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Chapter 1
The Prince Died, So I’m Starting Over!
If someone were to ask my age, how should I even answer?
“Ah, me? I’ve been twenty once, and I’ve done eight to sixteen three times. So I guess that makes me about forty-four?”
Of course, I can’t actually say that, so it’s a question that requires some thought.
“Lady Hariela, happy birthday!”
“Congratulations on turning sixteen!”
“Oh my, my lady. Why such a gloomy face on such a fine day?”
“She’s right! You only turn sixteen once! Don’t worry—today will be wonderful!”
I felt bad for the maids trying so hard to cheer me up, but there was no way today would be a “good day.”
It wasn’t even my “only” sixteenth birthday.
Hariela Something Rurupel, age sixteen.
Youngest daughter of Count Rurupel, whom he absolutely dotes on—and the only villainess in this third-rate romance novel.
A tragic character who, for some unknown reason, returns to the age of eight every time she turns sixteen.
That’s me.
“Hariela! My little canary!”
“Oh my, it seems the master has returned!”
A booming voice suddenly rang through the mansion loud enough to shake the walls.
I turned toward the source of the sound—and saw Count Rurupel, riding hard to attend his beloved youngest daughter’s birthday party.
That ridiculous sight? I’d already seen it twice before.
“I suppose we should prepare the cake soon.”
“Would you like to place the candles yourself, my lady?”
“No, go ahead.”
“Oh! Then may I? If it’s not too forward of me, that is. Please?”
“Sure, do as you like.”
The young maid’s face lit up as she eagerly began placing candles. This, too, I’d witnessed twice already.
Blushing, she tried and failed to hide her excitement.
Everyone seemed happy. Everyone was enjoying my birthday.
Everyone except the birthday girl herself.
Third regression.
By now, I was sick to death of my sixteenth birthday party.
“Hariela! My sweet honeybee! Look what your father has brought you!”
Still, it wasn’t entirely boring.
This “peaceful” party had its own share of tension—
for instance:
Will Hariela Something Rurupel manage to safely receive her father’s birthday gift this time?
“Your Excellency! An urgent letter has arrived from the Imperial Palace! A red string!”
Of course not.
A knight came galloping in, kicking up dust as he dismounted.
In his hand was a pigeon with a crimson thread tied around its ankle—a magically conjured messenger bird.
The color of the string denoted the urgency of the message, and red meant “of utmost importance.”
“A red string, you say? Quickly, hand it over!”
Uh, excuse me—my present…?
Count Rurupel forgot all about the gift he’d brought for his precious daughter and tore open the envelope.
The wax seal split apart—and at the same time, my heart, which had lain dormant, began to race.
After all, I’d waited eight years for this very moment!
“Oh no, I… accidentally… spilled my tea… oh dear, it’s hot…”
With the acting skills I’d honed over three lives, I “accidentally” knocked over my teacup.
The maids panicked and rushed to help me, and so did Count Rurupel, dropping everything to check on me.
Now!
The moment he was close enough, I lunged forward—my only goal in sight:
the imperial letter in his hand.
“Hariela! What do you think you’re doing?!”
He roared as I snatched it from him.
Opening a royal letter addressed to someone else was strictly illegal, even for a beloved daughter.
Count Rurupel turned pale and reached to take it back.
But I had been waiting eight years for this single letter.
There was no way I’d hand it over.
“To Count Rurupel. There is no time. The Third Prince is in danger. Upon reading this letter, immediately secure the prince’s safety and—”
That’s as far as I got before my vision began to blur.
Wait, what? No! Not now!
At least let me read what comes next!
I forced my eyes open, desperate to finish, but it was useless.
Darkness swallowed my sight, and then—silence.
And I knew exactly what that silence meant.
Hariela Something Rurupel, age sixteen—
once again reverted to eight.
“This is a nightmare…”
The moment I woke, I flung off the blanket and checked my body.
My hands and feet were noticeably smaller.
It was the beginning of my fourth round as an eight-year-old.
Honestly, I’d half-expected this.
My first and second lives had both ended around the same point.
That didn’t mean it hurt any less.
No matter how many times it happened, you never really get used to regression.
“Haah… how long will it take to grow up again?”
I sighed at the sight of my tiny hands.
“…My lady? Did you cough?”
A sleepy voice came from the adjoining room—it was Anna, my personal maid.
My muttering must have woken her. Loyal as ever, and with ears sharp as a fox.
“No, I’m fine. Go back to sleep, Anna.”
“Yes, my lady. But please, call me if you need anything… promise…”
Satisfied, Anna drifted back to sleep.
Which was understandable—
my eighth birthdays always began late at night, when everyone else was sound asleep.
But I alone could never rest easy.
If I could, I’d have already transcended worldly suffering and become a sage.
‘Where did it all go wrong? Why can’t Hariela make it past sixteen?’
My thoughts tangled endlessly.
As far as I remembered, there was no such setting in the original novel.
Then again, calling it a “novel” was odd—it hadn’t even started yet.
I hugged my pillow tight and reviewed the story of the book I’d fallen into,
The Northern Duke and the Baron’s Daughter Do Not Love Each Other.
I couldn’t remember every detail—it had been twenty-four years since I last read it, after all.
Still, the moment I realized where I was, I’d forced myself to recall and memorize as much as possible.
Thank goodness I did, or I’d have forgotten even the protagonists’ names by now.
Anyway, the plot went something like this:
In the frigid north—
a cold, barren land—
lived a duke who had never known love.
By chance, he met a baron’s daughter—delicate as a wildflower, resilient as a weed.
For some reason, they entered a contract marriage, and…
‘…Wait, hold on. Their names weren’t “Duke Something” and “Baroness Something,” were they?’
I strained to remember their actual names—but nothing came.
Not surprising, really; every name in that novel was ridiculously long and complicated.
Sometimes even I mixed up my own name.
Five, six middle names—who could memorize all that?
‘Whatever. The names aren’t important anyway.’
I sighed and continued piecing the plot together.
“Why must I marry a woman from such a lowly house?”
“Because I, and only I, will never love you.”
Hmm, skip ahead…
“What? That Duke Something is marrying a mere baron’s daughter?
How dare he insult me, Hariela Something Rurupel, in this way?!”
Right, that’s when Hariela appears.
For reasons of her own, she’d loved the northern duke since childhood.
When she learned he would marry the baron’s daughter, she couldn’t accept it.
So she ordered her fiancé, “Prince Something,” to seduce and kill the baron’s daughter.
The prince, powerless and timid, couldn’t disobey her.
As for why a royal prince was taking orders from her—
‘Hmm. I… don’t remember that part.’
Well, there must’ve been a reason.
Anyway, the prince headed north,
only to fall in love with the baron’s daughter at first sight—
a cruel twist of fate.
“Yes! That’s it!”
A brilliant idea struck me like a shooting star, and I couldn’t help shouting.
I immediately heard a startled rustle from the maids’ quarters—Anna had shot up in bed.
“…My lady? Did you cough?”
“Oh dear, was I… sleep-talking again? Mmm… zzz…”
“Ah, so you were talking in your sleep. How strange…”
Using the acting talent I’d refined over years—no, lifetimes—I successfully fooled her once more.
