Head Butler of the Fallen Villainess-Chapter 101: ### Days | Hell Besides "Hell"

[Carrionreach, Northeastern Florentia—Bordering the Garden of Hell at the East and Frozen Kingdom Borealis at the North]

A land plagued by misfortune.

A land plagued by corruption.

A land plagued by humanity's malice.

To the east lay the Garden of Hell—an untamed, godforsaken land where monsters spawned endlessly, slipping past the great border wall to wreak havoc upon the great nation of Florentia.

To the north, the ever-frozen kingdom of Borealis, where war and bloodshed were a constant cycle.

...And trapped between these two merciless frontiers was Carrionreach.

A forsaken region of Florentia, where might and greed ruled, while the weak and poor were left to rot.

Its soil was barren, its rivers ran murky, and the air carried the stench of filth and decay.

The farmland, sparse as it was, could barely sustain those who worked it, and hunger was a familiar torment for the people who called this place home...

Those who couldn't afford to eat either stole... or starved, left to wither on the side of streets filled with mud, filth, and the stench of decay.

These dirty streets themselves were cracked and uneven, bearing the scars of a land long abandoned by prosperity.

The buildings—if they could even be called that—were crumbling, barely fit to be used as shelter, let alone a home.

Some leaned precariously, as if a single gust of wind could send them tumbling down, many already ruined by the destruction wrought not only by the monsters that breached the borders but also...

The constant raids from Borealis.

Desperate men, seeking to claim land unfrozen, driven by the never-ending civil wars of their homeland.

And Carrionreach itself had barely begun to recover from the last calamity—the Red Dragon's rampage just a month prior.

The winged beast had torn through half the city, reducing homes to rubble and leaving hundreds dead in its wake.

Yet even before that catastrophe, Carrionreach had already been rotting.

Because the true disease of this land was not the monsters that lurked beyond its borders... nor the desperate invaders that sought to claim it.

No...

The true disease of this land... was the people who ruled over it.

Crime festered here like an open wound.

The city streets belonged not to its so-called guards, but to the criminals, slavers, cutthroats, and black-market traders who conducted their business in the open, unafraid.

All of them ran under the banner of the many mafia families and criminal syndicates that had claimed this wretched region as their base of operations.

The law itself was nothing more than ink on paper—ignored by most, and enforced only when it suited the whims of those who wrote it.

The men who wore armor and called themselves 'enforcers' of this region were nothing more than extortionists, their rusted blades drawn only when it suited their pockets...

Rarely did they draw them against the monsters that terrorized the people.

That task fell to adventurers from central Florentia, though by the time they arrived, it was usually far too late to prevent the destruction of land and life.

Because no one truly cared for Carrionreach.

Not the kingdom.

Not its rulers.

Not even the ones who lived here.

And sitting atop this crumbling region of filth and suffering was...

The Oleanderis family.

For generations, they had ruled Carrionreach, their authority dating back to Florentia's earliest days.

Once, they had been warriors and mages of great renown, entrusted by the First King of Florentia himself with guarding the borderlands and ensuring no invaders and especially the beast of chaos slipped past the great border walls.

But... somewhere along the way, they had fallen.

Some claimed it was greed. Others whispered of darker dealings—of pacts made with powers best left undisturbed.

Whatever the truth, one thing was certain: no noble dared challenge them.

Not when their wealth, their alliances with the criminal underworld, and their sheer martial prowess made them untouchable.

And so, despite the suffering of its people… despite the corruption bleeding through every corner of the city… the Oleanderis remained in power.

Because no one else would dare take their place.

Because no one wanted to rule a land cursed by both man and monster.

And so, Carrionreach remained what it had always been—a land of despair, where hope had long since withered away.

< | X | >

One building stood among the many shambled structures of Carrionreach.

Its wooden frame was rotting, its walls lined with cracks and holes that let in the cool night air.

The sign hanging above the entrance was barely clinging to the side of the building, its name already faded, with only the mere word for "tavern" as the only indication of what it was.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fгeewebnovёl.co𝙢.

And inside... dim candlelight flickered ever so faintly over the uneven tables, casting long shadows across the rough wooden floor.

The very air reeked of cheap ale and unwashed bodies, the scent clinging to the walls like a stain that would never fade.

Drunkards slumped over their drinks, abusing their barely surviving livers with another gallon of alcohol as they mumbled half-forgotten songs.

Criminals sat in clusters, speaking in hushed tones between bouts of laughter, their knives resting on the table alongside half-eaten plates of stale bread and watery stew.

And tavern wenches moved between the tables, serving drinks to those who still had coin to spare. Some joined in the laughter as they entertained the occasional flirtation, while others... their expressions dulled with exhaustion, merely tolerated the hands that wandered a bit too "freely."

Though... a few of them, whether by choice or necessity, had a second profession that took them upstairs with certain patrons before the night was through.

Yet for all the usual debauchery within this establishment, the tavern's true entertainment was not just from the beverages nor the eye candy that brought out those liquors to them.

No...

It came from talk—

The "gossip," of which many of these men discussed the latest "whisper of the wind."

Loud, booming voices filled the shambling tavern as men swapped rumors, their drunken words carrying across the dimly lit space.

And what was tonight's favorite tale?

The Garden of Hell.

"Oi~! Did ya hear? Another damned noble got sent east!" one man bellowed, slamming his mug onto the table with a laugh.

"Again?" someone scoffed. "How many idiots does that make now?"

"A dozen? A hundred?" another cackled, fumbling with his fingers in a lazy attempt at counting. "Hell if I know. The Crown keeps throwing them into that hellhole, and none ever come back."

More laughter erupted, harsh and mocking.

"Imagine trying to tame that wasteland," one man sneered at the thought, "a land filled with monsters, seemingly cursed by the gods themselves... Bah! I'd sooner kiss a plague-ridden whore than set foot there."

"Yeah! Yeah!"

"You got that right!"

A chorus of agreement followed, mugs clinking together in amusement.

Yet, amid the drunken jeers, one man leaned back in his chair, his gaze hazy with ale.

"You know... hic, ugh... what if…" he murmured, his words slurring as he swiveled the mug in his hand, "what if someone actually did it...? What if... hic, the Garden of Hell became livable...?"

Silence.

Everyone's eyes turned to this one drunkard as they all, for a moment, contemplated his words...

But then—

A sharp smack to the back of his head!

"OW!!!"

"Idiot," the one who hit him muttered, shaking his head with a sigh. "You're drunker than I thought."

"What kind of fool dreams of such things?"

"You'll start saying the gods are merciful next! Hah!"

And then laughter followed once more, dismissing the foolish idea as nothing more than drunken fantasy.

Yet... one voice cut through the noise.

"Well, if they're dead already... we could always loot what's left~."

The words came from one man near the bar, his lips curling into a sly smile.

"There's that old smuggler's route, right? The one leading past the border wall?"

Another silence ensued... as everyone then turned to him now.

But... his suggestion was met with immediate disapproval.

"Are you mad...?"

"You'd risk stepping foot into that hellhole...?"

"For what? Some scraps...? A noble's corpse...?!"

"Ain't nothing worth taking—not unless you wanna end up monster food like the idiot noble that got sent there."

The idea was quickly abandoned, drowned beneath another round of ale.

The men continued to drink, the tavern grew louder, and one by one, they all forgot the conversation entirely.

After all, that was what they did. They drank to forget.

To drown out the misery of another day spent in Carrionreach.

To ignore the suffering, the rot, the decay.

But... not everyone forgot.

In the far corner of the tavern, a hooded figure sat in silence. They had not touched their drink, nor had they joined in the laughter.

Yet at the mention of the smuggler's route...

Their hood twitched ever so slightly.

Two pointed tips shifted beneath the fabric, barely visible in the dim candlelight.

And then—

A glint.

Faint, but unmistakable.

Piercing yellow slit eyes gleamed from beneath the hood, watching the drunken men with quiet interest.

The figure sat for a moment longer, their fingers tapping against the table. Then... without a word, they stood up.

A few gold coins clinked softly against the worn wood—payment left behind as they turned toward the exit.

The tavern doors creaked open. The noise of the drunkards faded behind them.

And as the hooded stranger stepped outside, their gaze lifted up... narrowed eyes...

To the crescent moon hanging in the sky.

"...The Garden of Hell..."