Isekai Slow Life: Princess Lulu

Chapter 1

Morning light spilled through the narrow window of Lucien's study, cascading in a warm, amber sheet across a desk buried beneath ledgers, curled parchment, and teacups long gone cold. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beam, stirred only when the breeze pushed past the shutters and carried in the gentle hum of Keimonomimi village waking to another day.

Outside, merchants were already staking their claims along the market road, their voices rising in cheerful argument as wooden stalls creaked open. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and carts echoed between cottages, a familiar percussion that had once been absent from these streets. Farther off, near the winding stream, children's laughter chimed like bells — bright, unburdened, alive.

Lucien exhaled slowly, dipping his quill into a well of dark ink before dragging his tired eyes over the newest entries in the village ledger. The figures lined up neatly, almost triumphantly, as though they wanted to boast. And perhaps they had reason to. Two years ago, Keimonomimi had been little more than a hollow shell — a ghost town strangled by debt and despair. Now it thrummed again with commerce, color, and hope.

They called him "Elder." An honorific that still made him laugh quietly to himself, for he looked younger than half the farmers who greeted him each morning. His coat hung perfectly pressed upon his shoulders, the fabric tailored in the sharp, foreign style he had brought back from his home world. A tie of deep navy sat knotted at his throat in that peculiar loop the Drakenburg nobility favored — a knot that drew as many curious stares as compliments.

At his hip hung not a sword but a satchel, its leather worn and its buckle polished from constant use. When he walked, it clinked softly with coins, seals, and rolled parchment: the tools of the man who battled figures instead of foes, who conquered deficits rather than armies. While others strapped on blades to defend their homes, Lucien armed himself with scrolls and ledgers — and somehow, improbably, restored life to a village that had been all but forgotten.

His green eyes held the sharp glint of a man who had bargained one market too many into submission — the look of someone who could spot a crooked ledger or inflated price from across a crowded square. His stride, though quiet, carried the unspoken authority of someone who had spun prosperity out of threadbare scraps. And yet, there was a certain weariness to him, a subtle sag of the shoulders whenever someone uttered the cursed words "festival budget" or "new tax proposal."

A youth by appearance, a patriarch by reputation, and a contradiction crafted by fate — that was the Elder of Keimonomimi. A man who had tamed beasts with steady hands, negotiated kingdoms into cooperation, and breathed wealth into a village once on its last legs.

Sometimes, even he struggled to believe how far they'd managed to climb. He still remembered the day he'd arrived, or rather crash-landed into this world. Waking up dazed, bruised, and inconveniently embedded in the roof of Fifi's inn had been less than dignified. At the time, Keimonomimi had been a heartbeat away from ruin. Crops had failed. Markets had dried up. And a predatory merchant from Drakenburg had wrapped the entire village in a web of impossible loans.

Lucien had changed everything the only way he knew how: numbers, trade routes, and embarrassingly basic common sense from a world far more bureaucratic and unpleasant than this one.

He leaned back in his chair and let it creak under his weight. "From middle management to village elder," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Isekai promotions are a cruel joke."

A faint breeze slipped through the open window, rustling the parchment on his desk and carrying with it the warm, irresistible scent of freshly baked bread from the inn down the road. His stomach gave a low, traitorous growl. Fifi must be testing another pie recipe, he thought, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at his mouth.

His home, though modest by any royal measure, held a quiet charm. Bookshelves bowed under the weight of tomes on economics, trade theory, and the occasional grimoire whose magical notation he still only half understood. A small wooden globe, which was painstakingly carved during long winter evenings rested on a corner table. And beyond the window stretched a simple but beloved view of the cobblestone streets below, where the daily rhythm of Keimonomimi played out in all its humble glory.

From here, he could see the pulse of the village in motion. The market square, lively as ever, where merchants squabbled over bundles of fresh herbs, polished gemstones, and enchanted trinkets that promised everything from better dreams to better luck. The blacksmith's forge, chimney puffing steady ribbons of smoke, its owner, a gruff dwarf named Brant was always insisting for the hundredth time that "proper craftsmanship requires proper ale wages." The potion shop sat just beyond, its rows of glass bottles glimmering like captured rainbows whenever sunlight struck them. Past it stood the schoolhouse, where young Keimonomimi children recited their lessons aloud, their voices rising and falling like a gentle chorus under the guidance of their ever-patient instructor. The tailor's shop bustled nearby, the seamstress Spispi stitching fine traveling cloaks while spinning gossip faster than her needle.

And closest of all, right next door, the inn — Fifi and Belle's pride — its wooden sign swaying lazily in the breeze, as comforting and welcoming as the sisters themselves.

Lucien had helped every one of those places flourish, sometimes through clever trade routes, sometimes through borrowed wisdom from a world obsessed with spreadsheets, and occasionally through nothing more than unreasonable persistence. He never considered himself a hero. Heroes slayed dragons or defied tyrants. He was simply a man who refused to let decent people drown when the solutions seemed so painfully obvious.

He set his quill down and stretched, joints popping softly. Morning sunlight washed the room in gold. The ledger was balanced. The village was steady. And for the first time in what felt like weeks, there were no fires demanding his attention.

The quiet rhythm of quill scratching against parchment broke sharply as a knock sounded at the door — three brisk raps, a pause, and then a fourth for good measure. Lucien didn't even need to look up. He knew that knock as well as he knew the sound of coins clinking in his satchel.

"Come in, Fifi," he called, setting the quill aside. "You never knock that cheerfully unless you've either broken something or baked far too much of it."

The door eased open with a soft creak, and in stepped the golden-haired innkeeper herself — a veritable burst of sunshine framed in apron frills. Fifi's cat ears twitched atop her head as she peeked inside, a sheepish smile tugging reluctantly at her lips.

She wore her usual work attire: a black-and-white maid dress trimmed in pink, a neat ribbon cinched at her waist, and, most damning of all, those oversized paw-shaped oven mitts that suggested she had come straight from the kitchen. Her tail swayed behind her in looping circles, broadcasting her mood far earlier than her mouth ever could.

"Good morning, Lucien!" she chirped, punctuating the greeting with a playful knock on her own head. "I did something silly again."

Lucien leaned back in his chair with the posture of a man who had long accepted the inevitability of chaos. "How silly are we talking? 'Forgot to label the flour' silly? Or 'accidentally fed Maxim a love potion' silly?"

Fifi puffed out her cheeks indignantly. "It's not that bad! I just… didn't keep track of our food stores, and now Belle says we're almost out of everything."

He arched an eyebrow. "Everything?"

"Mostly everything!" she amended quickly, holding up her mitt-covered hands as though that would soften the blow. "We still have plenty of spices, salt… and enthusiasm!" As if enthusiasm alone could fill an inn's pantry.

Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose, though a small smile betrayed him. Fifi had a remarkable talent for making even looming shortages sound like the prelude to a party.

"Fifi," he said gently, "that's the third time this season."

"I knoow," she groaned, her tail curling protectively around her legs like a chastened kitten. "It's just — people keep eating! I swear the food disappears faster every day!"

"That tends to happen in an inn," Lucien replied dryly.

Her ears drooped, softening the entire frame of her face. "So… what do we do?"

He sighed, the kind of sigh born from affection more than frustration. "I'll take a trip to Drakenburg tomorrow. Restock your supplies. Negotiate the prices down before their merchant guild notices you're desperate. Maybe check on the trade routes while I'm at it."

Instantly, her eyes brightened — those vibrant, green, heart-melting gems of gratitude that could pierce armor better than any arrow.

"Really? Oh, thank you, Lucien!" she beamed, bouncing on her toes. "You're the best elder ever!"

Before he could muster a reply, Fifi surged forward and wrapped him in a hug — quick, warm, and carrying the faint scent of flour and cinnamon. By the time Lucien managed a startled blink, she had already jumped back, cheeks pink and ears twitching in mortified apology.

"Ah— sorry! I forgot you don't like being pounced on. Cat instincts," she blurted, wringing her oven-mitted hands.

Lucien let out a quiet, amused breath. "I don't mind. But if you're going to tackle me, maybe take the oven mitts off next time."

Fifi blinked down at her plush paw-shaped mitts as though noticing them for the first time. "Oh! Right!" She wiggled them sheepishly, looking very much like a kitten caught rummaging through the pantry. "I was going to take them off before coming here, but I got distracted by a pie."

"Of course you did," he said, unable to suppress a smile.

Her ears perked right back up. "Then it's settled! You'll go to Drakenburg, and I'll try not to run out of food before you get back!"

Lucien watched her bounce out the door, her tail swaying in cheerful arcs as she disappeared down the hall. Sunlight spilled through the doorway after her, catching her golden hair as she turned the corner toward the inn.

He leaned back, letting the chair creak beneath him as he exhaled a long, quiet breath.

"Just another quiet week," he murmured — though he suspected Fate was already laughing at him somewhere.

The next morning dawned in a misty wash of gold, sunlight spilling over the wheat fields and cobblestone paths that wound their way out of Keimonomimi Village like gentle, familiar veins. Dew clung to the grass, glittering in the early light, and the air held that soft, delicate chill that only exists before the world fully wakes.

Lucien adjusted the strap of his satchel and turned for one last look at the cluster of thatched rooftops and curling chimney smoke behind him. From the direction of Fifi's inn drifted the faint, warm scent of bread — reassuring and mildly concerning. She had probably already forgotten yesterday's conversation and was cheerfully baking with whatever scraps she could scrounge.

He breathed out a small, amused sigh. "I suppose that's motivation enough."

The road to Drakenburg stretched long before him, but it was a journey he knew as surely as he knew the weight of a ledger in his hands. He followed the path past the amber fields, where farmers waved from behind sturdy oxen plowing in slow, rhythmic arcs. Farther on, he crossed the pine grove where the trees whispered secrets to the wind, their boughs heavy with the earthy scents of resin and moss.

Finally, the path climbed into higher ground, winding along a ridge that overlooked the valley beyond. There, spread below like a painting unfurled by a meticulous hand, lay the great Kingdom of Drakenburg. Its stone spires caught the morning light, and its banners — crimson and gold — fluttered proudly against the horizon, flames that never burned out.

The journey wasn't difficult anymore. Not for him. What once had been an exhausting trek undertaken out of desperation was now almost leisurely. A welcome reprieve, even — a pocket of quiet in a life increasingly filled with requests for aid, supply negotiations, and Fifi's ever-recurring culinary "emergencies."

Here, on the open road with nothing but birdsong and breeze for company, Lucien could finally think. Or, better yet, let his thoughts drift away entirely.

By the time Lucien reached the gates of Drakenburg, the sun had climbed high enough to gild the stone archway in bright, polished gold. Two guards stood at their posts, spears crossed lazily as they watched travelers come and go. One of them straightened the moment he recognized the approaching figure.

"Ah, Elder Lucien," the guard called out with an easy grin, tapping the pommel of his spear in greeting. "Back again for trade?"

Lucien inclined his head and withdrew a small bronze emblem from his satchel — the sigil of Keimonomimi, a stylized tree encircled by looping runes. "The village sends its regards."

The guard accepted the emblem, giving it a cursory but respectful inspection before returning it. "You're clear. And if you're heading into the bazaar, try the eastern rows today. Caravans from Atland came in at dawn. Exotic stock, or so I hear."

"Noted," Lucien replied, slipping the emblem away.

He passed under the archway and into the living heartbeat of Drakenburg.

The streets welcomed him with a flood of sound and scent — merchants shouting prices with theatrical flair, wagon wheels rattling over uneven stone, the mingling aromas of roasted nuts, sharp spices, sweet fruit glazes, and metal fresh from the forge. Banners fluttered overhead; children darted between the crowd; and somewhere in the distance a musician's lute trilled a jaunty tune.

The Grand Bazaar opened before him like a vast, breathing river of color. Sandstone buildings framed the bustling marketplace, their sunlit walls warm and bright as merchants displayed bolts of fabric, crates of fruit, polished trinkets, enchanted charms, and goods from far-flung kingdoms. The eastern rows, as promised, shimmered with items foreign and rare, drawing curious shoppers like moths to flame.

Lucien wove through the crowd with the ease of a man who had long mastered the rhythm of commerce. He inspected sacks of flour, rolled grains between his fingers, checked the weight of cured meats, and tapped jars of honey to gauge their purity. Bundle by bundle, crate by crate, his discerning gaze evaluated everything.

He didn't need to speak much. The set of his shoulders, the calm precision of his eyes, and the soft clink of his satchel told the story well enough. The merchants knew him by now — the Elder of Keimonomimi, the man who turned struggling villages into thriving trade because they knew him, very few risked inflating their prices. A quiet man with a ledger instead of a sword had become, in this place at least, someone to respect.

By midday, Lucien's satchel bulged with purchase slips, and his coin pouch hung pleasantly lighter at his hip. With his errands done, he allowed himself the rare luxury of wandering aimlessly — past tapestry-lined avenues where silks fluttered like captured sunsets, past jewelers' windows that glittered with starlit brilliance, and past bakeries whose golden loaves steamed behind glass, perfuming the air with warm sweetness.

He paused before one such window, watching a young couple share pastries with shy laughter. A faint warmth tugged at his lips. "It's been a good day," he murmured to himself. "No fires, no panic, no surprises."

The moment the words left his mouth, he winced. Tempting fate in this world was like waving a red flag at a dragon. Right on cue, the distant church bells began to toll; a soft, rolling chime across the tiled rooftops, and from the northern docks rose a swelling commotion. Not alarm, precisely, but a bubbling mix of cheers, shouts, and laughter. The sort of confused uproar that could only mean one of three things: a fight, a festival, or something profoundly stupid happening in broad daylight.

Lucien adjusted his satchel with the air of a man resigned to his destiny and followed the sound through Drakenburg's twisting lanes. The aroma of roasted meat and sugared pastries grew thicker as he approached, the crowd gathering in a loose circle around some spectacle at its center. The crowd shifted just enough for him to step forward... and see her.

The first thing he noticed wasn't the crown. It wasn't even the radiant golden braid that spilled down her back like honey catching the sun. It was the food, so much of it. A roasted turkey leg occupied one hand; the other cradled a bucket overflowing with skewered meats, pastries, and something that might have been deep-fried fruit. She looked around expectantly, as though awaiting someone to deliver dessert to complete her feast.

She was perched atop a wooden crate as if it were a velvet-lined throne, she wore gowns of frilled white and rose-pink satin, layered so extravagantly they spilled over the sides like soft waves. A delicate bow cinched at her waist lent her an almost innocent charm that was betrayed only by the massive emerald set in the brooch at her chest, which screamed royalty with every gleam.

Atop her head sat a small golden crown, tilted at such a jaunty angle it suggested she'd forgotten it was real. Her blue eyes sparkled with unabashed delight — the sort of joy Lucien associated with children discovering a sweet shop for the first time. But what arrested him most wasn't the feast or the dress or even the crown. It was the iron collar at her throat, the chain trailing from it, and the heavy iron ball resting beside her booted foot.

None of it made sense — especially since she didn't appear distressed in the slightest. She smiled as though the chain were merely another accessory in her overdone ensemble. Lucien blinked. Twice. He wasn't sure if he'd walked into a scene of royal discipline or a particularly eccentric festival act.

On either side of her stood two Drakenburg guards, stiff-backed and miserable, wearing the unified expression of men who regretted their life choices long before sunrise. Whatever this was… Lucien had the sinking sense that his "quiet week" had just come to an abrupt and theatrical end.

"Please tell me," Lucien murmured under his breath, "that's not what it looks like."

One of the guards finally noticed him and snapped to attention so quickly his armor clinked. "Ah! Elder Lucien of Keimonomimi, correct?"

Lucien exhaled in resignation. "I'm beginning to think I should stop coming here."

The guard hurried forward, wearing the expression of a man about to unload a very troublesome burden. "You've arrived at an… opportune time, sir. This is Princess Lulu of Atland. She—ah—finds herself indebted to the Crown of Drakenburg."

The princess, apparently oblivious to the conversation about her legal status, cheerfully licked honey from her fingertip and waved her turkey leg like a scepter. "Hello there! Lovely weather, isn't it? Are you the dessert vendor?"

Lucien blinked. "The what?"

She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with a mischief both disarming and dangerous. "You look like a man who appreciates good food. And possibly knows where to acquire more of it."

The guard coughed into his fist, face tightening with embarrassment. "The princess has… accumulated certain culinary expenses. As such, she has requested fo be under temporary responsible supervision until the debt is repaid."

Lucien slowly turned to look at the princess gnawing enthusiastically on her turkey leg. Then back to the guards. "Responsible supervision," he echoed, voice flat as parchment. He stared at her again—at the chains, the iron ball, the radiant smile wholly incongruous with imprisonment. Then he inhaled through his nose and addressed the guard with the patience of a man confronting the universe's personal joke.

"All right. Explain the chains. Now," said Lucien

The two guards exchanged a look of mutual dread. The younger one—pale, sweating, and clearly regretting every decision that had led him here—rubbed the back of his neck. "Sir," he managed, voice cracking, "to clarify… the princess put those on herself."

Lucien blinked. "She what?"

The older guard let out a sigh so heavy it seemed to deflate his entire frame. When he spoke, it was in the hesitant tone of a man confessing to a disaster beyond mortal prevention. "It started three weeks ago," he began. "Her Royal Highness of Atland arrived in Drakenburg on a… culinary tour. Claimed she was sampling the continent's finest dishes for 'diplomatic purposes.'"

The younger guard, already pale from stress, jumped in with the desperation of someone needing the world to know this wasn't his fault. "She ate through twelve restaurants, sir. In one week. Twelve. When the bills came due, she declared herself indebted to the crown and—" he gestured feebly to the iron ball "—chained herself to the docks until her 'debt was paid in full.'"

Lucien stared at them, then at her, then back at them. "You're joking."

"I wish we were," the older guard muttered. "Every time we try to send her home, she escapes and returns. Says she's bound to Drakenburg until she repays her honor through 'proper eating.' Meanwhile, she keeps… well—" He gestured vaguely toward the mountain of empty skewers beside her. "Accruing new debt."

As if summoned by the accusation, Princess Lulu raised her turkey leg in cheerful salute. "I am making progress! I've nearly finished the entire northern bazaar."

Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaled, and exhaled slowly — the measured breath of a man walking willingly into madness. "So let me make sure I understand," he said evenly. "She is in debt because she eats too much, refuses to leave until the debt is paid, and keeps eating… thereby increasing the debt."

The older guard nodded solemnly. "Precisely, sir."

Lulu beamed, radiant and utterly unbothered, as though he had just praised her scholarly brilliance. "See?" she chirped. "He understands perfectly!"

Lucien's eyes narrowed, just enough to communicate that he was rapidly losing his tolerance for absurdity. "And you're telling me," he said slowly, "that in all this time, you haven't found a way to… dissuade her?"

"She's royalty," the older guard blurted immediately, hands held up as if warding off accusation. "We can't lay a finger on her. The Crown of Atland has washed its hands of the matter entirely. Drakenburg's treasurer wants her off the books, and—"

"Oh, don't make it sound so dire," Lulu chimed in, cheerful as sunshine. She licked a smear of sugar from her fingertips, utterly unbothered by the chaos orbiting her. "It's all quite noble, really! A princess must take responsibility for her indulgences." Lucien wasn't sure which was worse — her sincerity or her enthusiasm.

The younger guard seized the moment to speak, perhaps grateful for something resembling order. "Elder Lucien, perhaps proper introductions would help. Your Highness, this is Lucien of Keimonomimi Village — the Elder we mentioned. He oversees trade with Drakenburg and has done much to restore our border relations."

Lulu blinked, her attention snapping to Lucien. Her gaze traveled from his boots to his brow in a slow sweep, scrutinizing him with open curiosity. Then, with no regard for personal space, she leaned forward slightly — as if trying to identify the unique feature that qualified him to exist.

"…You?" she said at last, disbelief coating every syllable. "You're the Elder of an entire village?"

Lucien offered a polite bow of his head. "In the flesh."

"But you're barely older than me!" she exclaimed, as though personally offended by the concept.

Lucien's smile turned faintly, professionally weary. "That depends on how one measures age. I've seen enough to qualify."

Lulu squinted at him with exaggerated suspicion, as if trying to detect hidden wrinkles. "You don't look like an Elder at all. You don't even have a beard."

"I prefer to keep my meals out of my face," he replied without missing a beat.

The older guard choked. The younger one bit his lip to smother a laugh.

Princess Lulu, however, looked positively delighted. "Oh," she said, her eyes brightening with mischief, "you have a sense of humor. I like you." She crossed her arms with great ceremony, the chain at her ankle giving a soft metallic chime that somehow punctuated her satisfaction. "But if you're not here to bring me dessert, then I have no further need of you, Mister Elder."

Lucien blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Shoo," she declared, flicking her wrist in a royal gesture of dismissal — though the effect was somewhat compromised by the half-gnawed turkey leg still clutched in her hand. "You're blocking my view of the pudding stand."

Lucien stared, caught somewhere between offense and utter disbelief. After a moment, he simply exhaled a long, patient sigh. "Very well, Your Highness. I'll leave you to your… repayment efforts."

He turned to the guards with the composed dignity of a man who had endured stranger things, though not by much. "I trust you'll ensure she doesn't accidentally purchase the entire bazaar?"

The younger guard managed a thin, despairing smile. "We'll do our best, Elder."

With that, Lucien stepped back into the river of the marketplace and allowed himself to be carried away by its rhythm. The din of merchants and clatter of carts gradually softened behind him as he finished the last of his errands, arranging for Keimonomimi's supply wagon to depart at first light.

But as he crossed the great stone bridge arching over Drakenburg's silver canal, the image of that absurd princess refused to leave his mind — the gleam of her golden braid in the sunlight, the melodic ring of her chains as she reached for her next plate, the laughter that seemed to brighten the very air around her.

Lucien shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"A self-imprisoned princess with a bottomless stomach," he murmured. "Definitely someone else's problem."

The wind carried with it the lingering sweetness of roasted confections from the city behind him, a warm reminder he hadn't expected. And yet, for reasons he could not name — or perhaps did not want to examine too closely — Lucien found himself doubting that the problem would remain someone else's for long.