeated warrior. "Being a future empress is exhausting."

Papa chuckled—one of those rare, deep ones that made him sound almost human. "You’ll live," he said, pulling the covers over both of us with regal efficiency.

"Barely," I muttered, snuggling into the warm blankets of inevitable doom.

Then, with the kind of casual cruelty only a parent could wield, he reached over and patted my head like a particularly slow-learning apprentice. "We’ll be having a duel tomorrow."

I flinched like someone had just thrown ice water down my back. "Papa—Papa, wait—don’t you think you’re... you know... testing your dearest daughter’s sword skills a bit too soon after her emotionally taxing public debut as the empire’s glittering hope?"

"NO." His voice was flat. Final. Like a slammed door or a dropping guillotine. "It’s already late."

"Late?" I echoed, horrified. "I’m ten. I just turned ten today! Your dearest, loveliest daughter turned ten, not twenty."

"And?" he replied, deadpan. "Some empresses go to war by twelve."

I flopped again, groaning dramatically into the pillow. "Tomorrow is going to be a very hard day."

Papa didn’t disagree. He just smirked in that way he does—like he knows something the rest of the world doesn’t—and resumed patting my head like I was some sleepy battle kitten in royal silk.

And that’s how the day ended.

With a crown on the nightstand, a book full of forgotten legends by my side, and the promise of a sword duel before breakfast.

Because apparently... being the Empress-in-training means you don’t get days off.

Not even after a parade.

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