50 - Transmigrated as the Villainess Fake Young Lady, Please Spare Me, Female Lead Sister

**Crossing into the World of a Villainess and a Fake Heiress: Please, Main Character Sister! - Chapter 50: Wait, Where's My Script?!** "After all, I suffered many punishments like this when I was young." Although she referred to her childhood, she was mainly talking about her years in the orphanage. Laftia had a late start to forming memories. She was abandoned in the slums when she was just a baby. If a kind old man hadn't picked her up, she might have frozen to death. Life with her grandfather was tough. But as long as they could earn enough for meals, she was willing to do any hard labor. Grandfather was an excellent woodworker, crafting canes. Little Laftia helped him every day, carving and polishing the wood, then selling the canes on the streets. Those canes were taller than she was. Later, when their small stall was overturned and grandfather was injured and unable to work, she helped out at a nearby bakery, earning some bread to take home. She also worked at a grocery store moving goods, earning a few extra coins despite the exhaustion. By the time little Laftia was too young to read, she was already learning self-defense. For a small girl with no strength, having skills was essential to survive in such a chaotic environment. In those days, even while sleeping, she had daggers strapped to her knees and wrists, ready to spring up at the slightest sound like a wildcat, vigilant at the door. How poor, strenuous, and destitute those days were. Yet somehow, looking back now, they don't seem so terrible... At least, it was freer than being experimental material for the nobles at the orphanage. Laftia unexpectedly laughed silently. Maybe that's how humans are. Once pulled out of suffering, standing in a safe place and looking back, it doesn’t seem as hard as it once did. When her grandfather was inexplicably murdered, Laftia was only nine. Recalling the following seven years at the orphanage always unleashed overwhelming hatred from deep within her. Orphanage. At the thought, Laftia's eyes lowered, turning cold. On the surface, everything seemed fine at that orphanage. Teachers wore smiles, hands clasped in prayer, and outwardly claimed it was a safe haven amidst chaos, hailing themselves as saviors to the children. "Here, protected by the divine, children won’t have to wander anymore." "We are all family here; the children will grow up well." But in reality? Children of all ages never felt full. The food was always rancid, the soup so clear you could see the bottom of the bowl. Meanwhile, the adults feasted, claiming it was a reward from the divine. When it got cold, the children had no warm blankets, the fireplace lit only when inspected. The textbooks were the basic primers, and no one knew where the king and nobles' donations went. The orphanage was likely a facade, a transit for funds, masking darker trades, with children raised as future resources. During nights spent in the corridor as punishment, the bucket balanced on their heads wasn’t a book but a water-filled bucket. Fortunately, Laftia’s secret investigations into the higher-ups never got exposed—at most, she was punished for skipping class or giving her meal portions to younger children. These punishments were mainly slaps on the palm, standing, kneeling, or being deprived of meals. The guardians would whip with a lash, which hurt but wasn't life-threatening. If the adults ever discovered she was investigating, the repercussions would be far more severe. "......" Laftia pulled her thoughts out from this wave of memories, returning her gaze to the young lady before her. Claire seemed unsure of what to do. She opened her mouth to speak but said nothing. Her expression wasn’t of sympathy or pity. Nor was it one of condescension or mockery. It was an expression that perhaps conveyed, "I shouldn't have spoken like that..." That's fine, that's enough. Laftia wasn't one to wallow in a tragic past, steeped in self-pity. Others' sympathy or pity meant nothing to her. No one could truly relate to another’s experiences, and she was used to being on her own, always looking forward. Only forward. Hatred would pave her path. No need to look back. So Laftia laughed softly, lightly steering the conversation away. "It's merely a balance thing, nothing special." Claire lowered her head in silence, refraining from further words. The book slipped from her head, clattering onto the desk. --- In the middle of the night. "After all, I suffered many punishments like this when I was young." "Perhaps I got used to it back then." Used to it. Used to it. Got used to it. To it. In the tranquil silence of the night, Claire suddenly sat up in bed and slapped herself. "No, damn it, really!" The system jolted awake from standby: 'What's wrong, host?' "Why did Sister Laftia endure so much suffering in the orphanage? The game’s original didn’t mention this!" Claire was beating her chest in frustration. "The game only focused on Laftia's love stories with the five male leads…!" "Did I miss some setting collection or DLC?" "I only know that Sister Laftia once wandered in slums and dungeons, later witnessing dark things in the orphanage, getting bullied all over, so she sought revenge…" "I knew that happened, but the game had no more details!" "It just felt like Sister was always leveling up, gaining new skills wherever she went. Each male lead in every storyline would provide intel, and then Sister had to clear their emotional hurdles or something..." "In the end, she eliminated all sorts of villains and corrupt nobles, and they had a joyful family dinner, and it just ended!" The system attempted to interrupt: 'Host…' Claire mumbled with furrowed brows: "No, I must think carefully." "So far, not even one male lead has appeared." Wide awake, she sat up, pulling out a blank sheet of paper from the drawer, scribbling thoughts on it. First off, Laftia wanted to become stronger. The game mainly focused on how she became stronger. Every day, you choose which course to attend, and your attributes would increase like the childhood game "Princess Maker." And often while walking, you’d encounter fortuitous events, pick up good gear, and from time to time, some benefactor would pop up and help the protagonist solve problems, making the gameplay feel smooth without big obstacles. The game's title is "The Glendale Family: The True Heiress's Revenge," and Laftia's backstory mentions how her desire to grow stronger roots in revenge. Revenge… Revenge… Claire strained to remember who Laftia was seeking revenge on within the game. ...Ugh. No good, she couldn't recall. They all seemed like tropes, caricatured villains. And it seemed at crucial points, her memory felt slightly foggy. Vaguely, she remembered a confrontation with a noble but not which one. Faintly recalling a special lineage, with each storyline revealing only part of the truth, needing all five paths completed to piece together the full picture… But she couldn't recall what that truth was. Also faintly remembered she found the real mastermind in one ending, finally avenging herself!… Yet couldn't remember what the mastermind looked like. In short, it was— Claire had some impressions of the script's progression but not much. Smaller events she could recall, and most involving her she remembered clearly. Yet anything concerning core truths or Laftia’s revenge targets seemed deliberately obscured. Recalling them felt like seeing flowers through a fog, unable to clearly discern. Could crossing over have veiled significant points intentionally? ...How could this happen? Claire wanted to organize the clues on paper, but after a long time, her pen merely left inkblots without writing a single word. Her brows knit tighter and tighter.