Chapter 123: If The Future, Needs A Billion Paper Flowers

The forced flashback of a memory faded as quickly as it had come, leaving me back in the cold, dim reality of the mansion.

But something had shifted in Daffodil.

She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, but her eyes were no longer vacant. They were filled with a flicker of something—something desperate, something hopeful in a twisted way.

She sat up suddenly, her movements sharp, almost frantic. Without a word, she sprang from her bed and rushed to the corner of the room, where her desk was littered with paper.

She grabbed at the sheets, her fingers moving quickly, folding them into the familiar shape of a flower. Her breaths were shallow, her movements urgent, but there was a strange energy in her now, as if she had found a purpose.

"This is it…"

Her voice was heavy with pain, yet the forced smile on her face told me that there was more than a simple coping mechanism behind her way of thinking.

"It is not too late to be a good girl…"

Throughout the night, Daffodil worked. She folded paper flowers with an intensity that bordered on madness, her hands moving faster and faster as each one took shape.

When she ran out of the paper at her desk, she moved to the bookshelves, tearing pages from volumes and tomes without hesitation. Nothing was sacred—not scriptures, not important historical texts. All of it fell victim to her obsessive task.

At some point, she even began asking the lifeless servants for help, handing them sheets of paper to fold alongside her.

They obeyed without question, their stiff fingers working to mimic her frantic pace.

The mansion, once filled with silence, was now alive with the rustling of paper and the whispered movements of servants working under Daffodil's strange command. Flower after flower filled the room, covering every surface until the space was overflowing with them.

She moved through the halls, collecting more materials, never stopping, never resting.

Days passed like this. Weeks, even.

Daffodil's joy returned, though it was a joy tainted by her delusion. She laughed as she folded more and more flowers, chattering to herself and her silent helpers about the garden she was creating for her mother.

She had become consumed by her task, her grief and pain buried beneath this new, obsessive drive.

And as the days stretched into months, the mansion became a graveyard of books and scrolls, their pages sacrificed to Daffodil's fantasy. But the flowers bloomed, paper flowers in shades of crimson, covering every inch of the estate.

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The mansion felt isolated, yet there was no sign of stopping the influx of items and resources from the outside world. But at the same time, Daffodil held zero urge to go outside.

She only wanted to finish her paper garden and nothing more.

I watched as she worked, and I couldn't predict what would happen once she had finally created her billion flowers.

But one thing was certain—whatever came next, it wouldn't be anything good.

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The day of salvation had arrived.

Daffodil stood at the center of the grand hall, surrounded by the fruits of her labor—billions of paper flowers, each one meticulously folded, every edge sharp, every fold perfect.

The mansion was overflowing with them, from the smallest room to the vast halls and garden.

The once pristine estate had been swallowed by the sea of crimson paper blooms, their dull red hues blanketing every surface.

The child who had once sat by her mother's bedside, full of innocent joy, was no more. Time had passed, though I couldn't tell how much. Daffodil had grown, her hair had reached the floor and was essentially dragged around, now that she had bluntly refused the servant help for her hair today.

Her face, once cherubic, had been sculpted into a much more mature frame.

Yet her eyes still gleamed with the faint spark of a child's dream—one that had never died, only twisted and mutated into something bigger.

I couldn't comprehend how many years had slipped by. Time seemed to move differently in the current vision—one day blurring into the next, as though it held no real meaning.

For me, the observer, time had probably lost its weight entirely, and I found myself unsure of whether it had been mere months or many decades since I had first entered this vision.

Daffodil, now a woman, gazed out over her kingdom of paper flowers. Her hands trembled slightly as she touched the delicate petals. Her voice, though strained, still carried the soft lilt of that young girl I had first witnessed, the one who had sat by her mother's bed, so full of life.

"I've done it, mother…" she whispered to herself, her voice filled with a bittersweet ache. "I've made them all… a billion paper flowers, just like I promised. They'll never wilt, just like you said."

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, I could see her retreat into the past, to a time when she had once believed in happy endings, when her world had been filled with the warmth of family and the joy of simple things.

"I remember those days… when we were together. It was perfect, wasn't it?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought we'd always be like that… the amount of things that I still want us to do, even in your sickly state under the roof of that mansion…

"I thought 'she' would keep her promise."

Her expression darkened, a shadow crossing her face as her memories turned bitter. "But she lied, didn't she? She never cared. She hasn't come back since that day. She abandoned me here, like I'm nothing. Just like the rest of them… just like father."

The regret was thick in her voice, a regret that had clearly eaten away at her for years. "I was so foolish… so childish. I thought… I thought that everything would go back to what it once was.

"But now I know better. I should have been stronger, should have grown up… but I didn't. And now… now it's too late, isn't it?"

She lifted one of the paper flowers, cradling it in her hands as if it were a fragile thing. Her lips quivered, and a tear slipped down her cheek, though her expression remained calm, almost resigned.

"Maybe this wasn't the worst fate, though," she said, her voice distant. "I had my flowers. I had my memories. I still have my mother, in a way… in these."

But the smile that touched her lips was broken, full of sorrow. She let the flower fall from her hands.

With slow, deliberate movements, Daffodil turned to one of the mute knights who stood motionless. She extended her hand towards him, her voice firm, yet calm.

"Give me your sword."