I Became the Master of the Villain

“Feeling a bit better now?”
I asked as I loosened the embrace. Kian’s eyes were tinged red. He didn’t reply—just gave a small nod.
Now that I thought about it, Kian before his blackening cried quite a bit.

The Kian from the original novel was a man of no blood and no tears.
It felt unfamiliar, even strange, to see that he once had a time like this.
He wiped the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I shouldn’t have shown myself like that… I’m sorry.”
I shook my head gently.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Honestly, I was just thankful he hadn’t gone down the villain route.
I tapped my shoulder and said,
“If you’re having a hard time, cry all you want. Just like today, I’ll lend this to you anytime.”

Kian’s face flushed red like he’d been burned. He quickly shook his head.
“I won’t cry anymore.”
His vehement denial was so adorable I couldn’t help but smile faintly.

By the time Kian had °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° regained some emotional stability, night had already fallen deep.
The sound of insects chirping carried in from the open window.
It was getting late.

I stood to head back.
“It’s late. I’ll go now.”
Just as I turned to leave, Kian suddenly spoke.
“Um… Master.”

“Yeah?”
He opened his lips slightly, hesitated, then softly said,
“Good night.”

He seemed embarrassed by the words, shyly offering a proper goodnight.
I smiled.
“You sleep well too, Kian.”

He returned the smile, gentle and faint.
It looked softer than ever.
And I thought—I want to keep seeing that smile.

This time, I won’t let things end like the original.
I’ll stop his blackening, and I’ll make sure he’s happy.
Just like I vowed the day I first saw him at the auction.

I reminded myself of that vow as I left Kian’s room behind.
***
A few days passed.

On my way down to breakfast, I ran into Kian in the corridor.
“Good morning, Kian.”
When I greeted him, he smiled gently and replied,

“Did you sleep well, Master?”
Seeing how bright he looked, I was relieved—he must have slept peacefully.
Soon, the servants brought in breakfast, filling the dining hall with delicious smells.

I spread apple jam on a piece of golden toast and said,
“I’ll be out today for some business.”
I had an appointment this afternoon with the Duchess of Wedgwood.

She was a key figure in the Ashford Duchy’s art export operations.
In recent years, neighboring countries had become enamored with the Empire’s advanced culture—its food, fashion, and especially its art.
As a result, art imports had surged.

In particular, the Queen of the Kingdom of Genoa was deeply in love with Imperial culture. A wealthy patron, she never hesitated to spend on artwork.
The Duchess of Wedgwood was her niece.
Cultured and with a refined eye, the duchess had the Queen’s ear—and her recommendations often led to direct purchases.

If we could find rapport, selling art to the Queen would be effortless.
To avoid being late, I ordered the carriage to be readied.
Kian saw me off all the way to the mansion’s front steps.

“When will you return?”
he asked as I was about to climb into the carriage. His perfectly shaped brows drooped slightly.
It was hard to leave when he looked at me like that.

“It’ll be done before sunset. Let’s have dinner together.”
Kian nodded.
“I’ll be waiting. Have a safe trip, Master.”

With Kian seeing me off, the carriage departed.
Looking out the window, I saw him still standing at the entrance long after the carriage had pulled away.
In the rolling carriage, I resolved to wrap up the meeting with the duchess as quickly as possible.

***
“Lady Olivia, thank you for gracing us with your presence.”
The Duchess of Wedgwood smiled warmly, standing before a painting she’d been admiring.

She had chosen, unusually, to meet at an art museum.
I approached and greeted her.
The painting she had been observing was Portrait of Lady Lamour by Nicholas Rossetti.

The duchess, eyes reverent, said,
“It’s a great tragedy that we’ll never see new work from Nicholas.”
Nicholas, the Empire’s genius painter.

Five years ago, he abruptly retired, declaring, “There is no longer anyone who inspires me.”
Neither family, friends, nor even the emperor could change his mind.
The duchess spoke with a sigh.

“This piece—Portrait of Lady Lamour—is such a showcase of Nicholas’ mastery of the Privaret technique. Who would’ve thought this masterpiece would be his last?”
But that painting wasn’t done in Privaret—it was done using the Servita technique.
For a second, I doubted my ears.

The Duchess of Wedgwood was renowned throughout society for her knowledge of the arts.
There was no way someone like her would make such an elementary mistake.
It made more sense to think she was testing me.

Privaret and Servita weren’t even similar. No one could confuse them.
But to someone unfamiliar with art, the terms would sound obscure enough to go unquestioned.
And the duchess, I suspected, wouldn’t want to conduct business with someone who viewed art as nothing more than a commodity.

That was likely her unspoken intent.
Still, the question had been too easy.
If she wanted to test me, she could’ve at least chosen something harder.

Like a student confident in the right answer, I replied with ease,
“As I’m sure you know, Nicholas Rossetti is renowned as the originator of the Servita technique.”
The duchess smiled. Apparently, that was the answer she had hoped for.

I continued, brimming with confidence,
“Do you have another question for me? I’d be happy to explain the past hundred years of Imperial art history if you’d like.”
She laughed—a refined, ringing laugh—and looked at me with interest.

“No need. Lady Olivia, you’ve passed splendidly.”
She’d given such an easy test for a reason.
As someone who genuinely loved art, she had wanted to see whether I was just a money-minded dealer or someone who truly understood the field.

She had tested me—but I didn’t feel insulted.
“Shall we talk business now?”
When I asked, she smiled and agreed.

***
“That was such a refreshing conversation. Your ideas were so new and vibrant—it was truly stimulating.”
“You flatter me. I was deeply impressed by your passion and knowledge of art, Your Grace.”

The duchess looked regretful as she watched me step into the carriage.
“Please visit again sometime. I’d love to speak with you more.”
“I’d be happy to, Your Grace.”

Thanks to my knowledge of art, the conversation had gone smoothly and pleasantly.
As a result, the discussion about exporting art to the Kingdom of Genoa flowed naturally.
With the deal secured, I departed in high spirits.

Next stop: the restaurant in the city center.
That’s where I was to meet Kian.
I urged the coachman to hurry, and we made good time to the busy district.

Despite the rush, I arrived just on time.
Under the glow of the streetlights, I saw a familiar silhouette.
Kian turned around and smiled when he saw me. I hurried toward him.

“Did you wait long?”
“No, I just arrived.”
Escorted by Kian, I entered the restaurant.

It was already crowded with diners enjoying the dinner hour.
Elegant and upscale—the meal that followed was a great success. Fortunately, our dear protagonist was very satisfied with the chef’s cooking.
After the pleasant meal, we went for a walk to enjoy the night air.

Crossing the bridge that connected the city center to the riverside, we arrived at Artist’s Alley.
Unknown painters had laid out canvases along the road, drawing caricatures and selling their works.
As we strolled along the picturesque riverbank, admiring the art—

A stranger suddenly appeared.
“You there, young man!”
A vagrant had stepped in front of Kian.

He had a scruffy beard, stained arms and legs, and hair so tangled it looked like it hadn’t been cut in years.
“What do you want?!”
Sir Hans, our escort knight, quickly stepped between the man and Kian.

I brushed my hair back in irritation.
Who’s this, bothering our Kian now?
“What business do you have?”

I didn’t bother hiding the annoyance in my voice.
But the vagrant, unbothered by our reaction, said confidently,
“Please, don’t misunderstand. I’m not here to beg.”

If he wasn’t begging, then what did he want?
The vagrant unwrapped a bundle from his back.
To our surprise, it was a collection of painting tools—an easel, a palette, and more.

He spoke in a pleading voice.
“My lady… if you would permit it… I would like to paint this young man.”