Third-Rate Villain Of Fantasy Novel-Chapter 29: Late Night Visit [1]

A broken sword lay at my feet.

Blood dripped steadily from my arm, warm and sticky as it slid down my fingers and stained the ground below.

The moment I saw those two things together—the shattered blade and my own blood—I finally came back to my senses.

My grip loosened. The sword slipped from my hand and fell with a dull clang.

That was when I heard my father’s voice. It was calm, warm, and painfully gentle, as if he were afraid that raising it even a little might shatter me again.

"Feeling a little less angry now?"

"...Yes."

The word came out weak, but it was honest.

My father let out a quiet breath, something between a sigh and a confession.

"I’m sorry," he said. "I was too short-sighted. It’s my fault for not paying attention to you and Alphonse. I thought you were too mature for your age, so I convinced myself you didn’t need me. I should have approached you first."

He paused.

"I’m sorry for being an immature father."

The apology struck deeper than any blade ever could.

I couldn’t find the words to answer him. My throat tightened, and all I could do was listen. Because, truthfully, I had been thinking the same thing—about myself, and about Alphonse.

My father gave a faint, self-deprecating smile.

"It’s a bit ironic," he continued. "We rich people are so bad at talking to each other, aren’t we?"

I almost laughed. Almost.

It hadn’t always been like this.

When Mother was still with us, even if problems arose, they never reached the point of drawn swords or raised voices. She had a way of pulling us together, of turning conflict into conversation. Arguments ended at the table, not on the training grounds.

After she passed away, everything changed.

Our conversations gradually faded, as if someone had lowered the volume on our family without us noticing. Mother had always been the one to start discussions, to bridge the gaps before they grew too wide. Without her, silence settled in naturally—too naturally.

I, carrying memories from my previous life, grew up without much trouble. I knew how to endure. I knew how to stay quiet.

And Alphonse—unlike most children—grew into a gentle, quiet boy. He rarely complained, rarely demanded anything. He was kind in a way that made you believe he would always be fine on his own.

Maybe that was why.

Because we both seemed fine, we convinced ourselves that words weren’t necessary.

We were so close that we left each other alone, trusting that closeness alone was enough.

But closeness without communication was just another kind of distance.

I clenched my uninjured hand slowly, feeling the ache in my chest finally ease.

"So..." I said, lifting my head. "I’d like to try talking a little more from now on."

I looked at him properly then.

"Thank you, Father."

As the emotions that had been weighing me down spilled out, one by one, the hatred I’d been directing at myself quietly disappeared. The anger, the frustration, the regret—it all loosened its grip.

In its place was a single, clear thought.

I wanted to be a better brother.

For Alphonse.

I bowed deeply to my father, not out of obligation, but out of sincerity. He placed a hand on my head for just a moment—hesitant, awkward, but warm.

Then I turned away.

As I walked off, leaving the broken sword behind, the pain in my arm still lingered. But for the first time in a long while, my heart felt lighter.

After leaving the training ground, I went straight back to my room and stopped in front of the full-length mirror beside the closet.

The face reflected there—rigid and sharp just moments ago—slowly relaxed. The tension drained from my features, replaced by a faint, almost unconscious smile.

Then my gaze dropped.

The pure white sleeves of my uniform were soaked in red, the blood still seeping steadily from my arm.

"...Right."

I turned my head toward the window. Outside, the sky had already darkened, the world washed in silver moonlight and scattered stars. The training grounds were quiet now. At this hour, Ken and Maria had likely returned to their rooms, and the other attendants were probably busy preparing for the night.

Calling for them now would only invite unnecessary questions.

It seemed I would have to deal with this myself.

I let out a quiet sigh.

"Ah... this is annoying. Where did I put the bandages and the wound potion?"

As soon as the words left my mouth, I froze.

...Bandages? Potion?

A strange sense of unease crept up my spine.

This—this dependency—was like a chronic disease I’d developed after being reincarnated as the son of a high-ranking aristocrat.

For several years now, the attendants had handled almost everything for me. Things I could have easily done on my own in my previous life—cleaning, organizing, even treating minor injuries—had become someone else’s responsibility.

And without realizing it, I’d grown used to simply calling out whenever I needed something.

The thought made my chest tighten.

It was frightening.

Only five years of possession... yet it was already suppressing twenty-five years of life as a commoner.

Five times longer.

Was this what comfort did to people?

I shook my head and pulled myself back to reality. Thinking about that now wouldn’t stop the bleeding.

I removed my coat, set it aside, and rolled up the stained sleeve. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was long, and blood continued to trickle down my arm in thin lines.

"Tch."

I began searching the room.

The desk drawers—empty.

The cabinet near the bed—just books and documents.

Even after checking every corner, I found nothing remotely useful.

No bandages.

No wound potion.

After several minutes of pointless searching, the obvious truth finally surfaced.

...Why would there be any of that in my room?

Those things were always kept by the attendants.

I stared at my bleeding arm in silence.

’Ah, this is bad.’

The calm thought didn’t last long.

’Aaaaa—!! Where am I supposed to get bandages and a potion at this hour?!’

I clenched my fist, then immediately regretted it as a sharp sting shot through my arm.

"...Ow."

’No, no, calm down.’

I took a slow breath.

’It’s just a small cut...’

The bleeding wasn’t even that serious.

’I’ll be fine. Definitely fine.’

Another drop of blood fell onto the floor.

’...But that’s still a problem!!!!’

I pressed my lips together, torn between pride and practicality.

Sneaking out to the infirmary now would be troublesome.

Calling an attendant would raise questions.

And doing nothing was clearly not an option.