I'm a Villainess, Can I Die?-Chapter 121

The days after the subjugation were surprisingly peaceful. Everyone was busy, yes, but their faces were bright. Even the air in the mansion felt fresher somehow.

That peace... I liked it. I was satisfied with the calm we’d regained. It made me happy. And yet... I was scared it would all fall apart.

The High Priest had told me I would die when the flower withered. But now, some strange leaf-shaped mark had appeared on my chest.

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How could I not connect the two?

How could I not be afraid of what that truth might mean? Even this morning, I’d pushed a sulky Jane into leaving me alone so I could bathe without anyone seeing the mark. I’d put it off for as long as I could, but there was always a limit.

Even a brutal truth is still the truth.

And sooner or later, I’d have to face it.

Today felt like a kind of final line in the sand. The mages were leaving the duchy tomorrow.

“...Is it dark magic?”

When I asked, he nodded slowly, his expression still twisted.

“It appears to be a magic known as the ‘Black Flower.’ The symptoms you described... they match almost exactly.”

The way his gaze wavered, the way his words trailed off—it was obvious this wasn’t good. I mean, of course it’s bad. It’s dark magic.

I swallowed to moisten my dry throat. My mouth felt thick and dusty.

“The symptoms are...?”

“...A mark appears on the left side of the chest. At first it looks like a seed. Then the cotyledon sprouts, and once the full shape of the leaf forms... that’s when the flower begins to bloom.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My left chest, where the mark was, pounded loudly. It felt like my heart was crying.

Once the flower blooms, you’ll die.

The High Priest’s voice echoed in my ears ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ again. My head spun, but I planted my feet firmly on the ground and looked straight at Sir Alogen.

“And when the flower blooms, I die?”

When I spoke, Sir Alogen quietly closed his lips. A silent confirmation.

“While the High Priest was staying at the mansion... did you experience any nausea, dizziness, or stomach pain?”

What are you, a shaman?

This time, I kept my mouth shut. That was my silent answer. Alogen seemed to understand just fine. His eyes flickered with something like pity.

“This magic begins when the caster plants a seed inside the target’s body. The seed soon takes root. It takes about five days for that to happen... During that time, the symptoms include nausea, dizziness, and burning sensations in the stomach.”

Five days...? I fidgeted with my clammy hands and counted the days.

When I was sick—when the doctor prescribed me medicine—he gave me enough for five days. The next batch was also for five days, but I’d started feeling better and didn’t take all of it.

The timeline matched. Frighteningly well.

“What happens once it takes root?”

My voice shook. My fingertips tingled. My tongue was sore, and my throat ached. My whole body felt like it was wrapped in something strange. Was time even passing in this room right now? Were the faint sounds of laughter in the distance even real? I couldn’t tell.

“Once it’s rooted... the seed prepares to emerge. After a couple of months... it manifests as a mark near the chest.”

That leaf-shaped mark I’d seen clearly this morning flashed before my eyes.

Alogen stopped speaking and let out a soft sigh.

It wasn’t a loud sigh, but it felt unbearably heavy. Like something he’d tried to hold in but couldn’t.

The air around us pressed down on my shoulders.

“The flower blooms with seven petals in total. Usually, it’s two petals per week... Once the seventh petal blooms, the person dies.”

Two petals a week. Death at the seventh petal. That meant—at most—three weeks. Maybe three and a half. My mind went blank. The time I’d just heard felt far too real, and yet completely unreal.

I bit down hard on my lower lip, then tried to speak again. Or I was about to—just as I opened my mouth, Sir Alogen spoke first.

“Are you all right?”

All right? What part of this...?

Coming back from one death just to face another?

Finding out that the three years I thought I had had suddenly collapsed into a month—or less?

When I didn’t answer, Alogen’s eyes slowly dropped. His gaze, which had been fixed on my face, shifted downward. I followed his eyes.

“Ah.”

He wasn’t just asking about my mental state.

My hands were a mess. In my anxiety, I’d been hurting myself without realizing it.

My nails had dug deep into the backs of my other hands.

Blood was seeping from the crescent-shaped gouges left by my fingernails.

Red smears were all over my fingers.

Only then did I untangle my fingers and separate my hands.

“I... I’m fine.”

But my voice trembled as I said it.

The High Priest is dead. So why is this magic still active?

In the case of something like the red orb, the spell is bound by magic between the orb and the caster. If the orb is shattered, the caster receives a backlash. And if the caster dies, the magic disappears with them. But this is different.

Different...?

I didn’t know if I was asking Sir Alogen or just talking to myself.

Earlier I said the caster plants a seed inside the body, right? That seed takes root. That’s the key. This magic gets absorbed by the target. It doesn’t have a physical form like the orb—it manifests as a mark on the body.

The explanation didn’t really sink in. All I could think was: So even if the High Priest is dead, the magic still continues. That was the only conclusion that mattered.

Is there no way to undo the spell?

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

For this kind of magic... the caster has to be alive to undo it. But since the caster is already dead...

Sir Alogen trailed off and drew in a deep breath. His eyes, which had been watching me, dropped to the floor, then to my hands, and finally back to my face.

There is... one other way.

What is it?

Someone with power similar to the caster. That person’s blood, their tears, and a spell. But in this case... since it’s not the caster performing the ritual, there’s a risk that both the target and the one trying to break the spell could die.

I closed my mouth. I couldn’t say a single word.

To survive, I’d have to drag someone else into danger. I couldn’t do that.

...I was supposed to die in three years anyway. I had no intention of dragging others into hell just to postpone that fate.

...Let’s pretend I didn’t hear that.

Lady Selina.

Let’s keep everything we talked about today between us, Sir Alogen. Just the two of us.

Lady Selina!

His voice sounded desperate. He probably didn’t like that I was choosing not to tell anyone about my condition.

I shook my head calmly. My trembling hands slowly began to steady.

I want to hide it for as long as I can. If my family finds out how little time I have left, they’ll start treating me like a patient. They’ll scramble to find some impossible solution, teeter between hope and despair, and waste the time we have left. I don’t want that.

Sir Alogen said nothing. Taking that as a cue, I continued.

If I really only have three weeks left... I just want to live the most ordinary, peaceful life I can. As Selina White—my parents’ daughter, my brother’s sister, with the people I care about by my side.

When I finished speaking, Sir Alogen gave a nod, his expression contorted with emotion. His tear-filled eyes were grateful. We weren’t even particularly close, yet he was mourning my soon-to-come death.

It won’t be easy. Once the first petal blooms, the real symptoms will begin.

...Don’t worry. I’ll tell my family before it’s too late.

Sir Alogen left the terrace slowly, vowing to keep my condition a secret.

I opened my eyes. The familiar ceiling of my room came into view.

Was all of that a dream last night? What a cruel dream.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and slowly pushed myself upright. When I reached for the blanket, the injury on the back of my hand was still there.

Of course it wasn’t a dream. My fingers gripped the blanket tighter. When I let go, the fabric was all crumpled. I stared at the mess, then smoothed it out with a few quiet swipes of my hand.

A faint bluish light filled the room—it must’ve been just before dawn. The edge of morning. The line between night and day. In this empty room, only my breathing echoed softly.

I couldn’t close my eyes. But I couldn’t open them fully, either. Half-lidded, I replayed everything I’d discussed with Sir Alogen, and everything that was to come.

“Dying in three weeks, huh...”

It’s short. A short amount of time.

No matter how I thought about it, it felt too short. I couldn’t even lie to myself and say, Well, that’s enough, right?

It was funny. I used to be desperate to die, and now I was desperate to live.

Still lying on my back, I slowly sat up.

I’d gone to bed late last night, and now I was up again at the crack of dawn... I couldn’t have slept more than a few hours. My head was foggy. Even sitting up made it buzz and hum.

I pressed my temples, then slowly climbed out of bed.

My feet took me to the desk.

It felt like ages since I’d sat here. I gave a faint, hollow chuckle and pulled out the chair.

I reached for the thickest book among the decorative ones on the shelf—History and Physiognomy of the Empire. What on earth does history have to do with physiognomy that it needs to be this thick?

Muttering to myself, I flipped through the pages. And finally, I found what I was looking for.

Just before falling asleep last night, Sir Alogen had quietly visited my room. He’d handed me a piece of paper.

“This is what I’ve transcribed about the Black Flower.”

That was all he said.

I’d been too overwhelmed to read it then, so I’d hidden it in this ridiculous book to keep others from finding it.

No one would think to look in here. Not even in a hundred years.

The palm-sized paper was crammed with information about the flower.

After taking root, symptoms go dormant for a while. Once the sprout appears, symptoms begin. When the full seven black petals bloom, death follows. (Two petals per week—this is the typical cycle. Slight variations may occur from person to person, but the difference is minimal.)

A flower-shaped mark appears on the body. After death, the person turns to ash, and a black flower blooms in their place. Hence the name, the Black Flower Disease.

Turning to ash... isn’t that a bit much?

Couldn’t they at least leave the body behind?

I continued reading, grumbling silently at the cruelty of the Black Flower.