Chapter 2:

Chapter 2: Respectable Deals, Questionable XP

I Died a Virgin and Got Reincarnated with an Ecchi System

[+10 XP Someone got aroused because of you]

[Ecchi System:
Violetta Monet (?)
Level: 1 (10/1000 XP)
…]

Violetta raised an eyebrow at the maid.

Seriously? she thought, studying the woman’s perfectly neutral, professional expression.

“The tea is still hot, my lady. Please be careful.”

“Hm.” Violetta nodded, still watching her, and then she noticed it.

A quick subtle glance.

She just checked my cleavage while setting the tray!

Finding someone attractive was one thing. Getting that kind of reaction from a single glance?

She must be one hell of a horny girl.

Violetta, out of sheer curiosity, let her own gaze drift in return, trying to be as discreet as possible.

She had long brown hair neatly tied back with a headband, and warm, honey-colored eyes. Not the kind of beauty that stood out, but easy on the eyes.

Violetta’s gaze drifts, casual enough not to be obvious, taking in the rest of her. There was nothing particularly striking about her figure, no sharp edges or exaggerated curves, just a balanced, unremarkable shape that fit her neatly. Not plain, not eye-catching either. Simply… pleasant.

Violetta froze.

Then immediately cleared her throat, straightening up.

“Ah—yes.”

She could feel the heat creeping into her cheeks.

She checked me out first!

Her mind clung to that fact like a lifeline.

“Yes, thank you, Miss…?”

“Chloe, my lady. Chloe Clarke.”

“Nice to meet you, Chloe. My name is Violetta.” She offered a polite smile.

Chloe blinked, clearly a little surprised, then returned it.

“Likewise, my lady. Shall I assist you with anything else?”

“No, that will be all. Thank you.”

As Chloe turned to leave, Violetta’s gaze dipped again, just slightly. Right as the door was about to close, Chloe glanced back and smiled—a small, knowing smile.

“…She noticed,” Violetta muttered, cheeks reddening further.

She covered her face with one hand.

I am not winning that exchange.

Maybe—maybe—if she had a bit more confidence, she could have tried flirting.

But that required experience.

And she had exactly zero.

Way too embarrassing.

“She’s the weird one,” Violetta muttered. “Getting worked up over a glance…”

She started on her breakfast.

At least the room included meals. Maybe her original self hadn’t been completely out of touch.

“Still… forty liras,” she muttered. “That’s two days at a normal inn. And food.”

Pain.

Financial pain.

By the time she finished eating, she had her plan.

Step one: sell most of her clothes.

She’d arrived in this border town with a small case—two changes of clothes, a sleeping gown, and, fortunately, a rapier. Everything was high quality, as expected from a duke’s daughter.

Selling them could net her a few hundred liras. Maybe a thousand, in the best case.

Realistically? Less.

Second-hand goods never sold at full value, no matter the quality. And worse—merchants could smell desperation.

An exiled noble with limited funds?

She might as well hang a sign that said “please scam me.”

If she wasn’t careful, she’d get ripped off.

Badly.

After finishing breakfast, Violetta changed into the most practical outfit she had, original Violetta’s fencing training attire. Simple and functional.

Well… relatively.

Even the white shirt had subtle embroidery she was fairly certain was silver.

Rich people really do live differently, she thought, fastening the rapier at her waist before grabbing her luggage and heading out.

The town was… quaint.

Cobblestone streets between low, sturdy buildings of timber and stone, their roofs sloped to shrug off harsh weather. Wooden signs creaked softly above shop doors, and the air carried a mix of hearth smoke, leather, and fresh bread.

Being a border town, it had a rougher edge beneath the charm.

The outer walls, which she could see in the distance, were practical rather than grand. Watchtowers spaced at careful intervals, with tiny figures she could see in the distance patrolling between them. The gates stood heavily guarded. She could see at least a dozen guards eyeing everyone entering or leaving the town, stopping random, or maybe not random, people.

Travelers came and went, merchants, adventurers, the occasional soldier, giving the place a constant, low murmur of movement. Even in the early hours of the morning, there was so much movement going in and out of the town, it was quite impressive.

It wasn’t a large town, nor particularly impressive, but it felt lived in. A place that endured for centuries, quietly holding its ground at the edge of the unknown.

Beyond it stretched the Wildlands, a vast, dangerous territory filled with monsters and reclusive races that had no interest in human society. She remembers legends of faes, snow elves, and wild spirits. Most of whom existed at one point in history, but haven't been seen in society in centuries, and thus are considered myth.

“Or extinct,” Violetta muttered. “Which usually means ‘not extinct.’”

The Wildlands is no small territory by any means; it borders dozens of kingdoms and covers over one-third of the continent.

Kingdoms had long since abandoned expansion into it. Too many failed expeditions. Too many dead. Too little reward. Now, only the bold ventured there.

Many adventurers try their hand at exploring those lands in search of treasure and thrills. Some returned rich. Some returned broken. Many didn’t return at all.

“…Charming place,” she muttered.

Still, the town itself?

Surprisingly civilized and even cozy.

Less rough than she expected. People minded their own business and went about their day.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Violetta stepped inside a tailor’s shop in the heart of the market square.

The tailor’s shop was warm, the scent of fabric and dye hanging in the air. Bolts of cloth lined the walls in neat rows, from rough linen to fine silks. A counter separated the front from the workspace, where a middle-aged man looked up from his stitching.

His eyes flicked over her in an instant, assessing her clothes, posture, bearing,...

“Welcome, my lady,” he said, setting aside his needle. “How may I assist you today?”

Violetta set her luggage down gently.

Alright. Time to roll a natural 20 on charisma.

“I wish to sell a few garments.”

She saw it right away, the glint in his eyes. Interest, quickly buried, as a neutral expression hides it quite well.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “May I?”

She opened the case and revealed the contents.

Fine fabrics. Tailored cuts. Subtle embroidery that spoke of wealth without screaming it.

The man’s eyes sharpened.

Hooked, she thought.

But she kept her expression calm. Slightly distant. Just enough not to seem desperate. Sharks smell blood after all.

He picked up one of the dresses, examining the stitching, the lining, the quality.

“...Exceptional craftsmanship,” he admitted. “However, second-hand goods—”

“—still retain their value when properly maintained,” Violetta cut in lightly.

Her tone was polite, refined with just enough pressure beneath it.

The man paused, glancing at her again.

Her gaze followed his, noting how it lingered on the rapier at her side before settling on her hands—smooth, delicate, untouched by labor. Everything about her spoke of high society. Not a trace of hardship marked her.

High society. Fallen, perhaps—but not powerless. He knew the kind. And the danger they carried.

She could almost see the thoughts forming behind his eyes. A lady doesn’t end up selling clothes in a place like this without disgrace trailing behind her. And yet, underestimating the fallen—kicking a dog while it was down—was how people ended up bitten.

She had seen it happen, and quite certainly so had he. Families cast their children aside in the heat of scandal, only to take them back once time dulled the outrage. And those who had mocked, who had taken advantage of a disgraced noble? They were the ones who suffered for it later—when the hound returned, and its fangs found their throats.

“I’m afraid I can only offer a modest price,” he continued. “Demand for such pieces in a town like this is limited.”

Violetta tilted her head ever so slightly.

“Is it?” she asked, almost idly.

She let her gaze drift around the shop. She looked at the fine fabrics that no commoner would waste their hard-earned coin on.

The clientele he wanted to attract wasn't the girl cleaning tables at the inn or the stable hands with mud on their boots.

She then looked back at him.

“You cater to traveling merchants, do you not? Minor nobles. Officials passing through.” She offered him a small knowing smile. “People who appreciate quality.”

The man’s fingers tightened slightly around the fabric.

Got him.

“Perhaps,” he allowed.

“And pieces like these,” she continued, her voice smooth and tempting, “would allow you to offer that quality at a more… accessible price point. A profitable margin, I imagine.”

Negotiation.

Persuasion.

She could almost feel the skills working, guiding her phrasing, smoothing her tone.

The man studied her more carefully now.

“…You speak as though you have experience in trade, my lady.”

“I was educated appropriately.”

A half-truth.

But it landed.

He set the dress down.

“Even so,” he said, “I take on the risk of resale. Storage, clientele—”

“And reputation,” Violetta added softly.

That made him pause.

She met his gaze directly now.

Calm and composed.

Just a hint of something sharper beneath.

Time to put Intimidation to good use, she thinks.

“Undervaluing such pieces would reflect poorly on your establishment,” she said. “Word travels, even in border towns.”

There it was.

A touch of Intimidation, not too much to be arrogant or seriously provoke him and ruin the negotiation, just a pinch to put a little pressure onto him.

How did the saying go, the carrot and then the stick? She thinks.

The man exhaled slowly.

“…You drive a firm bargain.”

“I aim for a fair one.”

The silence stretched for a moment.

Then—

“A hundred liras,” he said.

Violetta didn’t react.

Didn’t blink.

Inside, she was doing mental backflips.

That’s already good.

Outwardly—

“That seems low,” she said evenly.

The man frowned slightly.

“Given the condition, craftsmanship, and immediate availability,” she continued, “I would expect something closer to two hundred.”

He huffed.

“That is unreasonable.”

“Is it?” she asked, tilting her head again.

He studied her.

“…One hundred and fifty,” he said finally.

She let the silence linger.

Counted to three in her head to maintain the illusion of patience and not seem too eager.

“…One hundred and eighty,” she replied.

They just looked at each other for a moment.

“…One hundred and sixty. Final offer.”

She held his gaze.

Then, slowly—

“Very well.”

They shook on it.

“Pleasure doing business with you, my lady,” the tailor said, already moving to secure the garments.

“Likewise.”

She took the coin pouch, feeling the satisfying weight settle in her hand.

That… actually worked.

As she stepped back into the street, a small smile tugged at her lips.

Her confidence is growing.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Maybe I can do this.”

Which, of course, led to the next thing on her to-do list.

The jewelry.

The jewelry shop was smaller, but far more secure.

Thick glass cases. Locked displays. A man behind the counter who looked less like a merchant and more like a warrior.

A retired adventurer, perhaps?

His eyes immediately went to her now lighter luggage.

Then to her.

“…Selling?” he asked.

Straight to the point.

Violetta placed a small velvet bundle on the counter and unfolded it.

Rings, earrings, and a delicate necklace.

The man’s expression didn’t change, but his attention sharpened.

He picked up a piece, inspecting it with practiced precision.

“Fine work,” he said. “But again—second-hand.”

Violetta didn’t bother correcting him this time.

Instead, she leaned slightly on the counter.

Relaxed and controlled.

Way more confident than before.

“I trust you understand their worth,” she said.

No smile this time, just quiet confidence.

The man glanced at her, testing her. She returned his glance just as steady.

“Two hundred.”

Violetta almost accepted on the spot.

Almost.

“Three hundred,” she said instead.

He snorted.

“Unrealistic, lass.”

“Is it?” she replied calmly. “Given the materials, craftsmanship, and current condition?”

He didn’t answer immediately, which was a good sign. He was considering his words, thinking on how to get the jewelry at a good price for him to profit. Which meant he was very much interested.

She pressed just a little.

“Or perhaps you believe you can resell them for less?”

Her words contained a subtle challenge, something to appeal to his ego, his pride as a merchant. He struck her as a man who takes pride in his work.

The man’s lips twitched.

“…Two fifty.”

She hesitated.

Just enough to sell it.

“…Two eighty,” she countered.

A long pause.

Then—

“…Two seventy. Final offer.”

She nodded.