I’m a Villainess, Can I Die?

The seizures had become more frequent lately.

Lukas shot up from his seat as his mother’s limbs twisted violently, her breathing ragged and choked with agony.
“Kuh… Hrk… Haa… Hrk…”
Her throat convulsed as she gasped for air, blood gushing from her mouth in horrifying, wet bursts.

Lukas froze.
This was different.
His mother had suffered many attacks before, but never like this.

She trembled violently for what felt like an eternity… and then, slowly, her body stilled.
Her violet eyes, hazy with pain, barely managed to focus on him.
Through the mist of her gaze, she saw his face, wide-eyed, unmoving.

Drip.
Tears fell.
The tears he had been too shocked to cry before now streamed down his face, falling uncontrollably.

His mother, trembling, tried to lift her hand.
But the moment she did, her fingers collapsed back onto the bed, powerless.
Lukas reached for that frail hand, pulling it to his face.

Rough, emaciated fingers blindly brushed against his cheek, weakly tracing the contours of his face.
“…My… son… My… son… I… I’m… s-sorry…”
The words came out in a broken whisper, each syllable dragged from her throat with unbearable effort.

Then, her hand fell once more.
And this time, she didn’t try to lift it again.
Lukas hadn’t even spoken yet.
And she… she had already closed her eyes.

In stories, dying people always seemed to have time to say everything they wanted.
But reality… reality was nothing like fiction.
His mother’s thin, lifeless frame lay still, her face splattered with red, eyes closed.

In the end, she hadn’t even gotten to see his father’s face.
“A… Ah…”
Lukas rubbed at her face with his sleeve.

The more he wiped, the more the blood smeared, staining his hands, his arms, his clothes.
“A… Ah… Ah… Aah…”
But he couldn’t stop.

That color—so vivid, so red—it felt like it was screaming the truth at him.
His mother was dead.
She was dead.

“No… No… No, no, no—Mom… Mom… MOM—”
Lukas collapsed.
He clutched his mother’s hands, sobbing, but those fingers did not stroke his hair, did not soothe him like they used to.

The warmth was gone.
All that remained was a cold, rigid shell.
“No! Ah… Mom… Mom…”

This empty house.
This silent, dark place.
Only the moonlight seeped in through the window, illuminating a room where his mother had died, abandoned and alone.

Lukas barely managed to arrange a burial for her.
He had taken the handful of silver coins he had received—the alms thrown at him like scraps—and donated them to the temple.
With that, he secured a grave for her.

Not a proper resting place, not a dignified burial, but a neglected, barren plot near the temple grounds, the only place they could afford.
There was no funeral.
No casket.

Only a few priests stood by, along with an eleven-year-old boy—Lukas Barnett.
After that day, Lukas barely ate.
He couldn’t eat.

Grief hollowed him out, gnawed at his insides until even moving felt impossible.
An eleven-year-old child was not meant to carry a loss like this alone.
He sat beside his mother’s now-empty bed, curled up, head buried in his knees.

How much time had passed?
“Lukas…?”
The door creaked open.

Lukas did not hear it.
In the throes of starvation, his vision blurred, his ears barely registered sound.
But a voice, close to him, repeated his name.

Slowly, he lifted his head.
“…Ah… Dad?”
Louis dropped everything in his hands.

A small music box tumbled to the ground, its delicate melody spilling into the room.
The tune felt so terribly out of place here.
Lukas blinked.

For a moment, he wondered if this was a dream.
Would his father disappear if he closed his eyes?
But no.

His father was here.
He had come back.
And yet… Lukas couldn’t stand.

His legs had no strength left.
He tried to push himself up but fell forward, collapsing.
With what little energy he had left, he managed to lift his upper body, looking up at his father.

“A… Dad… Dad… M-Mom…”
His voice cracked.
The room reeked of blood.

Louis felt his vision darken.
But no.
No.

He had to hold himself together.
He clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay upright.
Then, kneeling down, he pulled his son into his arms.

This child—this small, fragile child—had been left alone to bear his mother’s death.
Louis had to comfort him.
He had to be strong for him.

But…
Tears fell.
Lukas felt them soak his shoulder.

His father was crying.
So they cried together.
Just as Lukas had promised himself on the day his father left, he buried his face against his father’s chest and wept.

His father’s arms were so warm.
So different from the cold, stiff fingers that could no longer hold him.
But something… something felt off.

Something was wrong.
Lukas pulled away slightly.
And then—

“Dad… your arm… Where is your left arm?”
His father’s left arm was gone.
Lukas pushed himself upright from the deep slouch he had settled into on the sofa.

As he moved, the wine glass in his hand tilted, spilling its contents onto the floor.
For a moment, he simply stared at the small crimson pool spreading across the wood. Then, rising to his feet, he nudged it with his boot, scattering the stain into a distorted smear.
After observing the mess in silence, he set the glass down on the table and walked toward the window.

Everyone he had ever loved had passed him by.
Like a cruel joke, they had all disappeared from his arms, one by one.
The powerful took from him without hesitation, stripping away piece after piece, and when there was nothing left to take, they turned their backs.

How much pain had they inflicted upon him?
How great was the weight of the loss they had forced him to bear?
How much hatred had they left behind in him?

The day his father returned from the monster subjugation, his left sleeve hanging empty where an arm should have been, Lukas had collapsed in despair.
It had felt like he had lost everything.
Like the world had ripped every last thing from his grasp, leaving him to howl at the injustice.

But through that ruin, he had met the Duke.
And in a way, that encounter had been the price paid for his father’s arm.
With the opportunity he gained in exchange, Lukas made a vow.

He would survive this wretched society, no matter what.
No longer would he allow the things he loved to slip through his fingers.
No longer would he stand by and watch as they vanished without a fight.

The Duke, having taken an interest in him through their wartime acquaintance, had mentioned that he seemed to have a natural talent for swordsmanship.
From that day forward, Lukas devoted himself to it.
Each morning, he rose before dawn.

He gripped his sword even when his hands were blistered and bleeding, even when the wounds had no time to heal before fresh ones formed.
He wanted the Duke to recognize him.
More than that, he wanted to climb higher.

And the Duke had acknowledged him—not as some natural prodigy, but as someone who had earned his skills through relentless effort.
That meant everything to him.
That day, he had wept.

Holding his ruined hands, he had cried with joy.
And for the first time in his life, he had allowed himself to dream of a future where he could hold onto the things he cherished.
He had believed that from now on, nothing precious would slip away.

But that belief…
Over time, it had frayed.
The higher he climbed, the more he gained, the greater his chances of success—

The weaker he became.
He was afraid.
He wanted to protect what he had.

But could he?
Could he truly reach the place he aspired to?
Could he hold on to this opportunity?

Or would he…
Would he lose everything again?
The more he gained, the more his past losses loomed over him, suffocating him with doubt.

And so, he had reached a conclusion.
He would become detached.
He would be calculating.

He would think only of his own interests.
If he couldn’t have something, he would act as though he had never wanted it in the first place.
He would pretend that human relationships meant nothing to him.

He would let go of his past, of his pain, of everything—just as the powerful had taught him to.
Because he knew.
He knew what people wanted from him.

They came for his looks. His skills. His influence.
So he would use those things.
He would take what he needed from them in return.

He would be polite to the nobles. Charming to the ladies. He would maneuver the social landscape like a chessboard, ever-smiling, ever-unbothered.
Yes…
It was self-defense.

The fearful child who had once cried over every loss—
That child had never truly grown up.
Even now, he was still the same.

Still trembling inside.
Still terrified of losing.
So he concealed it.

He built a mask of ease and indifference, pretending that even his misfortunes were part of his design.
He lied to himself so thoroughly that even he no longer knew what was real.
I am successful.

I am admired.
I have everything I need.
There is nothing I fear.

…There is too much I fear.
"Stop acting."
Selina’s voice—so flat, so unyielding—had stirred something in him.

He had been playing a role for so long that even he could no longer distinguish between the performance and reality.
Yet, she had seen through it instantly.
How?

How could she tell?
How much did she know?
Even he didn’t know where the act ended and his real self began.

Because the real Lukas—the child who had lost everything—
Was still too frightened to come out.
Outside, a crescent moon drifted in the night sky, partially veiled by thin clouds.

Half-hidden in darkness, it flickered like a dying candle flame.
Lukas stared at it, his thoughts drifting back to Selina.
The way she had stood by the river and clock tower, gazing into the distance as if staring into the abyss.

The way she had looked so much like…
Like his dying mother.
That was when he had realized—

She had not given up on dying.
But she had thrown a question at him.
And he would not allow her to die until she found her answer.

Because now—
Now, he considered her part of the Duke’s household.
Before, he had seen her only as a stranger bearing the Duke’s name.

She had reminded him too much of his aunt Rosenta, and no matter how much she carried the Duke’s crest, he had never truly regarded her as one of them.
But this Selina—the one who had lost her memories—
Now, she belonged to the Duke’s family.

And Lukas had made a decision.
He would serve her.
Because the Ducal House was the only place he had ever sworn his loyalty.

The only place he wanted to protect—next to his father.
And so, he would protect Selina.
Lukas drew the curtains shut.

Darkness swallowed the room, erasing all traces of light.
In that consuming black, his violet eyes gleamed—cold, unwavering.