When Iris first imagined being isekai'd into a fantasy world, she had a checklist:
Avoid war? ✅
Live a quiet life as a baker or a librarian? ✅
Find a tall and brooding husbando to seduce with her modern girl charm? ✅
No paperwork? ✅✅✅
That last one was in bold on the website.
So why, in the name of all things unholy and unhinged, was she sitting in a sunlit office, signing off on pigeon courier license renewals? On her second week no less
"This one," she muttered, "has the audacity to be in triplicate."
She jabbed the quill into the inkwell like it personally offended her and signed another name she still wasn't sure she'd legally adopted yet—Saint Iris Glindall, written with a loopy, sparkly font that she was pretty sure was enchanted to glitter no matter how many times she scribbled it out.
The room smelled like lavender and bureaucracy. There were five candles burning in a candelabra shaped like praying hands. A tiny choir of angelic cherubs floated in the corner, humming something serene.
She hated it here.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Your Holiness?" came the voice of a meek young acolyte. "The Archbishop requests your divine blessing for the royal breakfast."
"Tell him I hope he chokes on a croissant."
A pause. "I shall...inform him you are meditating."
Iris dropped her forehead onto the desk. The paperwork fluttered like offended doves.
The worst part?
She knew this world.
She'd played the otome game it was based on—Love's Lament: Royal Blood Edition—at least three times. She'd even bought the DLC, for heaven's sake.
She knew there was no paperwork for commoners. The baker love interest had zero stress. The heroine got to go on forest picnics and waltz under moonlight.
Meanwhile, Iris had back-to-back meetings, three public appearances a week, and was being pressured to "bless the crops" despite not remembering how photosynthesis worked.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't even funny anymore.
She sighed and rolled off her chair, limbs flopping like a dying fish. "Maybe if I fake my death, they'll stop giving me forms. I should probably just try to get excommunicated and exiled, but how?"
The enchanted quill floated up on its own and gently nudged her shoulder.
"No. Bad quill. Let me rot in peace."
The door opened again—because clearly no one in this world respected doors—and her assistant stepped in.
Lucien. Golden-haired. Too cheerful. Probably created in a lab to appeal to players with a "sunshine boy" fetish.
"Your Holiness," he said, voice sparkling with innocent admiration, "you've been lying on the floor for about twenty minutes now."
"I'm communing with the spirits."
"You said that last time. You were trying to summon the Demon King via sacrificial ritual."
"Yeah, well, they ghosted me. So now I want payback."
He crouched beside her with that concerned anime-boy smile that made her want to tie him up and throw him into a wishing well.
"Maybe a walk in the gardens would help you clear your mind?" he offered gently.
"Lucien…" she whispered, deadly calm. "If I touch one more flower, I swear I'll bless it enough that it ascends to godhood and smites this entire kingdom."
His smile twitched. "...Understood. Canceling the walk, then."
Later that night, Iris sat on the rooftop of the temple with a bottle of wine she'd definitely requisitioned for religious purposes.
She stared up at the stars, legs dangling off the ledge, hair tousled by a breeze that probably had a name like Zephyrion the Blessed Oracle of Remuria.
Ah, whatever.
"I came here to escape paperwork," she told the sky. "I was promised peace. Simplicity. Maybe a sexy villain route. Not holy tax reform and being canonized on page two."
She took a swig and hiccupped out a small burst of light. The stars sparkled harder in response.
"Stop that," she muttered at them.
Below her, the cathedral glowed like the hope of mankind.
But somewhere out there—in a shadowy fortress of blood, lava, and aesthetic red lighting—was the Demon King.
Her husbando. Tall, cruel, broody. Voice like thunder and eyes like a war crime. She needed to meet him.
And more importantly?
She needed him to recruit her to the dark side.
No more choir boys. No more blessing the royal family's breakfast. No more chirping orphans calling her "Holy Mother Iris." (One of them—if she remembered correctly—called her "Holy Dommy Mommy" and had to be escorted out for his own safety lest she throw him out a stained glass window.)
"I'll show you all," she whispered into the night, eyes glinting with mischief. "I'll be the worst saint you've ever seen. I'll curse at nuns. I'll trip over sacred altars. I'll personally punch a baby angel in the face."
The clouds parted.
A beam of light descended on her. It was warm and inviting.
"...Stop blessing me when I'm trying to monologue!"