Third-Rate Villain Of Fantasy Novel-Chapter 28: It Stings

Happy...

What happened today between Alphonse and Damian was more than a simple sibling quarrel. To Elena, it carried a far deeper meaning.

In her previous life—when he had been Damian—everything had begun during that one empty year that followed the dissolution of her marriage. A year that had felt hollow, silent, and unbearably long.

After breaking off her engagement, she had met him again exactly one year later at the academy she attended. From that moment on, her life had quietly shifted.

And now, once more, she found herself slowly stepping into his world.

She was learning things she had never known before. How he truly felt about Arwen Kraus. What had happened between him, his father, and his younger brother. The wounds he never spoke of, the emotions he carried alone.

This time, she wasn’t watching from afar.

She was experiencing it all together with him.

That alone made her happy—being by his side, sharing the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his present. Walking forward together, even when the path felt unclear.

Did he know?

Did he realize that his future—his very destiny—had already begun to change simply because she existed here, now?

There would be no more unhappiness waiting for him.

At least, not if she had anything to say about it.

Just like today.

She would make sure of that.

"Hmmmmm~"

A soft hum escaped her lips as Elena walked down the corridor toward his room.

In her hands were a tray of refreshments and a warm meal prepared for him—dinner he hadn’t touched yet. Ordinarily, an attendant would have delivered it, but she had insisted on doing it herself.

She wanted to see him.

She wanted to talk.

It was a simple reason, yet her heart felt oddly restless.

She had never been to his room before. As she walked, a brief thought crossed her mind—Why do I know the location so well?—but she dismissed it just as quickly.

It was a trivial detail. Nothing worth dwelling on.

After all, she was only delivering a meal.

...And yet, she couldn’t deny the faint excitement bubbling in her chest, as though she were sneaking out for a secret tryst in the dead of night.

She stopped in front of the door.

– Knock. Knock.

"Come in."

His voice answered immediately.

Elena paused for a fraction of a second. Did he think she was an attendant? Probably.

That was fine.

In fact, the thought made her smile. She imagined the look on his face when he realized who it really was. The surprise. The confusion.

With that anticipation, she opened the door without hesitation.

"Is tonight’s dinner meat stew? I could smell it from outside. But—sorry to bother you—could you get me some bandages and medicine... Elena?"

His words cut off abruptly.

"...Why is Elena here? Wait—hold on! Leave first—"

"Ah..."

Elena froze.

His expression was unmistakably flustered, eyes wide as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. But what truly stole her breath wasn’t his reaction.

It was the blood.

His right arm was stained red, fresh crimson seeping through hastily torn fabric.

For a moment, the room fell into silence.

The tray in her hands trembled slightly.

"...You’re injured."

Her voice came out softer than she intended.

Before he could protest, Elena stepped inside and gently closed the door behind her.

----

"It stings...."

I murmured as I lowered my gaze to my right arm, where blood dripped steadily to the dirt below.

Even though this was nothing more than a sparring match with unsharpened swords, the man standing before me was an expert—someone who could cut down a tree with nothing more than a branch in his hands. Against someone like that, minor wounds were inevitable.

But this time felt different.

As I swung my sword, guided by the turbulent emotions overflowing within me, I failed to display my usual precision. My movements were crude, my form unstable. Instead of technique, my swings relied entirely on raw physical strength, as if I were trying to beat my emotions into submission rather than fight an opponent.

Yet, improving my skills had never been the purpose of this sparring session.

This was about release.

About spilling everything I had been bottling up for so long.

With that single goal in mind, I paid no attention to the flaws in my swordsmanship. I didn’t care how sloppy or reckless my movements became. My father understood that. He said nothing, offering no criticism, silently accepting the screeching clashes of metal and my messy, undisciplined techniques.

Each time our swords collided, sparks flew, accompanied by the dull ache reverberating through my arms. With every strike, I poured more of myself into the swing—frustration, regret, anger, grief—emotions that had festered deep inside my chest for far too long.

Gradually, something began to change.

It felt as though a massive stone that had been pressing against my heart was finally cracking, fragment by fragment, falling away with each clash of steel. My breathing grew heavier, but freer. The tightness in my chest slowly loosened, replaced by an unfamiliar lightness.

If I had tried to release these emotions alone—swinging my sword at empty air—I would never have reached this point. People didn’t just want to scream into the void. They wanted someone to witness their struggle, someone to acknowledge the weight they carried.

Crying out alone would only drag a person deeper into the valley of despair, offering no true relief, no resolution. 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

Even now, despite the lack of finesse in my strikes, my father’s sword moved effortlessly. His blade danced along the tip of mine, deflecting each attack with minimal movement, as if he were calmly guiding a restless child rather than facing an opponent.

Still, I swung again.

And again.

I ignored the burning in my muscles and the tremor creeping into my grip. I let my emotions surge freely, no longer trying to restrain them.

The world narrowed to the sound of clashing steel, the rough texture of the hilt against my palm, and the steady rhythm of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Then—

A sharp crack split the air.

The sword in my hand finally gave out.

Unable to withstand the accumulated force and the sharp, refined pressure behind my father’s movements, the blade shattered.

A fragment broke free, spinning through the air before brushing against my right arm and embedding itself into the ground beside us.

A thin line appeared where the shard had passed, followed moments later by a slow trickle of blood. It slid down my arm, warm and vivid against my skin.