Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 127

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?"

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."

"I’m an expensive Empress."

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

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

"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."

"Records of the Divine Companions."

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