Never Die Villain

"A letter has arrived for Lord Ilya and Lady Anastasiya!"

The maids accepted the sealed envelopes before immediately delivering them to their respective masters, who had remained at the estate while their parents attended matters at the Imperial Palace.

Judging by the Academy’s crest stamped into the crimson wax, neither sibling needed to ask what the letters contained.

Breaking the seal, Ilya unfolded it and skimmed its contents. His eyes remained fixed on the final section for a moment before he calmly folded the letter once more and tucked it inside his coat.

A short while later, Anastasiya emerged from the bath, her damp silver hair draping over her shoulders as she leaned against the second-floor railing to look down at him.

"What did you receive?" she asked.

"Are you curious?"

"I’m curious whether you’re still hopeless."

"My cumulative standing was raised to the Fourth Rank."

Anastasiya raised an eyebrow. "The Fourth Rank?"

She genuinely wondered whether she had misheard him.

The Holy Trinity Academy did not rank its Knight Department students by individual examination scores alone.

Every aspect of a cadet’s performance, combat ability, physical conditioning, tactical instruction, academic studies, discipline, attendance, and evaluations from supervising instructors, was consolidated into a single cumulative standing at the end of each academic term.

That standing determined one’s rank within the department, ranging from the First Rank, reserved for its finest cadets, to the Fifth Rank, whose occupants were often only a step away from dismissal.

At the beginning of the semester, Ilya had been placed in the Fifth Rank.

His repeated injuries, poor practical results, and declining physical condition had dragged his overall standing to the bottom of the department, making him one of the lowest-ranked cadets among his peers.

Few expected that to change before the end of the academic year, let alone within a single semester.

Yet even then, he had climbed a rank.

"While my swordsmanship is still at the bottom of the department, I seem to have managed to make up for it through endurance and the theoretical examinations..."

If his abilities were plotted on the hexagonal aptitude charts commonly used throughout the Academy, his strength, agility, technique, and combat performance would have remained well below the departmental average, while only his endurance and intellect extended noticeably beyond the rest.

It was an unbalanced profile that few knight cadets would ever consider ideal.

Unfortunately, it was the only path available to him.

Unable to compete physically with his classmates as he once had, Ilya could only compensate by excelling in the areas his condition still allowed.

As long as those strengths continued to outweigh his weaknesses, his cumulative standing would remain high enough to keep him enrolled.

Anastasiya crossed her arms. "Father will probably have something to say about this."

"Yes."

That was where the conversation ended.

Without another word, Anastasiya turned and walked back toward her room, closing the door behind her without ever mentioning the results of her own evaluation.

Ilya had not expected her to, nor did he feel any need to ask, for there was little point in questioning someone whose answer he could already predict.

After all, they had only recently begun speaking to one another again.

Looking down at his pocket watch, Ilya rose to his feet.

"I suppose it’s time."

The moment he took his first step, however, his footing nearly slipped.

"Ah..."

He lowered his gaze.

The sheet of ice that only he could perceive had spread even farther than before. Its surface now stretched across nearly the entire floor. Previously, the frozen patches had left at least some bare ground between them.

But now, those empty spaces had gradually disappeared one by one, leaving almost nothing untouched by the ever-expanding sheet of ice, spreading so slowly that it was impossible to notice from one day to the next, yet impossible to ignore when compared to weeks before.

"Hoo..."

The cold had worsened as well.

Even after months of enduring Vera’s ice baths, Ilya could no longer convince himself that he had grown accustomed to it. The chill seemed to deepen with each passing day, sinking further into his body until even a forceful breath escaped his lips as white mist.

"...I should dress more warmly."

Only after making certain that every bit of warmth had been trapped under his clothing did he leave the estate.

* * *

The lights inside Maison Laurent had already begun to dim.

Laurent had just finished balancing the day’s ledger and was reaching toward the final lamp when a pale figure appeared beyond the front window.

Through the window, Laurent caught sight of someone standing outside the shop. Dressed entirely in white, the figure remained still enough that, for a moment, he thought he was seeing the paranormal.

"Heavens..."

Laurent’s heart skipped a beat.

The figure remained perfectly still, its white scarf concealing the lower half of its face while layers of pale clothing blended unnaturally into the fading light.

Then Laurent noticed the familiar black hair peeking out from beneath the hood.

"...Young Lord?"

The figure finally moved.

Pushing open the door, Ilya stepped inside Maison Laurent with both hands tucked inside his coat pockets. The bell above the entrance chimed, breaking the strange silence.

Laurent let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

"What brings you here at this hour, Young Lord?" he asked, eyeing Ilya from head to toe. "And what’s with the clothes? It’s not even winter yet. Anyone who didn’t know better would think you’ve just returned from the Northern Frontier."

Ilya glanced down at the sleeves of his coat before giving an apologetic smile.

"I’ve always had poor resistance to the cold," he said. "Lately, it’s become a little worse than usual. Even when everyone else says the weather is pleasant, it still feels freezing to me."

"Is that so?" Laurent raised an eyebrow. "That’s rather unusual for someone from the North. Then again, I’ve learned not to question noble families and their peculiar constitutions..."

"I’m actually here to pick up the suits I had tailored."

Laurent looked toward the clock hanging on the wall before turning back to Ilya with an awkward expression.

"...Young Lord, we’re already closing for the day," he said apologetically. "Had you arrived a few minutes later, you would have found the doors locked."

"I know," Ilya replied with a nod. "I wasn’t planning on coming here at first. I just felt like taking a walk, and since I happened to be nearby, I thought I might as well see if you were still open."

Laurent stared at him for a moment before chuckling.

"You nobles certainly have an interesting sense of timing," he said, shaking his head. "Very well. You’ve already come all this way, and I would feel terrible sending you home empty-handed. Wait here for just a moment. I’ll fetch your suits from the back."

Without waiting for a reply, Laurent disappeared through the doorway leading to the workshop and, after several minutes, quietly returned.

In his hands was a long garment bag of dark canvas, tied shut with a leather strap to protect its contents during transport.

Judging by the care with which he carried it, one would have thought he was handling a priceless work of art rather than a collection of tailored suits.

"I made a few final adjustments after your last fitting," Laurent said as he set the garment bag across the counter. "Nothing major, just enough to make the shoulders sit more naturally and the sleeves fall a little cleaner."

Untying the strap, Ilya opened the garment bag and ran his fingers across the fabric.

"Go ahead and have a look," Laurent continued. "If anything feels even slightly uncomfortable, tell me now rather than after you’ve worn it outside."

Even before trying them on, he could tell that Laurent had kept his promise. Every detail reflected the patience of a craftsman who refused to settle for anything less than his best.

As he looked over the suits, Laurent’s words from a few days earlier resurfaced in his mind.

"Monsieur Laurent," Ilya asked, "what did you mean when you said I should never return here with my mother?"

"Ah..."

The old tailor forced an awkward smile as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"That was merely a slip of the tongue, Young Lord. Please don’t think too deeply about it. It’s simply that..."

He trailed off before shaking his head.

"Never mind."

"...?"

Silence fell.

Laurent looked toward the window before eventually meeting Ilya’s eyes again.

"...Young Lord, how much do you actually know about Lady Mariya?"

The question caught Ilya slightly off guard.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I asked. Not what the public knows, not what the newspapers write, and not what the nobles whisper among themselves. I mean Lady Mariya herself."

Laurent rested a hand against the counter and lowered his voice.

"You’ve known her as your mother for years now," he said. "But have you ever wondered who she was before she became the Grand Duchess of the North?"

"...I can’t say I have," Ilya said after a moment of thought. "Even so, Mother has shown me nothing but kindness. When no one else had any reason to reach out to me, she was the one who did, and I have no intention of questioning her character based on rumors or the words of strangers."

Laurent watched him in silence for several seconds before asking a question that completely shattered the calm between them.

"Then... if I were to tell you that Lady Mariya isn’t quite the woman you believe her to be?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Ilya’s brows slowly knitted together as he stared at the old tailor, searching his face for some hint that the remark had been made in poor taste.

Finding none, the confusion in his eyes gradually gave way to irritation.

"What did you just say?"

"My apologies. But answer the question."

Ilya frowned. "No, I wouldn’t believe you. Even if you point a knife at my throat."

"...."

"My mother has never once given me a reason to doubt her," Ilya continued. "If anything, she has been the only person in that household who consistently treated me with kindness. So if you’re expecting me to entertain such an absurd accusation, then you’ve come to the wrong person."

Laurent regarded Ilya sympathetically.

"You’re probably aware that I’m a bastard," Ilya said after taking a breath. "My very existence is the product of my father’s betrayal, and by every reasonable expectation, Lady Mariya had every right to despise me."

"...."

"She could have ignored me, cast me aside, or treated me as nothing more than a constant reminder of my father’s infidelity, and no one in the Grand Duchy would have questioned her for it."

His gaze remained fixed on Laurent.

"But she accepted me. She gave me a place in the household even though I wasn’t her son, looked after me even when the elders regarded me with open contempt, and continued to stand by me when even my own half-sister wanted nothing to do with me."

A faint smile appeared on Ilya’s face.

"To me, Lady Mariya has been as much a mother as any child could hope for, and no rumor or accusation from someone else is enough to erase years of lived experience."

For Ilya, who had never once known the love of a parent in his previous life and had then found himself reborn into a family as dysfunctional as the Belozerskys, Mariya was nothing short of a diamond.

Whatever flaws she might have, and whatever secrets she might still be hiding, none of them could erase the years she had spent raising him as if he were her own.

Laurent lowered his eyes for a moment before letting out a sigh.

"...I see," he said with a nod. "Then forgive this old fool for speaking out of turn. I should have kept those thoughts to myself."

"No. I don’t think I can forgive you."

A bitter smile tugged at the corners of Laurent’s lips.

"Then that’s a shame. Still, I won’t ask you to change your mind. Instead, allow me to ask one last favor of you, Young Lord."

"...?"

"Please don’t come back here again."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Ilya reached into his coat and placed the agreed payment on the counter beside the garment bag.

He offered Laurent a courteous nod, picked up the tailored suits, and walked toward the entrance without another word.

"I wish you good health, Monsieur Laurent."

"And I wish you the same, Young Lord."

The bell above the door rang as Ilya stepped outside.

Laurent remained where he was until the sound of footsteps faded into the distance.

Only after the young man had disappeared from view did he slowly reach for the lantern hanging beside the counter and extinguish its flame, allowing the workshop to fall into darkness.

"...Just as I thought."