Chapter 38: Setting Thirty-Eight

Setting Thirty-Eight: Fairy Tale (Part 6)

Compared to the well-known Princess Rose, Princess Donkeyskin is relatively obscure. It tells the story of a king who sets his sights on his own beautiful daughter, and the princess who, with the help of her fairy godmother, escapes and finds her true love—a prince.

Shan Ziwei thought the reason it was so little-known was thanks to its morally upright audience and storytellers—just listen: a father lusting after his daughter, incest—how much more twisted could you get?

In this story, which could easily have a “For Mature Audiences” tag, Shan Ziwei’s role was clearly defined by Setting 3.

[Setting 3: You are Princess Donkeyskin’s fairy godmother.]

That meant he would take on the fairy godmother’s duties: in the first half, helping the princess escape her father’s clutches; in the second, helping the princess reveal her true identity to the prince and boost her popularity.

So he set the time to when Princess Donkeyskin had just come of age—when the king had just set his sights on her and announced his intention to marry her.

Stepping through the colorful liquid film, invisible with eyes closed, Shan Ziwei immediately heard voices—very close, right in front of him.

“Your Highness, please believe that this is a great union, a righteous deed that everyone supports. As a servant of God, I would never deceive you…”

“There is no one in the world who loves you more than His Majesty the King. He is so great, with unmatched power—who else could be worthy of you?”

“His Majesty is already preparing for your wedding. I hope you will be more understanding, and not betray the king’s love for you, nor the hopes of your late mother…”

…

Though only one person was speaking throughout, clearly there were two in the room—one was a priest, and the silent listener was surely the princess. From the Donkeyskin tale, Shan Ziwei quickly pieced together the situation: to win over the princess, the king had sent this priest to persuade her that marriage to her father was no big deal. The more he listened, the more his moral sense was assaulted—was this even human speech? He wanted to burst in and beat that blathering, truth-twisting priest to a pulp.

Just as his frustration peaked, a hoarse, muffled voice spoke—as if through a veil of gauze.

“…Please leave.”

The priest paused. “Your Highness, does this mean you consent?”

The princess said nothing—whether too weary to agree, or unwilling to restart the brainwashing. The priest took her silence as consent. Delighted, he took his leave to report to the king.

Shan Ziwei opened his eyes the moment the door closed. His ears still ringing from the ordeal, he had a lot he wanted to say. Before him was another all-too-familiar royal bedchamber. Across from him stood a large, classical European bed, its crimson canopy hanging from ivory bedposts. A girl sat leaning against the headboard, wearing a white nightgown, knees drawn up, head buried in them. Her long black hair cascaded down like silk, curving her whole body into a fragile arc.

This was… the princess?

The words caught in his throat. His gaze traced from her long black hair to her bare, translucent feet beneath the nightgown. An involuntary tenderness welled up—she gave the impression of a black butterfly resting on thin ice, ready to shatter at the lightest touch.

“Who’s there?”

Even without him speaking, she sensed the change in the room’s atmosphere and wearily dismissed him.

“If my father sent you, please leave. I wish to be alone.”

“Father” was like a switch, releasing the words stuck in his throat.

“You can’t marry your father!”

At his words, the figure on the bed trembled. In slow motion, she raised her head, her long black hair sliding aside with a seductive grace—inviting the eye to uncover the treasure hidden within. It was a face worthy of a painting—rose lips, white teeth, finely shaped brows and eyes fully matured, breathtakingly beautiful beneath a straight fringe.

In that instant, Shan Ziwei fully understood the king’s motive for becoming a father-lover. He even found Donkeyskin not so incomprehensible—because the girl before him was simply too striking. He knew he was being seduced—a man’s natural inclination to admire and pursue a beautiful woman. If Gaia’s beauty transcended age and gender, then this princess was a siren designed specifically for men. She was born to drive men mad.

“You c-can’t marry your father.” Even with mental preparation, he was shaken, stammering. “It’s incest—a grievous sin!”

“Marry…”

Her hoarse voice grew clearer. She looked at him, her dark eyes—whether by nature or from crying—misted with a near-intoxicated haze.

“I won’t marry him.” A flush spread across her cheeks, making her face even more radiant. She gazed at him, happy and shy, repeating: “I won’t marry him.”

The hoarse voice was far from pleasant—it evoked an image of ill-omened crows. The only thing marring her beauty was that voice, though at fifteen or sixteen, it could be puberty, or perhaps she’d cried it raw before he arrived. The thought filled him with pity. A father-lover was bad enough; a powerful, wealthy father-lover was worse—forcing the princess to cling to him like a last lifeline.

“Don’t worry. I’m your godmother—a magician.” He finally remembered to introduce himself, replacing “fairy” or “witch” with a more professional-sounding term. He cleared his throat and began the Donkeyskin script: “I already know what’s happened, so I’ve come to help you.”

Seeing no sign of doubt from the princess, he continued: “Tomorrow, tell your father: you have a wish—you want him to make you a dress the color of the sky. If he can’t give you a sky-colored dress, then no one can get any promise from you.”

He honestly thought it was a stupid idea—he could wholesale a dozen sky-colored dresses. But that’s what the fairy godmother said in the story, so he had to parrot it stupidly.

“Your father won’t be able to make one (yeah, right),” he said, “so you can avoid marrying him without confronting him directly.”

The princess gazed at him without blinking and nodded obediently.

The silence stretched. He found he had nothing more to say. She was so good, so soft—he didn’t need to waste words convincing her. So he smiled awkwardly and prepared to leave.

“Rest well. I’ll be going now.”

His farewell seemed to take her by surprise. Her dark eyes widened; she scrambled off the bed, barefoot on the floor.

“You won’t stay?”

His inner “WTF” exploded. Calling her statuesque was an understatement—as a man of average height, she was only half a head shorter.

Princess, you really are something—your legs are so long and straight they could be played with for a year.

“I still have some things to do.” Seeing her pale at his words, he guessed she was afraid of her father’s situation, so he reassured her: “Don’t be scared. As long as you follow my instructions, you won’t be hurt.”

“Don’t go.” Her dark eyes fixed on him unblinkingly—the first time she’d voiced her own desire. “Don’t… leave me.”

He’d love to stay and face the father-lover with her, but that was unrealistic. Not only did he have Snow White and Rose to manage, but he had less than eight hours of game time left. He could only use Bluebeard’s key to appear at key moments—he couldn’t stay with Donkeyskin full-time.

“…I’ll be back soon.”

With that, he steeled himself, closed his eyes, and turned invisible. He heard frantic breathing and rapid footsteps approaching—he backed away and slipped out through the door behind him.

Why did every departure from a princess feel like being a thief? Snow White had been the same; Donkeyskin was no different—speaking of Snow White, he hadn’t seen her in a while. Following the three-in-one timeline, Snow White would be just coming of age now—around the time the queen sends the hunter after her.

So he took out Bluebeard’s key and decided to head back and handle Snow White’s plot.

“I want to go to my bedchamber.”

This time, he stepped through without closing his eyes. His “birthplace” in this Chessboard should be the safest place—as the queen of Snow White’s kingdom, he’d ordered that only court ladies could enter his room, so he’d never run into a man.

Stepping through the film, he looked up and saw a figure that nearly made him jump.

A beautiful girl with straight, leaden hair stood before the large wedding mural. She tilted her head slightly, her neat fringe shifting to reveal her fine eyebrows and eyes. Even in patched clothing, her beauty remained undimmed. Hearing him enter, she turned in surprise—for a moment, he thought Donkeyskin had changed clothes and come to him.

“Mother—” Her eyes widened, then, as if stung, she lowered them with a tremble. “Your Majesty.”

He’d walked straight into Snow White—and compared to Donkeyskin, standing before him in rags and tatters, she was heartbreakingly pitiful.

“What are you doing here?”

The words came out wrong—he was still partly in Donkeyskin’s story, and his tone was far too gentle for the hostile relationship he should have with Snow White.

She noticed too. Her shoulders trembled, as if she wanted to look at him but held back.

“I’m cleaning your room…”

Right—making her a scullery maid was what a stepmother should do. The exchange helped him get back into character. He hardened his face and, steel-hearted, ordered: “Get out.”

“…”

Her shoulders relaxed completely—she no longer held herself back. She looked up and curtsied to him.

Her expression was proper, her movements precise, her posture flawless—but through it all, he saw only his own dark reflection in her eyes.

When she was gone, he finally released his unconsciously held breath. He quickly summoned a court lady.

“Find me a hunter.”

She left. He paced restlessly, driven by an urgency—as if if he didn’t act now, it would be too late.

The hunter arrived.

“Take Snow White into the deepest part of the forest and kill her.” He ignored the listener’s shock, speaking quickly and ruthlessly—like a fugitive fleeing for his life. “Then bring back her heart and liver, as proof of her death.”

After the hunter left, his inexplicable pressure finally eased. He sat on the sofa, realizing his panic had been irrational—even if he pushed the princess, what could that pure little white lotus do? Bite him?

Regardless, Snow White’s story was done for now. Next, he’d need to go to Princess Rose—according to the tale, the princess cursed by the witch would meet the disguised old woman on her coming-of-age day, be pricked by the spindle, and fall into a deep sleep.

Every princess has a fateful encounter with a witch on her coming-of-age day. Witches are busy.

Complaints aside, he resignedly prepared. He had the court lady bring him a spindle—the queen’s identity was so useful—then used his disguise skill to turn himself into an old woman.

He shuffled before the mirror—the old woman in the glass looked natural, but his movements were full of tells. Old people moved slowly, slightly shakily; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t hide the stiffness. He was just an ordinary tech geek, not an actor; changing his voice was already his limit.

He’d make it quick. Abandoning the imitation, he pulled up his hood, picked up the brambles—finally being used for their intended purpose—and used Bluebeard’s key.

“I want to go to where Princess Rose is.”

The key opened the door. Eyes closed, he stepped through. Immediately, he heard steady footsteps—only one person, walking in an enclosed space, their steps echoing. The sound came from below. In his mind, he pictured a room with a height difference—he stood on a landing, and someone was climbing stairs toward him.

Still some distance away. He blinked quickly, taking in the situation. He was in a typical medieval tower, grey stone winding around a spiral staircase, and he stood before a wooden door at the landing’s end.

The footsteps grew closer. Since this was Princess Rose’s location, the visitor’s identity was obvious.

He hurried back—the wooden door opened into a small attic, filled with fluffy white cotton. He pulled the door nearly shut, sat on the cotton-covered floor, hid the brambles behind him, and held the spindle, waiting for his prey to arrive.

The echoing footsteps stopped outside. With a creak, the door pushed open, revealing a stunning black-haired girl.

She had the same familiar beauty, but without Donkeyskin’s haggardness or Snow White’s timidity—she was beautiful with unapologetic confidence, radiantly unapproachable. Pretending to fiddle with the spindle, he only glanced at her from the corner of his eye—and still felt a burn. Even more unsettling: the girl, clearly Princess Rose, was holding a blue doll.

An eight-year-old always carrying a doll was normal—but this princess was sixteen, and the doll seemed inseparable from her. The blue doll looked like the ones he’d seen in Rose’s room before. It dangled by one hand, its small body hanging in midair, head tilted by gravity—staring right at him.

In that instant, the doll seemed to grin: I am you—

He jerked, dropping the spindle—it rolled to the princess’s feet. He took the opportunity to look up, speaking with a trembling voice: “Dear girl, could you pick that up for me?”

His hand, hidden behind his back, gripped the brambles. The moment Rose touched the spindle, he’d activate the mass-sleep.

The princess’s gaze moved from the spindle to him. She stared directly, her interest undisguised: “Who are you?”

This isn’t the script, Your Highness! You’re supposed to be curious about the spindle! You’ve never seen one before! Please, just pick up the mysterious object you’ve never encountered!

“I’m just an old woman spinning here.” He emphasized “spinning,” trying to lure her. “My legs aren’t good—help me, kind girl.”

She still didn’t bend down—as if he’d asked her to pick up soap, not a spindle. She studied him with a strange look, her gaze sticking to him like glue.

“Your legs aren’t good? How pitiful.” She leaned forward slightly, her black hair sliding, red lips curving—speaking of another’s misery, yet looking delighted. “And you can’t hold things steady—your hands aren’t good either, are they.”

A chill crept up his spine. He swallowed, a nameless fear rising.

“Someone like you needs looking after, right?” Before he could answer, she went on eagerly: “You must need someone to take care of you—so…”

“I’ll take care of you.”

Under his wide-eyed stare, she tucked the blue doll into the crook of her arm, pointing one by one at its mouth, its hands, its legs.

“I can feed you, I can do things for you, I can walk with you.” She seemed to envision the scene, a happy flush on her face. “You wouldn’t have to do anything—just lie back and enjoy my care.”

He finally realized: she treated him the same way she treated the doll in her arms. He asked dryly: “Why would you want to take care of an old thing like me? We’re strangers.”

“No reason. I want to take care of you—is that wrong?”

A noble princess willing to care for a lowly old woman—anyone would call her kind and pure. But he felt an indescribable wrongness—perhaps from her overeager attitude, triggering a primal wariness.

“…You don’t want me to take care of you?”

She was sharp—she’d caught his hesitation in an instant.

She stared at him for a long moment—then turned and closed the door.