The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 9: The Child

Before entering the room, I stood in front of the door and took a slight breath.

I wasn’t sure if it was because I was nervous or simply unwilling to go in.

From inside the room, faint music began to play.

Thud-dah-dah, thud-dah-dah, it sounded like someone stomping their feet and clapping hands.

Maybe they were dancing in time with the beat.

As I stood idly in front of the door without opening it, Alina, perhaps thinking I wanted her to open it, spoke to me with a slightly troubled expression.

“Miss, servants aren’t allowed in here.”

“It’s not that… I just don’t feel like going in. I’m not asking you to open it.”

“…Ah.”

Turning away from Alina, I stood in front of the door and knocked.

“Come in,” came the voice of a lady from inside.

When I first arrived, I thought my room was too big, but perhaps I was mistaken.

This room looked far grander than even the tavern where performers roamed in the slums.

That tavern had at least fifty tables!

As I opened the door, music I thought I’d never hear again reached my ears—a waltz that made my steps falter, unconsciously out of sync.

Now that I think about it, I didn’t want to believe this world was a game. Yet in this game, there were functions to nurture the protagonist—things like gardening, crafting decorations, dancing, and playing instruments.

Suddenly, the music stopped.

Was it because I had entered?

The children I’d seen in the banquet hall before stood frozen, dressed in elegant uniforms and dresses, fingers intertwined.

They must have been dancing just moments ago, judging by their synchronized stance.

Their appearance wasn’t charming or endearing; it was almost grotesque.

The powder on their faces, likely makeup, had melted with sweat, leaving them looking unkempt.

Their lips were parched, as though they hadn’t had water for some time.

The girls’ legs trembled, already drained of energy.

“You may all leave now.

We’ve covered most of today’s lesson. Practice the choreography until you’ve mastered it by tomorrow.”

Hearing this, the children’s faces lit up with joy as they hurriedly left the room.

The girl who had once brought books and dolls to me approached, whispered in my ear, and left.

“I told you, soon, you idiot.”

Telling me to wash up and dress properly.

I wanted to just pour cold water over myself and throw on some clothes, but the servants wouldn’t let me.

As though determined to confine me in this stifling outfit—or perhaps they thought I was so unkempt that I had to wear something like this—they clung to me in the bath and wardrobe, refusing to let go.

Judging by the faint smile at the corners of their mouths, they probably weren’t trying to make me suffer deliberately.

Why were these people so intent on binding me, even though I’d done nothing to harm them?

It wasn’t as if I couldn’t just hide in a corner and breathe quietly, as I had in the orphanage.

I turned my head and looked at the duchess.

She wore the same expressionless face she’d shown in the dining hall, before revealing her emotions.

As if deep in thought, she watched me as I surveyed the room.

“You’re late.”

Excuses wouldn’t help.

It seemed she was just waiting to find fault with me.

There was no clock in my room.

I only gauged the time by glancing outside the window.

“It’s the first day, so I suppose it’s understandable.

Starting tomorrow, be here by ten.”

“Yes.”

For now, nothing had happened yet.

She might have realized that the girl earlier had been playing a prank.

She approached and examined my attire—checking if the buttons were fastened properly, the sleeves neatly folded, and whether there were any wrinkles in the fabric.

Her gaze felt so intense it was suffocating.

After inspecting the front, she moved behind me.

Unable to see what she was observing, I nervously bit my lips and clenched my fists.

“Your name is Marisela, correct?”

“Yes.”

Slap!

A faint sound rang from my calf.

A burning sensation followed, and I had to resist the urge to rub my leg immediately.

“Rules are rules.

When broken, they must be punished.”

But I endured it.

I didn’t move my legs and stood firm.

Showing a reaction only fuels a tormentor’s sadism.

Even if it’s a beloved daughter.

When my mother strangled me, begging and crying only made her grip tighter. 

But if I smiled and said I was fine, she’d apologize, embrace me, and claim she was wrong.

Even when bullied—my books confiscated, shoved into corners, trampled under tiny feet, or pushed into filthy mud—I never uttered a word of complaint, though my breath might have quickened.

I couldn’t see the woman’s expression, but I imagined she wore a frigid, unfeeling face as she struck me.

After hitting my calf ten times with the rod, she came forward again.

Even this noble lady, confined indoors, found it strenuous to swing a rod; her breathing was faintly labored as she tucked stray hairs neatly back into place.

She stared at my face intently.

Was she expecting me to tear up or sob?

Her brow twitched slightly, or perhaps she bit her lip in faint worry.

What thoughts ran through her mind to produce such an expression?

“You have much to learn from me if you are to live as the mistress of this esteemed house of Wittelsbach.

Even if my husband brought in someone else’s child and called them mine, I must teach you accordingly.”

She nudged my shoulder with the stick, pushing me back.

My small body staggered backward.

Without looking at me, she walked past, speaking about the future as though it were already decided and immutable.

“My son will be a great man, receiving proper education and carrying the legacy of a good family.

My daughters will marry fine gentlemen and live happily ever after.”

She passed me and walked to a bookshelf, pulling out volumes one by one.

Not one or two. From the height, it looked to be about ten books.

Then, she laid them down on the floor.

“You said you know how to read and write, correct?”

She spoke stiffly, like a novice actor just learning their lines.

She didn’t leave the room but slightly opened the door and called for a servant.

Several men came and carried the books she had selected off somewhere.

“I had the servants move them to your room, so make sure to read and study them all. Every day, you’ll be tested here, and you’ll need to set aside the life you’ve lived so far to embrace a new one. Even if it means forcibly reshaping yourself.”**

As the duchess continued speaking, a servant—still more boy than man—stumbled while moving the books and fell with a loud crash.

The room descended into silence.

“…Well, this serves as a good example.”

The duchess took my hand and walked me toward the fallen servant.

The boy, on the verge of tears, began to plead with her, apologizing profusely.

“Oh, there’s no need to apologize to me.

If anyone’s lesson was interrupted, it was Marisela’s.”

Then, turning to me, she asked, “Marisela, what do you think we should do with this insolent servant?”

“…”

I couldn’t bring myself to respond.

Seeing my hesitation, she raised her right hand high and slapped my cheek with all her might.

The force lifted me off my feet slightly, and I fell to the floor.

After striking me, she bit her lip and shuddered slightly when our eyes met.

“…You must answer.”

“I don’t know.”

“If it were up to me, I’d simply throw him out of this estate. But it’s your duty to administer the punishment.

As someone of noble birth, you must chastise the mistakes of your subordinates firmly.”

I could roughly understand what she meant, but I pretended not to and asked again, “…What should I do?”

As if she had intended to spell it out from the beginning, she replied immediately.

“Punish him as if you were just punished.

He won’t be thrown out, so it’s a rather merciful penalty, don’t you think?”

If that’s what she wanted, then so be it.

I looked at the boy, who was still kneeling and begging for forgiveness. His tearful face brightened slightly at the realization he wouldn’t be expelled.

Well, if he’d rather be hit than face hunger or poverty, who was I to refuse?

I lightly rubbed my stinging cheek and began slapping the boy’s face with all the strength I could muster.

Still a child myself, my hand hurt more than his cheek did.

My right hand turned a deeper shade of red than his left cheek, which had begun to bruise and darken.

The skin seemed to have burst slightly, with blood pooling beneath.

I kept slapping him until the duchess finally told me to stop.

By then, my wrist ached, and my palm had gone numb.

When I glanced up at the duchess, she looked slightly unsettled—perhaps even dissatisfied.

So, I hit the boy again, harder this time.

With each slap, I wondered if my wrist might give out.

Just as I raised my hand high to strike again, the duchess grabbed my wrist and shouted in a trembling voice, “Stop! Stop hitting him!”

I stared at her, confused.

You told me to hit him.

You said it was a fitting punishment.

Why stop now?

After all, I’m the one hitting him—not you.

It’s not your hand that’s hurting.

“Th-that’s enough for today’s lesson. Starting tomorrow, don’t be late.”

As she turned to leave the room, I grabbed the hem of her dress to stop her.

When she looked back, her face was a twisted mix of anger, confusion, and guilt.

Tears glistened in her eyes, making her expression almost laughable.

But when our gazes met, she quickly composed herself, wearing the same blank expression as before.

“It’s a grave offense to grab someone’s clothing uninvited. Next time, call me… well, call me ‘Mother’… or, uh… never mind that. Why did you stop me?”

Despite her attempt to compose herself, her flustered emotions leaked through her voice and tone.

I glanced around the room and pointed at a keyboard instrument.

“May I play the piano?”

“Y-yes, of course. Do as you like.”

For some reason, she looked slightly alarmed, nodding hesitantly as she gave her permission.

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