Memoirs of Your Local Small-time Villainess-Chapter 312 - Old journals

Scarlett woke to the weight of accumulated exhaustion from the past couple of days pressing down on her like a thick fog. The chamber was shrouded in darkness, save for a faint glimmer of light slipping in from beneath the door. Even so, she doubted she could return to sleep.

She lay still for a while, staring up at the featureless ceiling before letting out a soft, resigned sigh. Pushing the covers off, she sat up, and the magical crystals embedded in the walls responded with a gentle, greenish glow. Running a hand through her slightly dishevelled hair, she stood and crossed the room to the small cupboard opposite her bed. From it, she retrieved a comb and a towel, dampening it with her hydrokinesis before refreshing her face and wiping herself off. Feeling marginally more awake, she activated her [Charm of Expeditious Change], swapping her nightwear for a simple yet elegant emerald-green dress with silver trim.

She cast a glance around the chamber.

These quarters, temporary as they were, weren’t bad. Provided by the Rising Isle, they were better than what most inns could provide. That said, it didn’t look particularly lived in, since she kept most of her belongings in her [Pouch of Holding] and the [Bag of Juham]. Along with her [Charm of Expeditious Change], it was a convenient arrangement — maybe even more so than what she had access to in her original world.

Food, however, was another matter entirely. The [Pouch of Holding] could store rations, but nothing that would pass for a proper meal. If she wanted anything decent, she’d have to venture out.

Her eyes flicked to the enchanted clock mounted on the far wall, its overly intricate, luminescent runes marking the early hour. She hadn’t gotten as much sleep as she might have wanted, but at least it wasn’t the dead of night. She could make up for any lost sleep in the days ahead.

Hopefully.

Leaving her room, she stepped into a dimly lit hallway where more crystals brightened at her presence. The quiet was broken only by the low echo of her footsteps as she passed several closed doors, eventually reaching the common area of their accommodations. She moved past it and through the building towards the canteen, the lingering haze of sleep gradually fading.

Their party had returned from the Hall of Echoes late yesterday evening. Scarlett hadn’t felt inclined to wait for all the wizards to recover before leaving with her own group, even if her impatience had irritated Gaspar a bit. But she had been reasonably confident their journey back would be safe, and the man wasn’t exactly in a position to order her around.

The trek itself hadn’t been the most convenient, not with both Fynn and Rosa unconscious. Shin had carried Fynn, while Scarlett managed Rosa using the strength-enhancing power of her [Crown of Flame’s Benediction]. Slow, awkward, and somewhat mana-intensive, maybe — but it worked. Just to be safe, though, she had extracted a promise from both Shin and Allyssa not to tell the bard about it later.

The Isle Wizards stationed outside the Hall of Echoes had, somewhat understandably, been visibly anxious at only their small party’s return. Scarlett had offered them a brief explanation, assuring them the rest of the wizards were alive and that the immediate threat had been dealt with, leaving the rest for Gaspar to explain.

By now, she presumed the Isle had sent reinforcements and withdrawn the others.

One thing that had surprised her upon their return was how little time had passed. Supposedly, they had only spent a little over a day inside the Hall of Echoes. With everything that happened, it had definitely felt far longer to her. Then again, given how she had moved between Memories, maybe that wasn’t entirely unexpected.

The Hall’s trials were over, but she doubted the ordeal truly was. The system had awarded her quest completions for ‘Clearing the Hall of Echoes’, which implied some degree of closure, but she knew better than to trust its judgement entirely at this point. Despite its seeming complexity, it seemed blind—or perhaps indifferent—to most matters concerning the Anomalous One or the Memories she had created.

[Name: Scarlett Hartford]

[Skills:

[Superior Mana Control]

[Superior Pyromancy]

[Major Pyrokinesis]

[Greater Hydromancy]

[Major Hydrokinesis]

[̼̭̬̋̈́̒͜ ̧̘̜́ͣ͛͛ͅ ͚̜̓͜ͅ ̢̰͚̾̏ͅ ̮̿͆̒͠ ̢̾̏ͅ ̢̾̏]]

[Traits:

[Dignified August]

[Supercilious]

[Cavalier]

[Callous]

[Overbearing]

[Conceited]

[Third-rate Mana Veins]]

[Mana: 11875/12448]

[Points: 124]

At least the quest rewards had given her an influx of skill points. More than she’d ever had at once. She was still locked from advancing her pyrokinesis and hydrokinesis skills, but with this, she could upgrade several other skills if she chose. She’d have to wait and see if she wanted to commit, though.

The canteen was nearly empty when she arrived. A few wizards in multicoloured robes lingered near the entrance, and Shin sat in a corner, absorbed in a book. Scarlett approached an enchanted food dispenser, which produced fresh bread, steaming tea, and other simple breakfast items through a very basic transport hatch. Gathering them onto a tray, she made her way to Shin.

He looked up briefly as she approached. “Allyssa’s still asleep,” he informed her. “So is Rosa.”

Scarlett nodded, unsurprised. Allyssa wasn’t a morning person, and from what the others had told her, Rosa had pushed herself well beyond her usual limits. None of them knew how long the bard would be out. Scarlett had been slightly worried about it, but a wizard who examined her the day before had confirmed it was likely only a case of severe mana exhaustion. Rest should be enough to recover.

Scarlett would have to speak with the woman later to get a clearer picture of what exactly had happened, though. From what she gathered, she stood to expect a number of very pointed questions from Gaspar and the other wizards about Rosa during the upcoming inquiry. She would need to prepare her answers.

After a short exchange, Scarlett left Shin to his reading and carried her breakfast back to her quarters. Setting the tray on the small table by the wall, she took a seat. Lifting the cup of tea, she adjusted its temperature with a flick of pyrokinesis before sipping, her gaze drifting to the quiet, empty room.

The tea was decent. But it wasn’t Garside’s.

She picked up a scone topped with jam, took a small bite, and set it back down.

It wasn’t bad, but it also couldn’t hold a candle to the offerings back in Freybrook. Not that she intended to slight whoever prepared the meals here — impressing guests clearly wasn’t the priority, even if she was an official imperial dignitary.

Taking another sip of tea, she placed her [Pouch of Holding] on the table and reached inside, her fingers brushing against cool leather. From the pouch’s depths, she pulled out a grey, weathered book and set it on her lap. Its cover was bare — no title, no author, and no hints of its purpose. Scarlett studied it for a moment, tracing the subtle grooves on the spine.

This was the last thing Arlene had left her. The only item she had yet to inspect.

She really didn’t know what to expect. Was it a journal? A memoir? Or just a steamy romance novel?

In the game, this book had existed but had held no notable significance. Here, in this world, it felt different. Arlene wouldn’t have avoided showing it to her all this time for no reason.

Eventually, Scarlett placed her hand firmly on the cover, pausing briefly before opening to the first page.

There was no dedication, no table of contents, no chapter headings — just a single, dense paragraph scrawled in rough, uneven handwriting.

Scarlett read it carefully, her brow furrowing as she finished. The passage just detailed the daily routine of some unnamed person — their morning rituals, their meals, their errands. Mundane events, described with hints of embellishment here and there.

She turned the page, finding more of the same. It read like an ordinary diary. Why would Arlene have been reading this?

The next few pages contained occasional ‘annotations’ in the margins, mostly in the form of wry asides and additional remarks. One comment dryly noted a neighbour’s ‘eternal feud with a wheelbarrow’, bringing a faint smile to Scarlett’s lips, but that was all. The author clearly had a knack for humour; however, their entries didn’t seem to hold any deeper meaning.

Flipping through the pages, she got a basic grasp of the person’s life: their habits, quirks, complaints about ageing joints, and what was apparently a long-standing dispute with the local butcher. In a way, it was like reading about a character in a novel, but it was far from what Scarlett had hoped to find.

Then, about an eighth of the way into the book, the tone shifted.

The author described a dream — a vivid, unsettling vision from the night before. Scarlett’s fingers stilled on the page.

The dream recounted the life of a mage, a woman whose skill was nearly unmatched but whose purpose was lost. Her prime had passed, and she wandered the world without much direction, caught between fading into obscurity or finding a new path.

It was a description that Scarlett recognised. It was Arlene. It had to be. That wasn’t just any dream.

Her fingers turned the page, almost impatiently, but the next entry veered back into mundane grievances — another petty clash with the butcher, this time over a ‘particularly stubborn coin’, whatever that meant. Scarlett sighed but kept going, scanning each subsequent page until another dream entry appeared.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

This one told of the mage meeting a mysterious gentleman and a shadowy cat in a ruined village. A deal was struck. Scarlett read on, piecing together the scattered fragments of the mage’s story, woven between ordinary diary entries.

The dreams painted a haunting picture of the woman, who had trapped herself in the ruins of a once-thriving village, repeating her days in a hollow echo of the past. The passage never specified how long she lingered there — weeks, years, decades, or more. Then, one day, a visitor arrived. An outsider. An adventurer. A prospective hero.

Every few days, the outsider would return to the village, reintroducing themselves each time as if it were their first meeting with the mage. Occasionally, the mage offered them tasks — quests to complete in the world beyond the village. She helped the outsider grow, granting them valuable artifacts, guidance, and a place to hone their skills. This pattern continued until, eventually, the outsider helped the mage move on, freeing her from her cycle.

Afterwards, the outsider went on to become a true hero, preventing the collapse of the realms in a cataclysmic event of undescribed scale.

Scarlett reached the end of the recurring dream entries about halfway through the book. She sat in silence for a while, staring at the open pages, thinking.

The dreams unmistakably depicted the original narrative of the game. Specifically, the ‘good’ route — the one where the player succeeded in saving the world at the brink of destruction. Though far less detailed and more fractured than the game’s storyline, the similarities were undeniable.

Much like a certain book Scarlett had discovered in the first princess’ quarters.

Her hand moved back to her [Pouch of Holding], withdrawing the other book — a finely bound emerald-green tome with gilded edges and intricate script across its face. Its appearance was a stark contrast to the humble leather journal Arlene had left behind, yet the two seemed to share a common thread. Both contained insight into this world’s Fate, despite likely being authored centuries apart.

Scarlett had tried to trace the origins of the princess’ book after originally returning from Elystead. Even with Beldon’s help, though, she hadn’t made any progress. It was a mystery she’d planned to revisit, but she hadn’t expected to stumble upon a potential clue here.

If the author of Arlene’s journal had glimpsed the future through dreams, could the same be true of whoever created the princess’ book? If so, what force was behind those dreams? It couldn’t be a coincidence. Whoever—or whatever—was responsible would be the one Scarlett was looking for. The question was, what kind of entity could wield such power?

A god, possibly. But as Scarlett understood it, even the gods avoided meddling in Fate directly, as though they were scared of disturbing its balance. Also, their reading of Fate wasn’t supposed to be this precise.

What other possibilities were there? The Gentleman? It seemed possible, but this didn’t match his usual methods. And the Anomalous One would never have orchestrated something like this.

Her thoughts circled back to Arlene. The journal suggested the woman had known far more about a potential future than she had ever shared — even towards the end. Perhaps she had even foreseen the path her life would take before making her deal with The Gentleman?

…Could that have been part of her motivation? Had she felt she no longer had a place in her own time and instead chosen to suffer in Freymeadow, believing that, by doing so, she could open the way for this future ‘hero’?

The thought frustrated Scarlett slightly. She didn’t believe all of Arlene’s actions had been justifiable, but she felt the woman deserved better than the thankless fade she got. And Scarlett was particularly irritated with The Gentleman for enabling it.

She continued flipping through the journal, her mind running through endless thoughts and theories, until she reached what seemed to be the final entry. It was a farewell of sorts.

The author mused about age catching up to them, reflecting with a mix of humour and resignation on the course of their life. Even the butcher—their old rival—had finally come to apologise, and they had shared a rare moment of reconciliation over a bottle of brandy.

Scarlett’s gaze stayed on the page. She had no idea who this person had been, nor was there any chance of them still being alive. Yet, their goodbye had an unexpected air of melancholy to it. Nearly half of the book remained, but she half-expected the rest of the pages to be blank.

Instead, when she turned the next page, she found more writing — this time in a different hand. The letters were neat, precise, and elegant.

And they were written by Arlene.

The first entry contained some brief thoughts on the original author. Arlene wrote with mild amusement about their quirks and observations, expressing a faint fascination with their dreams, though she admitted she wasn’t sure whether to take them seriously. She remarked, almost offhandedly, that she could see pieces of herself in the woman described in the dreams.

The second entry appeared to have been written later. By then, Arlene noted growing parallels between herself and the mage, even as she chose to dismiss it as a peculiar coincidence.

By the third entry, she seemed to have realised the truth.

Though she hadn’t yet reached Freymeadow’s Memory at the time of writing, she recognised that the dreams were glimpses of a possible future — her future. It was a realisation that few would have even considered, let alone accepted.

By the sixth entry, Arlene had arrived in Freymeadow. She reflected on her decision to go there, acknowledging that it was a choice most would have avoided. That it verged on insanity. Wryly, she added that perhaps she had never been the most rational person to begin with.

After that, judging by what she wrote, the time between the entries grew longer. The tone became more contemplative, filled with musings about regrets, missed opportunities, the unknown path ahead, and the occasional imagined conversation with the original author, as if continuing their story. Scarlett could tell these entries were written during the endless loops Arlene endured in Freymeadow. It made sense she’d be sparing with her words, but the underlying weariness seeped through her writing. It was frustrating to read.

Then Scarlett reached the part where she herself appeared in the narrative — Arlene's perspective on their first meeting.

A faint frown tugged at Scarlett’s features as she read the initial descriptions. Arlene had called her arrogant and haughty, with a pitiable talent for magic — hardly the glowing impression one might expect of the prospective ‘heroic outsider’ destined to appear. Yet, Arlene had also noted some admiration for Scarlett’s persistence, and her curiosity about the fact that they shared the Hartford name.

She’d even made a note teasing that she would agree to teach Scarlett — if Scarlett first mastered her baking secrets. Scarlett couldn’t tell if the woman had been serious, but she sincerely hoped not. Otherwise, she might have wasted considerable time trying to persuade the woman to actually teach her.

After Scarlett’s arrival, Arlene’s entries became far more frequent. Nearly a fourth of the journal was quickly filled with her detailed observations — sharp commentary on Scarlett’s temperament, musings on how best to teach her, and scattered thoughts on Fate and Arlene’s own role in it all. Some entries were structured like lesson plans, while others were more philosophical.

One entry stood out in particular.

It had been written after Scarlett revealed to Arlene she wasn’t from this world, and that she knew the future. That conversation had always puzzled Scarlett. Arlene had accepted her strange admission so easily back then. Now, she understood why.

Arlene had compared what Scarlett had told her to the dreams recorded earlier in the journal and her own experiences. The following pages were filled with contemplations on what it all meant. If this world was merely a reflection of some distant, otherworldly game, then what was its purpose? What was hers?

In the end, she had arrived at a conclusion.

It didn’t matter.

As long as she and others lived, breathed, and thought, it was enough.

As Scarlett read on, she felt a deeper understanding of how Arlene had perceived her. What she had once assumed to be a largely one-sided relationship—Scarlett, always remembering, and Arlene, always forgetting—had clearly left a far greater impact on the woman than she’d realised. Even if the lethargy never fully left Arlene’s writings, Scarlett’s presence seemed to have infused her with new meaning.

When she reached the final pages of the journal, she hesitated.

The last few entries were densely packed, the handwriting growing tighter, as if Arlene realised she’d written too much and was determined to fit in as much as possible. In her last entry, she reflected on having given Scarlett the quest to ‘retrieve’ her necklace, believing that both of them had drawn out Freymeadow’s conclusion longer than they should have. Neither had been entirely willing to let the village rest, even after resolving to do so.

Scarlett turned to the very last page and was surprised by how empty it was in comparison to the previous ones. At the top, only a short message was written.

To Scarlett and Amy, whichever you so choose, I’ve rather enjoyed our time together. I believe you will find your path and walk it well. You were undoubtedly my favourite student.

Scarlett’s eyes lingered on the words for several seconds. She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. Was there even any point in noting that she had been the woman’s only student?

…At the very least, she was glad she had given Arlene something, however small, towards the end.

Her attention drifted lower on the page, where a longer paragraph followed.

P.S. Without a doubt, you have been wondering where I obtained this journal, haven’t you? I no longer have any reason to lie or hide things, so I will tell you the simple truth: I don’t know for certain. It has been in my possession for some time, and that always felt natural. For some reason, I never questioned it until you first told me about your world and this ‘system’ of yours. After that, I could only scrounge together the vaguest recollection of visiting a bookstore in Elystead where a man recommended it to me, but that is all. Too many years have passed since my time for anything I say to be of use. Still, if you intend to investigate, perhaps you can begin with the word ‘Aurelian’.

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Scarlett’s brow furrowed. Even Arlene herself wasn’t sure how she got the book?

Then…what? She had simply accepted that it coincidentally contained knowledge of the future? That implied some form of mental manipulation was at play. What kind of power would it take to orchestrate something like this?

This all but confirmed Scarlett’s suspicions. Beyond herself, the possible presence of another player, the Anomalous One, the Cabal, and The Gentleman, there was yet another actor involved in actively shaping the Fate of this world. An entity far more subtle—and possibly influential—than all the others combined.

Scarlett couldn’t help but wonder if this force had been responsible for more than just placing books like this in Arlene’s—and likely the princess’—hands. Could it also be the one behind some of the ‘coincidences’ she herself had encountered in this world?

Even ignoring major phenomena—like this world’s language mirroring English—the fact that she and Arlene shared the Hartford name had always struck her as odd. Then there were smaller, seemingly insignificant things. Like the day she met both Rosa and Fynn at the same tavern, despite originally only seeking out Fynn.

In some ways, she had chalked parts of it up to Fate, but there was always the question of what was guiding Fate. Her suspicion had long been that it was tied to the system. If any entity had the power to manipulate events so intricately—implant visions as dreams, influence memories, weave seemingly impossible coincidences—whatever had created the system seemed the most plausible culprit.

Up until now, though, she had found nothing concrete to support that theory. And, truthfully, she still didn’t have definitive proof. But, at the very least, Arlene had given her a lead. As outdated and tenuous as a single word might be, it was more than she’d had before.

Aurelian.

A name? A place? A title? She wasn’t sure. But with any luck, it would point her towards whatever force was behind all of this. Something she could identify. Something she could blame.

No matter how long it took, Scarlett suspected she would have to chase this mystery eventually — so long as she remained in this world.

And she would see it through.

Because, when she chose to be, she was nothing if not stubborn.

And perhaps more than just a little petty.