I Became The Novel's Biggest Antagonist

In another room, one reserved exclusively for royal guests, two figures were present. 

The sound of a shower had echoed through the adjoining bathroom for what felt like an eternity, the water rushing relentlessly before it finally stopped. Moments later, the door creaked open, releasing a cloud of mist—not from hot water, but from the biting chill of an icy shower.

Ludmila, standing patiently just outside, held a towel in her hand. The familiar scent that wafted out—the unmistakable, intoxicating fragrance that was uniquely Ivan's—prickled her senses. More than just the soap or shampoo, it was Ivan himself who carried that natural, alluring scent.

Ivan emerged from the bathroom, in his true appearance. He wore only a pair of finely tailored black trousers, his upper body bare and glistening slightly from the cold. His skin, pale and smooth, was flawless—free from scars or blemishes, as though sculpted from marble.

What caught the eye even more were the magnificent black markings that wove across his arms, neck, and back. At first glance, they appeared to be tattoos, beautiful and detailed—especially the enormous black cross that dominated his entire back. But these weren't mere tattoos. They were his Stigma.

"Why did you wait?" Ivan asked, his voice as toneless as ever, brushing his wet black hair back.

Ludmila stepped forward with a gentle smile, extending her hand with the towel. She began drying his hair with slow, careful movements.

"You're freezing again," she muttered, though by now she was used to his preference for cold showers. The cold didn't affect him—if anything, he seemed to prefer it.

Ivan made no move to stop her. He allowed Ludmila to dry his hair, though this wasn't the first time she had done so.

"I don't like it when you take cold showers, Ivan," Ludmila mumbled softly, her hands slowing as she looked directly into his pitch-black eyes—eyes that seemed even darker, more impenetrable, than her own.

Ivan remained silent, his expression unchanged. He knew Ludmila didn't like it, but cold showers had become a necessity for him, a habit he couldn't break.

Ludmila knew the reason behind it all too well. Each time he took one, it felt as though he was hurting himself remembering what happened to him in the past, and though she understood, it didn't make it any easier to watch.

After doing her best to dry his hair, Ludmila let the towel fall to the floor. Her pale hand reached up, gently brushing against Ivan's cheek. 

For a moment, they simply looked at one another for a long minute. Then Ludmila smiled softly and stepped back. "I personally prepared your outfit. Now, let's get this on. Lift your arms for me."

She took a black formal shirt from the nearby chair. At first glance, it seemed simple enough, but its texture was unmistakable—it was crafted from the rarest silk in the world.

Ivan obediently raised his arms, allowing Ludmila to slide the shirt over them. Once the sleeves were in place, she moved in front of him, her eyes focused on his chest as she carefully began buttoning the shirt, one button at a time, deliberately slow, savoring the moment.

Reaching for a tie next, Ludmila paused, her fingers grazing the fabric before she casually tossed it aside. She didn't need to ask. She knew Ivan hated ties or anything that constricted his throat, and she understood why. But it was something she wouldn't speak of.

"Here, sit," Ludmila said, pulling out a chair for him in front of the mirror.

Ivan sat down, his reflection calm, and Ludmila, with a gentle smile, began combing his hair. But she didn't slick it back into some formal style. Instead, she left it in its usual slightly messy, windswept look—just as she liked it, or as Kamila preferred. 

To them, Ivan needed no embellishment. No makeup, no harsh cuts, no overly formal attire. His natural handsomeness shone through, no matter what he wore.

"Are you finished, Ludmila?" Ivan asked, sensing the care in her strokes, knowing she was lingering. He understood her desire to stretch the time, but he had to leave soon.

"...After the wedding, you'll be leaving, won't you?" Ludmila's voice was almost a whisper, though she already knew the answer.

Ivan had made it clear he was returning to Ocryphia once the ceremony was over. It had been a topic none of the four questioned. They didn't ask why Ivan felt the need to go, nor why he was keeping his plans hidden from the Cathedral. Their loyalty and trust in him were so absolute that it overshadowed everything else—even their duties to the Cathedral. If Ivan had his reasons, they respected them. And in his absence, the four had taken on the responsibility of caring for Britannia without hesitation.

Ludmila, perhaps, had shouldered the most.

But she missed him deeply. In the past month, she had only seen him seven or eight times in Britannia, and every moment with him felt fleeting. 

Ludmila gently patted Ivan's cheeks, her gaze lingering deeply in his eyes.

Ivan tilted his head back, resting it against the chair, his own eyes tracing the calm expression on Ludmila's face. She was always composed, her emotions carefully in check, but he could see it—the faint shadow of sadness beneath her serene demeanor.

"I'll stay until tomorrow morning," Ivan finally said.

He knew his classes began at dawn, but skipping sleep wasn't an issue. It never was. For him, sleep was more a ritual of rest than actual necessity. He could simply teleport straight to Ocryphia just before class began, without missing a beat.

Ludmila understood, offering a subtle nod as her head lowered toward him. Her silver hair cascaded over the side of his head, creating a curtain around them. Beneath that veil of hair, her lips met his cold ones.

The kiss was soft and tender, lasting no more than ten seconds, but that brief connection was enough for her. When she pulled back, a faint blush had warmed her cheeks, though her expression remained composed.

Ivan's face, on the other hand, showed no sign of emotion. He was as unreadable as ever, but his acceptance of the kiss spoke volumes. For him, letting someone get that close was more revealing than words or gestures. It showed how much Ludmila meant to him.

"Let's go, then," Ludmila said, her voice lighter now, as she reached for the jet-black blazer.

Ivan stood and slipped it on with ease, then walked toward the door. Ludmila followed closely behind.

"Oh, Ivan," she called after him.

He paused, turning to her.

Ludmila gestured toward his chest. "Your Stigma. You should suppress it."

Ivan gave a slight nod of his head.

The Stigma—an unique mark that manifested from one's Faith in the Fallen Goddess Seraphiel—was more than just a symbol. It was a reflection of one's innermost self, a visual and substantial display of the weight of their convictions. For those from Gevurah, like Ivan and Ludmila, it was an unavoidable part of them, an aura that could both protect and intimidate.

Its presence acted like a shield, an oppressive force that could instill fear in those around them. The strength of one's Stigma was a direct reflection of their Faith, and for Ivan, it was extremely potent and could be lethal.

Though they couldn't make their Stigma disappear, they could suppress it—mute its force when necessary. It served as an unspoken weapon, dissuading enemies from approaching. But in certain situations, like Ivan's upcoming encounters, it was better left subdued.

During his meeting with the royals a month ago, Ivan had dampened his Stigma, yet even then, its intensity was suffocating. The royal family had struggled to breathe in its presence, and while the others' Stigmas might have contributed to the atmosphere, Ivan's alone was overwhelming.

Though suppressing it was quite a task, Ivan did it as much as he could since he would be surrounded by important nobles and also cameras. 

Once done, he resumed walking followed by Ludmila.