The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 3: When I Was Young

Now that I think about it, I’ve never cursed since being born into this world.

I’m not sure why.

Maybe, deep down, I believed that swearing out of joy, anger, or sorrow—like the prostitutes or thugs around me—might turn me into one of them.

The brothel manager, or the man I called my father, never cursed either.

He once told me he planned to earn enough money to buy a research lab in the capital.

Now, he’s just a lifeless hunk of meat.

Ah, not completely lifeless yet—the warmth lingering on the ring I just pulled from his finger proves that.

I slipped the ring onto the necklace my mother had given me.

It clinked faintly against the pendant, but it would suffice.

For a while, I sat in that blood-scented room, staring blankly.

Like most killers, the murderer hadn’t bothered with respect for the dead, so I had to live with the body.

I was still young—barely old enough to attend kindergarten.

What strength did I have to move the body of a fully grown man?

At first, I tried, grunting as I shifted it a few centimeters, but I quickly gave up, collapsing to the floor in exhaustion.

Wiping blood off my face, I resigned myself to sitting next to the corpse until the smell drew neighbors to investigate.

I couldn’t even force a smile.

Looking into the mirror, I tried lifting the corners of my mouth, but my face wouldn’t cooperate.

I frowned instead, trying to cry as I thought about my mother and the manager, but no tears came.

It was as if both of them had vanished without a trace, leaving no evidence they’d ever existed.

The only reminders of their presence in this world were the necklace now hanging around my neck.

When the neighbor who smelled the blood came knocking, they seemed to pity me. They handed me all the money in their wallet, lit a cigarette, and took me to an orphanage run by an acquaintance of theirs.

Maybe living in the wealthier part of the slums gave them a surplus of goodwill.

I stuffed the crumpled bills into my pocket and followed them with a vacant expression.

At first, I considered running away from the orphanage, but I quickly gave up on the idea.

I was a helpless little child who didn’t know how to do anything productive.

Surprisingly, life in the orphanage wasn’t so bad.

The food was tasteless and hard, often with a hint of mold, and the beds were stiff and uncomfortable.

Still, the fact that I had food and shelter made it bearable.

At least I wasn’t working in a brothel—that was enough for me.

I spent my days in a corner, watching the headmaster beat the other children.

He called it discipline, but it was clear to me he was just venting his frustrations.

Quietly, with a menacing stick in hand, he struck a boy of about ten on the backside.

The boy’s skin split, blood spattering slightly onto the floor, and I found myself involuntarily grimacing.

Turning my gaze to the window, I looked at the sky.

Two moons floated above.

“Raphael, I told you. You’re not leaving here—not until you’re grown, and maybe not even then.

What makes you think a kid from the slums, especially one from an orphanage, could make it out?

You can’t even control your temper.”

Raphael. The name sounded familiar, though I couldn’t place it.

Maybe one of the brothel’s clients had a similar name.

It seemed he’d been in some kind of fight today—boys were always scuffling over something.

Being a girl with a somewhat cute face, I didn’t have to deal with such nonsense, which was a small blessing.

A shiver ran through me.

What kind of thoughts am I having?

The headmaster’s words seemed to sting more than the stick, as the boy broke into tears.

After a few more strikes, the headmaster spat on the boy’s head and returned to his office.

He was a nasty man.

The children wouldn’t fight for a few days after witnessing this, at least.

For all his cruelty, the headmaster wasn’t entirely heartless. He used his own money to feed, clothe, and shelter the kids, preventing them from starving or freezing to death.

Though he ruled with a stick, it was hard not to bow your head in gratitude.

I only hoped he wouldn’t meet a grisly end at the hands of the very children he raised.

At least he never hit me or cursed at me.

When I first arrived, wearing clothes stiff with dried blood, he merely clicked his tongue in disapproval.

The children, meanwhile, ignored the boy bleeding on the floor, going about their own activities—trading foraged goods, sharing stories, or playing games with pebbles.

Nobody even approached the boy.

I moved him to a bed and poured cheap liquor over his wounds, though I avoided touching his backside directly.

“Life is hard.”

Having no friends here myself, I didn’t question why nobody helped him.

Everyone here probably had rough edges, just like me.

I spent most of my days buried in books, repeating the words of this world to myself or reading any book I was lucky enough to find.

The other kids saw me as strange. They’d point fingers, steal my books, hit me, and sometimes throw dirty things at me.

I couldn’t really call any of them my friends.

Thankfully, they left me alone during mealtimes, so at least I wouldn’t starve.

The hard, tasteless bread was filling enough to dull any urge to cause trouble.

Still, I missed the meals from the brothel so much it drove me mad.

I avoided reminiscing too much, though.

If I did, I’d find myself touching the necklace, thinking of my mother.

That always led to melancholy and a dangerous urge to do something drastic.

The days were hard, but asking for help wasn’t an option.

It wasn’t a situation anyone could solve.

All I could do was endure it for a few years and hope for a better future.

If things became unbearable, I might climb a tall building and find freedom in the sky.

Though I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

One day, as I was reading in my usual corner, Raphael approached and snatched the book from my hands.

“Why are you always reading these boring books?”

The absurdity of his self-satisfied expression made me chuckle dryly.

“Why not?”

At least he hadn’t become crippled or scarred from his previous injuries.

That was a relief.

“Hey, you’re the one who moved me to the bed, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“…Just felt like it.”

Satisfied, he sat beside me, glaring out at the headmaster strolling through the garden.

“Thanks to you, I didn’t catch a cold! I’ll repay you with a story.”

Leaning closer, he whispered conspiratorially.

“This is a secret, but I’m going to leave this stinking slum someday. I’ll go to the capital and become a dashing knight with a sword! Then that awful man won’t dare treat me badly anymore.”

The chances of him becoming a thug with a hidden dagger seemed much higher.

But I didn’t want to shatter his dream, so I stayed silent.

At least his plans didn’t involve harming the headmaster.

As cruel as he was, the man’s death would leave the orphanage filled with children’s corpses.

Over a hundred kids lived here, after all.

I calmly reclaimed my book, found the page I’d been on, and resumed reading.

“Dream big. What’s your name again?”

“Raphael.”

“If you want to be a knight, you should start training your body now.”

Raphael seemed to have a revelation.

“What’s your name?”

“Marie.”

“Marie, when I become a knight, I’ll thank you properly!”

With a determined look, he ran outside.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t get beaten up by thugs.

A few hours later, he returned with scraped knees.

I assumed he’d been running around and tripped.

Though we didn’t play together—I was far too old in mind for that—we began to share the occasional conversation, helping each other out here and there.

I wasn’t sure if you could call it friendship, but after a year of living together, we’d grown close enough.

Thanks to Raphael’s dramatic interventions, the other kids stopped bullying me, making life much more bearable.

One day, the headmaster called me to his office.

“Marie, how long have you been here?”

“Just under five years.”

“And how old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“Marie, an opportunity has come your way.

You’ve always been quiet, never complained about the food, and never caused trouble. You seem like you were born for something greater.”

I raised an eyebrow, asking silently what he meant.

“A duke is searching for his lost child.

You’ll be sent to his estate to see if you’re his daughter.”

A world with two moons.

A strangely familiar name.

A family history that felt eerily familiar.

“Pack your things and prepare to leave tomorrow morning.

I’ll send a letter ahead.”

“…A duke?”

“Just go and see if it’s true. If not, come back.”

The world with two moons.

The duke’s name and his family crest—it all felt painfully familiar.

I sighed dryly, realizing I hadn’t been born into a new world at all.

I had known all along but refused to accept it.

I returned to my bed and began packing.

All I owned were the necklace around my neck, a small coin jar I’d filled, and a piece of clumsy embroidery I’d made as a hobby.