The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 1: When I Was Young

When I opened my eyes, the place I found myself in was, to my surprise, a brothel.

The brightest, most dazzling building in the slums, one that didn’t even need directions.

A place where women, poor and insignificant but still clinging to their looks, would walk towards.

Of course, at first, I didn’t realize it was a brothel. I just thought it was a fancy building.

Not that I had the luxury to ponder such things at the time.

Strangers surrounded me, speaking words I couldn’t understand, and my body was completely devoid of strength.

What could you possibly expect from a newborn baby?

That I woke up in a brothel doesn’t mean I lived a life of spreading my legs for men.

It simply means I was born there.

Wrapped in a pristine white blanket, I was held by a tearful woman gazing at me with love, singing me a lullaby as I let out a soft wail.

That’s when it sank in—I had died.

At first, I thought I might’ve been reincarnated into nobility.

After all, the women who held me wore elegant dresses, and priests in tidy robes received me and wrapped me in the blanket. The room I glanced at was extraordinarily luxurious.

But the truth revealed itself soon enough.

Time passed, and yet no figure resembling a father ever appeared in my life.

My mother, however, loved me dearly.

Even after long, grueling days at work, she nursed me, held me close, patted my back, and told me comforting old stories.

You wouldn’t expect an ordinary one-year-old to understand such things, but I was far from ordinary, and those days became unforgettable memories.

Except for the faint, smoky taste of tobacco on her nipple, it was a satisfying life.

As time passed, I was weaned, learned to talk, and began walking.

My mother always—well, almost always—spoke kindly to me.

Unlike the other women in the brothel, who laced their speech with curses, she spoke as if she were a noblewoman herself.

Occasionally, though, her demeanor would change. She’d call out some unknown man’s pet name with a sharp edge, grab my collar, and slap my cheek.

But that was a minor detail.

By the next day, she’d be tearfully apologizing, treating me better, and feeding me something delicious.

On days when money was abundant, she’d even buy me a new, pretty outfit.

Though I’ll admit, the times she choked me were difficult.

Not just because I couldn’t breathe, but because the sensation of her well-manicured nails digging into my neck sent chills down my spine.

As I grew a bit older and started walking instead of crawling, I began learning to read from the brothel’s manager.

I once wondered why I couldn’t just get a tutor or go to school, but then dismissed the thought.

What tutor would come to a brothel? And what school would accept a slum kid?

In a place overflowing with illiteracy, the only one who could teach me was the manager, who smoked cigarettes, crossed his legs, and read the newspaper.

The brothel’s real owner was some nameless noble, of course.

No noble would stoop to managing a filthy brothel themselves.

So, the manager’s job was simply to collect money, occasionally oversee the women, and maintain a token presence as a representative.

He had plenty of free time and was bored, while I wanted to learn to read.

It seemed like a one-sided benefit in my favor, but he seemed satisfied enough to have a way to pass the time.

Perhaps he had ulterior motives.

At first, he taught me the alphabet out of curiosity, but when I memorized it quickly, he got more enthusiastic and started teaching me more fervently.

Sometimes he’d ask me to tell my mother how kind he was, which made it clear he wasn’t entirely altruistic.

Not just the manager, but all the women close to my mother were kind to me.

It wasn’t something I was particularly proud of, but my mother was apparently the star of the brothel.

An “ace” who only a select few nobles could have.

That didn’t mean everyone liked me.

Some of the other children in the brothel hated and envied me.

One day, they dragged me off somewhere and, with their soft little hands, ganged up on me and hit me.

I screamed and flailed, crying as loudly as I could, until they were dragged away by their mothers and punished thoroughly.

After that, they simply glared at me from a distance, radiating hatred.

The boys were less hostile, but the girls looked at me as if I were some grotesque, alien creature.

Not that I cared much about what went on in the brothel.

I didn’t think it was the life I was destined to live, after all.

Unlike those kids glaring at me from afar.

Thanks to my mother, life was comfortable.

I ate three meals a day, and unlike the residents of the nearby residential area, I had a roof that didn’t leak and a soft bed to sleep on.

Sometimes, a nameless noble who spent the night with my mother would slip me some pocket money, which I’d stash with a grin.

But it also left me a bit melancholic.

If I ever left here, I’d probably just be known as the daughter of a prostitute, ridiculed wherever I went.

I quickly erased the thought, feeling it was disrespectful.

So I focused on learning to read and dreaming of a better future, flipping through cheap romance novels and the occasional fairy tale I found in the brothel.

I thought if I at least learned to read and picked up some skills, I might find another job someday.

Back then, I hadn’t yet realized the kind of world I’d been born into.

One day, when my mother took a rare day off, claiming she was unwell, she awkwardly held my hand and took me to a lake.

It was my first time leaving the slums.

She rented a carriage and brought me to the lakeside, carrying a basket of sandwiches as we sat on a grassy field.

Spreading out a cloth on the ground, we ate sandwiches while gazing at the breezy lake.

The outing was delightful.

We made rings out of wildflowers, decorated my hair with blooms, and stared at the bright sky, lost in thought.

As the sun dipped close to the lake, painting the horizon red, my mother laced her fingers through mine and spoke.

Her tone was serious, and for a moment, I wondered if her eyes had turned wild and she’d brought me here to drown me.

Just as I was about to run, she said something unexpected.

“My daughter, my beloved daughter. I love you.”

I answered with the cutest smile I could muster.

She looked at me, but I knew she was seeing someone else in my place.

“I love you too, Mom.”

Though my mind was grown, I played the innocent child, clinging to her and acting spoiled.

Or maybe I just wanted to bury my face in her embrace.

The faint smell of tobacco stung my eyes slightly, but I didn’t mind.

“…And I’m sorry.”

Pressing my face into her chest, I heard the rapid beating of her heart.

Her voice didn’t waver, and her expression was calm and kind, but her heart thudded violently.

“There should’ve been a father for you. I’m sorry.”

I was curious about my father but never asked.

Asking a woman who sold her body about her husband felt less like curiosity and more like cruelty.

Had I been an ordinary child, I probably wouldn’t have shown such tact.

“When I became a lady’s maid, all I saw was a happy future ahead. Maybe marrying the sweet boy from my hometown or the hardworking farmer…”

She trailed off, meeting my eyes, and the hopeful tone in her voice faded.

Then, shedding a single tear, she hugged me tightly and whispered in my ear.

“After being cast out, I resented you. I’m sorry for that.”

I shook my head and comforted her as she quietly wept.

Her sorrowful cries seemed endless.

“Just… I’m sorry for everything.”

As the moon rose and its light illuminated the sky, she handed me a necklace.

It was a simple piece, adorned with a small, roughly cut gemstone.

The stone glimmered faintly, worn smooth by countless caresses.

I accepted it and replied with a bright smile, thanking her.

She must have felt uneasy living with a child who didn’t act like one, but she always gave me her love and did her best for me.

I’ve never lived in a normal neighborhood, so I wouldn’t know what that’s like. But even in this harsh place, unlike the other children, I was able to learn to read and find a future worth pursuing—all thanks to her.

Saying “I love you” and “thank you” is something you’re supposed to do.

But if the person is gone, you can’t say those words anymore.

Maybe they’ll hear it from heaven, but I’d never know for sure.

About a year after our trip to the lake, my mother began to weaken.

Despite her condition, she didn’t stop working, and her health continued to decline.

And then, she passed away.

Though she had been well-regarded, her body received no better treatment than any other prostitute’s corpse—it was sent to the incinerator behind the brothel.

All that was returned to me was a small ceramic jar she had once purchased with her own money.

It still held a faint warmth.

There was even a bit of her ashes inside, which meant the money hadn’t been entirely wasted.

Most were burned without leaving a trace, not even ashes.

These were the thoughts that crossed my mind.

Maybe it was because I didn’t want to cry. Or maybe it was because I didn’t want to accept it.

That she was really gone.

It wasn’t until a few days later, after receiving the jar, that I finally cried.

Burying my face in my knees, I sobbed quietly, stifling the sound as much as possible.

I thought to myself that if someone heard me, they might mistake it for the sound of someone trying not to laugh.

I buried the jar beneath the large tree near the lake.

With my small hands, I dug a hole and placed a stone engraved with her name on top.

By the time I was done, night had fallen, and two moons hung in the sky, giving me an odd sense of déjà vu.

In this world with two moons, I found myself longing for a cup of Yirgacheffe coffee—something that didn’t even exist here.