Mythos Of Narcissus: Reborn As An NPC In A Horror VRMMO

Chapter 122: Sweet Clock And Orange Plum

The next morning, the change in Daffodil was palpable. Discover more stories at mvl

Gone was the girl who had faced the horrors of her life with quiet dignity and small sparks of hope. In her place was a hollow shell, moving through the motions of her day like an automaton, her face drained of any emotion.

The day began as it always did, with a spread of decadent breakfast treats—delicate pastries, fruit arranged in intricate patterns, and a pitcher of cream resting on the table.

Her soulless, mute servants placed each dish with care, but Daffodil hardly acknowledged their presence. She stared blankly at the display, her eyes empty, as if the vibrant colors of the food were dull and meaningless in her current state.

She picked up a fork, hovering it over a particularly ornate pastry, but it never touched her lips. Her hand trembled slightly before she set the fork down, uninterested.

Her scarlet eyes, once hinted of life even in the most muted moments, were dull. Even the effort to feign normalcy had abandoned her.

As the minutes dragged on, she pushed the food around her plate, not eating a single bite.

Her servants, following their daily routine, cleared the dishes with silent efficiency, but even their lifeless movements seemed to overshadow the growing void inside Daffodil.

Her breathing had changed too, becoming shallow, almost imperceptible. It was as if she were conserving energy, as if each breath were a laborious task.

From my place as an observer, I noticed this disturbing detail—Daffodil, she seemed to be slowly suffocating under the weight of her despair.

She no longer walked with purpose but shuffled through the mansion, her steps slow and dragging.

At midday, the library—her usual refuge—offered no solace. The grand shelves filled with knowledge and history went untouched. She sat by the window, staring out into the garden with unfocused eyes, her fingers absently tracing the wooden armrest of her chair.

The sunlight streamed in, casting a warm glow on the floor, but she remained in shadow, her small figure swallowed by the emptiness of the room.

Her servants brought lunch, another extravagant affair that would have been fit for royalty.

Yet, Daffodil barely touched it. Her body was there, seated at the table, but her mind seemed miles away, trapped in a spiral of loss and confusion. Occasionally, her hand would lift a spoon or cup, but like breakfast, the food remained uneaten.

It wasn't just hunger that seemed to elude her.

It was life itself.

Her very essence seemed to drain from her with each passing hour, and I could sense it—she was withering, dying, even if not physically. It was the slow death of the spirit, a suffocation of the soul.

Night fell, and the mansion's eerie quiet returned. As Daffodil was tucked into her bed by the same mute maid, a distant memory surfaced, triggered by the sight of the plush covers and soft pillows.

Without warning, I was pulled into the past—a memory that did not belong to me.

For one, I thought that I would start another session of observing a brand new world or scenario of visions.

Instead, it felt more like I was being brought back to a time that was relevant to the current event I'm witnessing.

The room was bathed in soft candlelight, the same grand chamber that now felt so cold and lifeless. But in this memory, it was warm, filled with the presence of something—someone—vaguely golden. I couldn't focus on her, as though my mind refused to comprehend her form, but I knew who she was.

Daffodil's mother. Elisi.

Of course, I couldn't really confirm it yet since her name wasn't mentioned, so I would like to play it safe that this familiar golden figure might be someone else.

This gold figure lay in the grand bed, her silhouette blurred and glowing, her movements slow, as if weakened by illness. Beside her, little Daffodil sat on the edge of the bed, her golden hair cascading down her back, her scarlet eyes shining with innocent joy.

"Look, Mama!" Daffodil's young voice was bright, filled with the joy of a child showing her mother something special. In her hands, she held a small paper flower—a crude but heartfelt creation she had made herself.

Her mother's figure shifted slightly, her voice a soft, loving hum that filled the space between them. "A paper flower, my dear… How lovely. You've always been so clever and dexterous."

"Of course, I'm your daughter, after all! All of these attributes can be sourced back to you!" Daffodil beamed, her happiness overflowing as she held out the flower for her mother to inspect.

The mother's vague hand reached out, taking the paper bloom gently.

"I think," the mother continued, her voice growing wistful, "That I prefer paper flowers to the real ones."

"Hmm? Why so?" Little Daffodil innocently tilted her head. "I hope that you're not saying this because of the spontaneous creation of this paper flower, mama.

"If I may say so, the flowers in the garden are much more beautiful!"

The golden figure giggled. "The flowers in the garden are beautiful, yes, but they wilt so quickly… They come and go, no matter how lovely they are. But this—" she held up the paper flower. "This will last forever, if you take care of it."

Daffodil's eyes sparkled, and she giggled at the thought. "You're right, Mama! If you want it, I'll make you lots of paper flowers, so you can have a garden that never wilts!"

Her mother's figure seemed to smile, though her face remained unclear. "A garden of paper flowers… That would be wonderful." Her tone shifted, becoming more reflective.

"And the color of the paper garden will be yellow, your favorite color!"

Right, I remembered in my first vision, that Elisi had a thing for the color of yellow.

Either that, or I mistook her interest for her favorite flower that was attributed to the name of her beloved daughter.

"Hmm, I've been thinking, Daffodil." The mother seemed to place her finger onto her own cheek. Her tone remained playful and gentle as ever in front of her daughter. "I've always loved the yellow of your namesake flower, but now… I think I like red more. The color of your eyes—it's beautiful, don't you think?"

"Is that why you have been staring into my eyes more than usual?"

"That's right~"

Daffodil tilted her head, puzzled but smiling. "But red flowers are so rare!"

Her mother's voice grew soft, almost dreamlike. "Maybe we'll have a garden full of red paper flowers someday. A billion of them."

Daffodil's eyes widened in awe. "A billion?"

"A billion~"

"I'll do it, Mama! I'll make them all for you!"

Her mother laughed, a quiet, affectionate sound. "You're such a sweet girl. I know you will."

At that moment, I had a feeling.

That Daffodil would take her mother's playful words in a much more literal way.