Never Die Villain

After the exhibition match came to an end, Anastasiya was formally honored before the gathered branches of House Belozersky.

Whatever doubts had lingered over Valentin’s decision before the duel were considerably harder to voice afterward.

Anastasiya had defeated Ilya so decisively that there was no longer any reasonable question as to which of the two siblings was above the other, and even those who had never truly supported her succession could do little more than remain quiet as the hall applauded the future head of the family.

Several elders approached to offer their congratulations, followed shortly by other members of the branch families who had spent the previous days carefully avoiding any open declaration of support.

Anastasiya accepted each of them with the composure expected of Valentin’s successor, responding to their praise with polite acknowledgments while the same people who had attempted to use Ilya against her only moments ago now spoke as though her victory had merely confirmed what they had believed all along.

Meanwhile, Ilya was being treated by the family healers in a separate chamber.

"Young Lord, please stop moving."

"...Yes."

Ilya obediently raised his chin and allowed another layer of bandages to be wrapped around his neck.

The final strike had left only a narrow wound across his throat thanks to the senior knight’s intervention, but the healer’s expression had remained grim from the moment he examined it.

"You were fortunate."

"So I’ve been told."

"I’m serious, Young Lord." The healer tightened the bandage before securing it in place. "Another inch and that blade would have opened one of the arteries in your neck. With the amount of force behind Lady Anastasiya’s strike, there would have been very little we could have done before you bled out."

"...Was it that bad?"

"That bad."

Ilya touched the bandages before the healer immediately slapped his hand away.

"Don’t."

"Right."

He lowered his hand.

Only now, sitting quietly while the adrenaline faded from his body, did Ilya fully realize how close Anastasiya had come to killing him.

He had known during the duel that she wasn’t stopping, but there had been no time to properly process what that meant when a sword was already coming toward his throat.

His sister had genuinely swung to kill.

"Sigh..."

Ilya leaned back against the chair.

From beyond the chamber walls, he could faintly hear the celebration continuing in the main hall.

There would be speeches, congratulations, and no shortage of elders suddenly eager to reaffirm their loyalty to the future Grand Duchess now that Anastasiya had thoroughly crushed the alternative.

In that regard, the duel had accomplished exactly what Valentin wanted.

There was no longer any reason to compare them.

Anastasiya had walked away without a single meaningful injury, while Ilya was sitting in another room covered in bandages and being informed that he had nearly lost his head.

Even with Niflheim’s blizzard, Cold Sense, and every trick he had been willing to reveal in front of the family, he had never truly come close to defeating her.

"...She’s gotten ridiculously strong."

The healer glanced at him.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

Ilya closed his eyes.

He could still remember the nine-year-old girl who used to complain about her lessons, showing him her bruised hands while insisting that he hurry up and become strong enough to replace her.

Back then, Anastasiya had wanted nothing to do with the position awaiting her, and Ilya had genuinely believed that one day he would become strong enough to take that burden from his older sister.

How strange.

Somewhere along the way, the sister who had once begged him to take her place had become someone willing to cut his throat to make certain he never could.

After the healers had finally finished treating him, Ilya moved to the bed, covered his eyes with one arm, and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

His entire body felt unusually light, and although he suspected the blood loss had something to do with the dizziness clouding his head, he was far too exhausted to give it much thought.

Sometime later, the sudden touch of something cold and wet against his skin pulled him from his sleep.

"...Hm?"

Ilya slowly opened his eyes and lowered the arm covering his face, only to find Sherry sitting beside the bed with a basin of water nearby.

She had rolled up her sleeves and was carefully wiping the dried blood from his arm with a damp towel, apparently having cleaned most of it away before he finally woke up.

"...Sherry?"

"You’re awake."

"What are you doing?"

"Cleaning you, Lord Ilya."

Sherry dipped the towel back into the basin and wrung out the excess water before returning to his arm.

Most of the cuts had already been treated by the healers, but blood still stained his skin in places, particularly around his hands and forearms where nobody had bothered cleaning him properly after the match.

"You look terrible, Lord Ilya."

"Thank you."

"That wasn’t a compliment..."

"I know."

Ilya closed his eyes again.

Sherry continued wiping his arm in silence for a while, carefully working around the bandaged cuts before moving toward the blood dried along his fingers.

"...You can say it, Sherry."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you’ve been wanting to say since I woke up."

Sherry squeezed the towel a little harder than necessary, keeping her attention on the dried blood along his arm rather than looking him in the eye.

"I think... you nearly died, Lord Ilya. I don’t know much about swordsmanship, and I certainly don’t know what happened between you and Lady Anastasiya, but even someone like me could tell that she was about to kill you..."

Ilya stared at the ceiling.

The moment continued replaying in his head whether he wanted it to or not, from the aura gathering around Anastasiya’s blade to the instant he realized that she had no intention of stopping.

"...I can’t say I’m surprised."

"I guess not..."

Sherry had spent enough time serving at the capital estate to know that the relationship between the two siblings had been strained long before the Winter Assembly.

She had frequently overheard their quarrels from the hallways, although calling them quarrels was perhaps generous when most consisted of Anastasiya scolding Ilya while he either answered with complete indifference or deliberately said something that only made her angrier.

"I still don’t understand it, though," Sherry murmured as she rinsed the towel in the basin. "Lady Anastasiya always seems angrier whenever you speak to her than she does with anyone else. Sometimes I wonder if you actually enjoy provoking her."

"...It just happens. The best way to handle Anastasiya is to never take her seriously."

Sherry sighed and returned to wiping the dried blood from his arm, while Ilya closed his eyes again and allowed his head to sink deeper into the pillow.

The conversation continued for a while longer, until the bedroom door suddenly opened without so much as a knock.

"There he is, my favorite cousin!"

Ilya opened his eyes.

Aleksei stepped into the room with a wide grin on his face, looking far too cheerful for someone visiting a relative who had nearly been decapitated not long ago.

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