Marigold - A LitRPG

A few days passed, in the meantime life went back to being a little more like before. The hive works tirelessly to rebuild the nest, the only difference is that last time we didn't have as much knowledge and plans.

Aurum was a good city, but a poorly planned city, with many poorly thought out and poorly designed areas, which made implementing new housing projects... Challenging to say the least.

But now we have the chance to do everything right and in the best possible way, for the farms the boys selected a large field of land that was then plowed and fertilized by the [Druids] and [Farmers], the entire place was then sown with wildflowers and fruit plants. The main difference this time is that the boys had dug trenches all over the field to lay "Power Cables" in the field.

These cables are just magically created roots wrapped in wax and wax for insulation, but they serve the purpose of transmitting magical life energy as if it were electrical energy. The boys are also working on a grid distribution center, a place where all the main cables meet and can be activated or deactivated. The place has a kind of rustic "adaptation" with a slot for mana crystals for the purpose of feeding the power grid.

They function similarly to traditional cables, with one critical flaw: they rot.

The more magical energy flows through them, the more the living roots decay. The thinner the cable, the faster it breaks down. To counter this, the boys installed a thick, durable main line—acting as the "trunk" of a tree—while the peripheral lines, the "branches," were designed to be easily replaceable. In theory, the main trunk should last a year or two; the thinner branches, perhaps a few weeks or months at best.

In parallel, they've begun rebuilding the old Magic Club. At present, it's little more than a dusty storeroom at the rear of the cave—tables strewn about, crystals tucked in corners—but it's a start. Max is already hard at work crafting [Golem Cores], hoping to deploy a few as temporary laborers to help the farmers.

Speaking of golems... I miss Muck.

At first, I thought it was just guilt over how much it cost to make him—a fortune in resources, a drain on my mana, and a literal piece of my soul. That alone still haunts me. But no... it's more than that. I miss the weight of him curled up on my lap, the way he'd sleep in the nest without a single worry. Muck didn't just leave a hole in our operations—he left one in my heart.

Maybe it's because he was made with a shard of my soul. Or maybe I just grew too attached to the little guy. Either way, I can still feel him. Not clearly, not vividly—but enough. A pulse in the back of my mind, a tug that tells me he's still alive. Somewhere far to the south. Likely in that human city.

Is he okay?

I wish I could say. The bond we share isn't like the one I have with the boys. I can't sense his emotions, read his thoughts, or see through his eyes. The link is weaker, more distant. I don't know if that's because of the fragmentary soul connection, the geographic distance, or simply because I did something wrong during his creation.

It's a strange kind of torture. As the Queen, I'm used to slipping effortlessly into the consciousness of my hive. Feeling their thoughts. Seeing through their senses. But with Muck? There's a wall. I can sense his presence, but not his mind. It's like having a door I can't open—and I hate it.

Still... I miss him. And I swear, once things settle down, I'll go after him. But right now, I can't justify mobilizing the hive for a high-risk mission deep into human territory just to retrieve something that, in the end, is technically a collection of enchanted roots and twisted branches. I know how that sounds—cold, maybe even heartless. But that's the truth.

I created Muck on a workbench. His only claim to life is the artificial soul I embedded in him.

And maybe that's exactly why I care so damn much.

What we achieved with Muck—his construction, his soul—was nothing short of revolutionary. Losing him would be a waste beyond words. If he were to be destroyed, I wish the soul fragment would return to me. But I don't know if it works that way. No one does.

Losing a piece of your soul... That's no small thing. I don't know the full implications, not really. But in every manga, every anime, every fantasy novel I ever read, meddling with the soul never ended well. And now I've left mine wandering the world, exposed.

If this world contains soul-based curses—or worse—then Muck is a vulnerability. A literal crack in my soul's armor. An open invitation to anyone who knows how to look.

And let's be honest—Muck isn't exactly combat-ready. If someone tries to capture him, what's he going to do? Meow? Roll over and show his belly?

Fleurmont Mansion - 4 weeks after Munck's arrival

"O divine light, please save the little lady."
An old woman whispered, hands trembling as she knelt beside a lavish bed.

The room was a portrait of opulence—gilded walls, chandeliers, priceless tapestries—but none of that mattered. The eye was drawn only to the small figure lying still in the center of the grand bed. A pale girl with long chestnut hair, lips cracked, deep shadows under her eyes. She wore silk pajamas embroidered with gold thread, her skin scrubbed clean, her body cared for with the precision of elite servants. Everything about her suggested wealth, privilege, and the best care money could buy.

Yet the only other soul present was Lyanda—the old nanny who had raised young Lady Viola from the moment of her birth.

To Lyanda, Viola was more than a charge. She was a daughter. It was Lyanda who guided her first steps, who taught her to read and write, to speak and dance, to hold a spoon properly and curtsy without wobbling. She taught her etiquette, embroidery, and the delicate social nuances expected of a highborn lady. Yes, Lyanda may have spoiled her from time to time, but Viola, in her eyes, was a model child. A little whimsical perhaps—but what ten-year-old isn't?

The Duke and Duchess disagreed. They demanded refinement, control, dignity. A little girl forced into the polished mold of nobility. Lyanda understood the expectations placed upon noble heirs—especially one like Viola, sole daughter of Duke Fleurmont. A child raised on a pedestal, admired from a distance.

But pedestals, Lyanda thought, are made for displaying statues, not sheltering little girls.

"O mother of divine light, bearer of justice and truth... please save the little lady," Lyanda prayed again, kneeling at the foot of the bed, gently dabbing a damp cloth across Viola's fevered brow.

Weeks earlier, Viola had been attacked—an unthinkable breach. A creature of unknown origin had infiltrated the duchy's inner walls. It should have been impossible. But it happened. And Lyanda had not been there.

She relived it nightly—wracked by guilt, by failure. At first, the healers assumed poison. Lyanda clung to hope, certain that the priests of the Temple of Dawn would banish whatever malevolent force had harmed her precious girl. But the priests had proven useless.

And then came the truth. Viola was undergoing an Awakening.

A terrifying, agonizing rite—where the heart begins to produce and circulate mana for the first time. Normally, this process begins in adolescence—between the ages of fifteen and eighteen—alongside physical maturity. It is often likened to being "set ablaze from within," a searing trial said to forge stronger mages. Some even believe the longer the Awakening lasts, the greater the magical potential.

When it begins, raw mana floods the bloodstream, enhancing and refining the body from within. A long Awakening grants more time for the body to adapt and evolve. An early Awakening gives the individual more years to benefit from the transformation.

But every reward carries a price.

If the Awakening drags on too long, vital organs begin to fail. And if the individual's heart is too weak to channel the surge, it can shatter—killing the host. Viola, tragically, faced both dangers.

Too young. Too fragile.

And if she somehow survived, she would face the risk of growing up malformed, her body unable to support the raw energy churning inside her. Yes, she might emerge with extraordinary magical gifts... but at what cost?

Hours passed. Still no answer to Lyanda's prayers. Her knees ached. Her soul trembled. Rising with sorrow-dimmed eyes, she moved to a silver basin, dipped a clean cloth into water chilled with magic-formed ice, and began to gently cleanse Viola's pale skin.

Her motions were ritualistic now—careful, graceful, precise. She adjusted Viola's garments, fluffed her pillow, and eased her into a more comfortable position. With a trembling hand, she ran her fingers through the girl's silky brown hair, then pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Sweet dreams, my little angel," Lyanda whispered, voice breaking.

She lingered for one last moment—one final look—before turning toward the towering wooden doors. They groaned on their hinges as she pulled them open, and then she stepped through, silent... leaving behind a piece of her heart in that gilded tomb.

Not long after she departed, something moved at the window.

From the narrow gap in the frame, a sliver of green crept in. Thin tendrils—roots and vines—twisted silently, wrapping around the latch like ivy around stone. With a faint click, the window unlocked.

The frame swung open, the vines retracting as quickly as they had emerged. A small, moss-covered creature slipped inside—silent, fluid, and eerily graceful. Its body was a paradox: elegant in shape, yet wild in color. A deep green pelt, dappled with earth tones and leaflike textures, clung to a frame more akin to a feline than anything else.

It padded across the floor like mist, making no sound as it approached the bed.

Without hesitation, it leapt—landing softly on Viola's chest. It stared at her, golden-amber eyes wide, glowing faintly in the moonlight. It didn't blink. It simply watched—intensely, as if seeing something no one else could.

Then, a soft yawn.

It looked away from her, scanning the room. The lavish furniture didn't interest it. Its gaze paused only on potted plants and patches of moonlight dappling the floor. Then it returned to Viola—walking slowly along her body until it reached her neck.

With care, it nestled itself into the curve of her throat, adjusting, turning, until it found the right position. It meowed—softly, inquisitively. Then again. A chirp. A trill. A questioning sound, as though asking: Why aren't you answering me?

No response.

It pressed its tiny paws against her face. Gently at first. Then with more urgency. Still nothing.

Frustration.

It had tried this before—many times. She was supposed to wake up. They were supposed to play, to lie under the sun, to share treats and laughter. But since the day they became friends, Viola hadn't moved.

Why?

The question echoed in the creature's simple mind. It lacked the comprehension to grasp what was happening—couldn't understand death or suffering. It only knew that its friend wouldn't wake up, and it didn't know why.

But there was something more. Something strange. Something wrong.

Magic.

As a creature born of magic, sustained by magic, the little being understood it intimately—especially its own magic. It could feel traces of its essence inside Viola. That was normal. Expected. It had bonded with her.

But it wasn't moving.

Its magic should be flowing freely through her—mingling with hers, circulating, connecting. But it wasn't. It was trapped.

Locked inside her heart, like a dam holding back a raging river. Her chest overflowed with mana, bursting with life. But the rest of her...

Dead zones.

Empty. Fading. Starving for magic.

Why?

It didn't know. It had never encountered anything like this. Never felt anything like this. Its own core—its magical heart—was always whole, stable, perfect. Its creator had ensured it. Repeatedly. Thousands of trials, thousands of hours of shaping, tuning, calibrating.

So what had gone wrong with Viola?

Was her maker careless? Incompetent? Lazy?

If her heart was broken... why hadn't anyone fixed it?

Questions. Endless questions. And no answers.

The little being didn't know how to answer them. His existence had only recently become whole. For as long as he could remember, it was his master who held the answers. He'd never needed to search for them himself—never needed to think in such ways. His sole purpose had been to exist for her pleasure, to serve, to protect, to obey.

Master?

He tried calling out again, as he had done so many times in recent days. He sent out impulses through the link they shared—questions, pleas, raw emotion. Silence always returned. A hollow echo, as if no one was listening.

Was she ignoring him?

Had she... abandoned him?

No. She wouldn't. He was her favorite.

Wasn't he?

Days blurred together. He sat in the grass and waited. Watched. Listened. He saw the hairless monkeys—humans—come and take her things. But those objects weren't his to protect. His duty was to his master. Was she among them? Had they taken her?

And then... he found her.

The small hairless monkey who smelled like grass. He remembered that scent—it was the first scent he'd ever known. He remembered the moment he had first existed, the flood of life, the burst of awareness. He remembered yellow walls, golden eyes, and a face beaming with joy.

His master.

Because of her.

He needed someone. Anything. His entire existence had one singular purpose: to protect, to serve, to be with his master. If he couldn't fulfill that, then what was he for?

Eventually, he learned that the hairless monkeys were called humans. Some were loud. Others dangerous. A few smelled oddly delicious. But none of them—not a single one—smelled like her. Only Viola. Her scent was grass, sunlight, and warmth. The rest smelled like spoiled fruit or bitter roots. Wrong.

He sat at the edge of her bed, watching her lifeless face. His golden eyes shimmered faintly as something deep within stirred. In a blink, the world around him began to melt—dripping away like wax under flame.

The bed dissolved into a field of vibrant green.

A breeze rolled across the meadow, gentle and sweet. Flowers swayed. Trees danced with the wind, shedding petals like whispers. The sun loomed high above, cloaked partially by clouds of radiant white. It was idyllic—a scene painted from the dreams of children and the pages of fairy tales.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

He walked through the grass, drawn toward the laughter echoing on the wind. Twigs cracked. Stones shifted beneath his steps. And slowly, his form began to change.

Gone was the small moss-covered beast. In its place stood a boy—not quite human, not quite beast. Fur-touched skin, moss-colored hair, golden eyes glowing beneath a stoic brow. His only garment, a loose, tattered scarf wrapped around his slender body, fluttered with each step.

He said nothing.

He simply followed the joy.

It didn't take long to find them.

A wide clearing opened ahead, centered around a massive tree with bark the color of warm caramel, its trunk twisted as if sculpted by wind. Pink leaves—soft and bright like spun sugar—blanketed the ground beneath its branches. And there, beneath its shade, sat four figures in peaceful repose.

He drew closer—and saw her.

Viola.

But not that Viola. Not the pale, dying girl lying motionless in the real world. This was the true Viola. The girl he knew. The one with fire in her heart and light in her eyes. She giggled as she wove a crown of pink flowers, surrounded by three others who mimicked her gestures and laughed along.

For a moment, she looked radiant.

Until her eyes met his.

"You—" she scowled. "Muck! I told you not to come here!" She turned her gaze back to her flower crown with renewed intensity. "Leave me alone!"

"She wants to stay with us!"
"Go away!"
"She doesn't want you!"

The other three figures rose to stand between them. Viola's parents—Isabel and Gretel—and an elderly man Muck didn't recognize. But they were different here. Isabel wore simple, loose clothing. No makeup. Her hair wild and windblown. Her eyes, however, were full of love. Gretel, too, seemed changed—relaxed, smiling, a father present, not distant. He looked ready to leap to Viola's defense at a moment's notice.

The old man? A mystery. Muck had seen him before, only in passing. Perhaps a tutor? A priest? A mentor? The figure's stern but gentle presence felt... manufactured.

"Muck..." Viola muttered. "Go away."

He stepped forward anyway.

"Viola. Let's go."

She paused—then crushed the flower crown in her hands.

Tears welled in her eyes. But she refused to move.

"Viola's not leaving!" she snapped.

"It's not real." Muck replied, his voice calm, expression unchanged.

That single sentence hit her harder than any scream. Her hands trembled. Her lips quivered. Her eyes brimmed.

Her "grandfather" pulled her into an embrace.

The other figures began to shout.

"Why won't you just leave us alone?!"
"We just want to be loved!"
"Let us stay!"

Their bodies shimmered, flickering like damaged illusions.

"You... dying... because... heart and mana..." Muck forced out the words, stumbling over the language. His thoughts were disjointed, incomplete—but the message was clear. Viola didn't understand.

"Liar!" she screamed. "That's not true! Get out! Viola doesn't want you anymore!"

The two parental figures began to unravel—literally. Their limbs, their faces, their forms twisted, melted, collapsed into puddles of vibrant liquid. Muck stared, unmoving, and the illusion could no longer hold.

The colored water seeped outward, touching the grass, the tree, the sky—devouring the dream.

Viola screamed, reaching out, trying to save it. But it was gone. Her perfect world washed away like paint down a drain.

All that remained was white.

An infinite canvas.

And her.

She curled into herself, sobbing silently in the emptiness. Muck walked to her, slow and quiet. The last of the liquid flowed into his open palm. He closed his fist around it. It vanished.

Viola didn't run.

She didn't push him away.

Her face turned toward him—not in hatred, but in sorrow.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, her voice small and broken.

"It wasn't real." Muck answered.

"It was better than real," she said, still crying.

"But it still wasn't real." he repeated, unblinking.

Sniff.

"You're going to die soon," Muck said, blunt as ever.

"Maybe that's for the best…" Viola whispered, hugging her knees, tears dripping down her cheeks. "Mommy and Daddy don't care about Viola anyway… Not even my brother. Only Grandpa and Lyanda care."

"Muck cares about Viola," he replied, sounding oddly offended.

"You don't count," Viola said with conviction, as if stating a universal truth. "You're Viola's friend. You have to like Viola."

Muck tilted his head. "Because... different humans?"

"Huh?" Viola blinked. "Different humans?"

"Because... humans..." Muck repeated, slowly raising his hands. Between them, an illusion shimmered to life—Viola's parents, but not the idealized versions from her dreams. These were the real ones—cold, distant, preoccupied.

"...Different?" he asked, his glowing eyes full of sincere confusion.

Viola's smile faded.

"They're not different… They're just..." she paused, grasping for words. "They're just better," she finished with a hollow voice.

"Better is different," Muck replied simply.

"Ugh… Viola just… I just wish it was better," she murmured, her gaze distant and unfocused.

"Fake better?" Muck asked, clearly baffled by her attachment to an artificial reality built on fragments of her own desires. To him, it was obvious—if it wasn't real, how could it matter?

"You don't understand Viola," she said bitterly. Her tears had already stained the white world beneath them, slowly giving birth to a new scene.

"I don't want Viola to die." Muck leaned closer, his wide, golden eyes shimmering. "Fix you."

"Viola doesn't want to die either… Lyanda says dying hurts a lot. Viola doesn't like hurting…" she admitted, voice trembling with childlike fear.

"Then don't die," Muck said, as though it were a simple decision.

"Viola can't stop it!" she cried. "Viola doesn't know how… Nobody tells me anything!" Her frustration boiled over into sobs.

"Swap your heart," Muck replied, without hesitation.

"Huh?" Viola looked at him like he'd said something absurd. "Why would I change my heart? I like my heart! Lyanda says it's what makes Viola… Viola!"

"Too full," Muck tried to explain, struggling to form the words. "Clogged. Too much magic. It will die."

She didn't truly understand—but she understood enough to be afraid. Just hearing the word die again made her stomach twist.

"If Viola is going to die…" she sniffled, hugging herself tighter, "…can't we just play a little longer? In the paradise of light?"

Paradise of Light—that's what she'd named her dreamscape. A sanctuary of pure imagination, a lucid world formed by her subconscious and shaped by Muck's magic. Here, she could build anything, be anything—except free.

"I don't want to play." Muck's tone sharpened. "I want to fix you."

"Fix? Viola isn't broken!" she shouted, flustered and defensive.

"Yes," he replied flatly. "Breaking. Not broken yet."

"Hmph. And what are you going to do? Daddy's magicians couldn't help. Not even the church soldiers." Her voice cracked with resentment.

"I don't know… if I can fix," Muck admitted, head drooping slightly. "But I will try."

For the first time, Viola looked at him—really looked. Her eyes, still glistening with tears, met his. "Try? Try what?"

"…Don't know…" Muck murmured. "Master would know. Master gave Muck a piece of soul to fix Muck. So… Muck will give a piece of Muck to fix Viola."

"A… piece of you?" she asked, confused.

"A piece of Muck," he nodded, his face serious.

"Will it work?" she asked, cautiously wiping her tears.

"It fixed Muck. Maybe it will fix Viola too." His voice held a flicker of hope.

"And how did you—" she began, but stopped as Muck suddenly doubled over, gagging.

A choking sound escaped his throat, followed by the wet splatter of something organic hitting the ground.

"Eugh! Gross!" Viola exclaimed, stepping back.

Muck hacked up a glistening mass of greenish slime mixed with golden drool. He poked through it with delicate claws, shifting aside twigs and viscera until something shone beneath the muck—an emerald orb, pulsing softly with golden light.

"Muck gives this," he said, holding it up with both hands.

"Kyah! No way! That's disgusting! Viola's not touching that!" she shrieked.

Muck frowned. He looked off to the side—somewhere distant, as if sensing something. His eyes briefly turned pitch black before snapping back to gold.

"Quick. I must go," he said urgently, and without warning, shoved the orb against her chest.

"W-wait—!" she gasped.

The orb latched onto her skin like a living thing. Inky black roots tipped with radiant gold burrowed into her flesh. She screamed in panic—but there was no pain. Only a creeping heat. Within seconds, the orb dissolved into her body. Not even a scar remained.

"Muck—" Viola called out, but he was gone.

The painted world had vanished.

Only the white void remained, speckled with flecks of color born from her tears.

And then... warmth.

A gentle pulse, rising from within her chest. It spread like fire—but it didn't burn. It tingled. Invigorated. Her vision clouded, and strange images flooded her mind—visions she couldn't explain.

A sky torn open. A thousand unfamiliar faces. Glowing screens with floating text. A haunting melody that made her dizzy. Fire. Smoke. Screams. Burning flesh. Charred paper. Blood. Monsters. Decay.

And then—

Gold.

The most perfect, radiant gold Viola had ever seen. It shimmered, not with brilliance, but with kindness. It watched her, reached for her, embraced her.

She couldn't see its face. Couldn't hear its voice. Couldn't touch it.

But it called to her.

"Viola!... Viola!... Viola!..."

She reached out, as if grasping through syrup. The image flickered. Darkness closed in.

Don't... go... away... she begged silently, curling into herself.

"Viola!" shouted a voice—familiar, real, and close.

The moment Viola opened her eyes, she was greeted by the familiar sight of a polished wooden ceiling. Her vision was blurred by tears, and a dull ache throbbed deep in her chest. Her body felt heavy and sore, as if she were waking from a long, forced stillness. Beside her, Lyanda's tear-streaked face hovered close, eyes shining with relief and joy as she gently grasped Viola's hand.

Voices drifted into the room — familiar names called out softly — but Viola couldn't focus on the words. Pain, exhaustion, and an overwhelming sense of discomfort weighed down her entire being. Yet beneath it all, a warm, spreading sensation began to unfurl through her veins. Her heart pounded with a bittersweet sting of regret, a dull ache she could now bear without it breaking her.

She stared at her fingers, as if trying to convince herself she was truly awake. Beneath her flawless skin, she could see something stirring — ripples of golden energy pulsing faintly, shimmering just beneath the surface. A tingling sensation crept through her fingertips; her nails darkened from delicate pink to a deep, glossy jet black. Her skin glistened faintly, dusted with a subtle shimmer reminiscent of candle wax and stardust.

Muffled voices spoke around her, mentioning summons and strange objects, but the words slipped through her foggy mind. Viola's gaze shifted across the room to a towering mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling. Reflected in its glass, the servants circled her bedside, their movements a blur.

Then, the reflection of herself caught her eye — and it was different. Her hair flowed longer, its rich brown now softened into a creamy, light hue, like sunlit suede fading into gentle cream. Her skin appeared paler than she remembered, almost luminous.

But what truly held her breath were her eyes.

Gold. Not just any gold — a radiant, glowing gold that burned brighter and warmer than morning sunlight, eclipsing it with its brilliance. A stark contrast to the green eyes she once knew, yet it didn't unsettle her. On the contrary, Viola felt something stirring within her — a recognition, a quiet awe.

She thought, perhaps for the first time in a long while, that she was... beautiful.

Huh? W-What—?"

A strange sensation rippled through the link, and moments later, a brutal notification flashed before my eyes: Soul Fragmented!??? Something was very, very wrong.

I scrambled to analyze the link, searching for any anomaly. Could this disturbance be an attack? But if so—who was behind it? Why target me? And most unsettling of all… how were they attacking me directly through the link?!

This link was supposed to be an unbreakable channel between me and my offspring. No one should breach this "plane" except my own bloodline. That meant there were only three possibilities.

First, someone from the hive might have been used as a bridge to strike the link. But I sensed no absences, no unusual behavior in the hive—nothing to suggest that.

Second, it could be some kind of mental attack magic I'm unaware of. Maybe Morthak trying to provoke me, or something worse. Still, that seemed unlikely; my species is supposed to be at least highly resistant, if not outright immune, to mental assaults.

That left the third option—the one I dreaded most: an unknown source, using unknown methods. Something I couldn't detect or counter because I didn't understand how it worked.

The thought made my skin crawl.

Without hesitation, I alerted the entire information club. The hive froze, as if time itself paused, then began a thorough link audit—an "Integrity Check"—to hunt down any error or vulnerability.

Nothing?

I thought. But then, a mental reply came through.

"We detected an unusual wave signal from the south," Steve reported, "but it was weak and inconclusive."

South? My heart skipped.

"Damn it! Muck!?"

Something had happened to Muck—more precisely, to Muck's soul, which was intertwined with mine. In other words, Muck had suffered an unknown spiritual attack, and I'd just borne the fallout.

I glanced at my soul fragmentation debuff. No change. That meant the fractured soul wasn't mine—it was Muck's.

"DAMN IT!!" I roared, tugging at my hair in frustration. Since Muck's soul was an extension of mine, whatever shattered Muck's soul also tore at the fragment I'd entrusted to him.

"This is bad. Very bad."

Whoever was behind this wasn't just targeting me—they were playing with fire. What if they intended to use my soul as a curse? So far, I only knew of soul curses in theory, but what if this bastard was trying to pull a twisted version of The Rising of the Shield Hero—enslaving me through my own soul!?

"FUCK!!"