Surviving As The Villainess's Attendant

Gareth Valstein couldn't help but chuckle as he glanced over at the competitors in Ground B.

Pathetic.

"They're nothing in front of me," he muttered under his breath, arms crossed, chin tilted ever so slightly upward—like a king surveying peasants pretending to be knights.

Just a few minutes ago, he had won his first match without so much as breaking a sweat. No injuries, no challenge. His opponent hadn't even landed a single proper hit before crumbling under his pressure.

Too easy.

It wasn't arrogance. At least, not in his mind. It was simply the truth.

He was strong—far above the average. Even the so-called 'elite' paled in comparison when they stood before him. They trained harder, pushed themselves past their limits, struggled every single day…

And still couldn't even reach his feet.

'Now it was time to settle who is stronger among us.'

Everyone compared him to Alice Draken, The Duke's daughter.

'It was time for pay the humiliation I suffered last month.'

Gareth remembered, how he was humiliated by Alice during Tea Party that was set up by Duke.

He clenched his fists at the memory, his jaw tightening.

That damn tea party.

It was supposed to be a simple formality—a meeting between the top noble heirs of the Empire, hosted by Duke Draken himself. An elegant gathering. Courteous conversation. Maybe a few light political jabs exchanged between smiles.

Instead, Alice Draken had made a fool of him.

Publicly.

It wasn't even a confrontation. She hadn't raised her voice or made a scene. That would've been easier to swallow.

No, she'd humiliated him with just a few words.

A pointed remark about his poor etiquette, cloaked in a compliment. Laughter from the surrounding nobles. All while sipping tea like none of it meant anything to her.

She made him feel like a child playing knight.

And the worst part?

She hadn't even been trying to insult him.

She was just being herself—arrogant, graceful, effortlessly dominant.

He had wanted to shout back, to challenge her then and there—but the presence of the Duke, her father, had stayed his hand.

Now, though?

Now he had a chance.

This martial arts tournament was the one thing he had been eagerly looking forward to for the past month.

'The grouping turned out perfectly too.'

Unlike Alice's group, which was filled with well-known names and heirs of prominent families, his own group was… underwhelming. A collection of nobodies.

They might fight hard in their own way, but without any powerful names backing them, they were nothing more than average.

One participant stood out—but not for the usual reasons.

An outsider. A servant from the Draken Duchy, of all places.

It was rare—practically unheard of—for someone of his status to enter the tournament.

Gareth had watched his first match out of curiosity. The servant's movements were sharp, calculated. He was decent—better than expected, perhaps—but still nothing exceptional.

Decent. That was it.

Gareth leaned back in his seat, a smug smile playing at the corner of his lips.

'He might scrape through the early rounds… maybe. But that's about it.'

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than the announcer's voice boomed across the arena.

"—Participants, Gareth Valstein and Julies Evans, please proceed to your designated positions!"

His eyes narrowed the moment he heard that name.

Julies Evans.

The same name he'd just been thinking about. The very servant he'd mocked in his mind a moment earlier—now his next opponent.

A slow laugh bubbled in his throat, quiet but filled with amusement.

Of all the people…

He rose from his seat, fingers curling into a tight fist, though not from tension—no, it was anticipation. The kind of thrill only a hunter feels when the prey wanders right into the trap.

"What delightful timing," he murmured under his breath.

How poetic. How cruelly perfect.

The loyal dog of the Draken House, stepping into the ring thinking he had a chance. A servant among warriors. A lamb among wolves.

Gareth's smirk widened.

'Fate can be such a wicked little playwright.'

'And here I thought you'd at least last a round or two more, servant of Draken.'

----

—from Julies's POV—

The dirt beneath my boots was warm—packed from countless steps, splattered with the echoes of earlier matches.

I stepped into the ring. Calm. Steady. My breath even.

Across from me, Gareth Valstein stood like he owned the sky above us. His eyes swept over me the way one would a stain on silk. Disdainful. Pitying. Predictable.

He took his time walking into position, savoring the spotlight like a performer before his final act. His red cape fluttered behind him with each theatrical step, and I swear he even angled his jaw to catch the sun just right.

Typical noble.

We stood there, opposite each other, the crowd growing quiet with anticipation.

I could feel eyes on me—some curious, some scornful. The servant boy who dared to climb into the ring against a noble.

Against Gareth Valstein, no less.

I didn't look at them. I didn't need to.

All I needed to see was him. The way his weight shifted. The way he bounced his left heel ever so slightly before settling into his stance. Arrogant and practiced.

"Did you polish your boots for this?" Gareth called out across the ring, smirking. "Don't want the sand to ruin the servant's uniform, do we?"

I didn't answer.

He expected a reaction. I gave him none.

Instead, I shifted my stance—loose, light, quiet.

He frowned. That smug confidence cracked just a little.

The announcer raised his hand. "Participants ready?"

I gave a small nod.

Gareth cracked his neck. "Ready to teach the help some manners."

The hand dropped.

The match began.

No one moves, I expected to Gareth to rush in knowing his personality but he just stood there arrogently.

"I'll give you one more chance after seeing that you are decent enough. How about you forfeit now?"

"Thank you for the suggestion, but I must decline. I have my own ambitions, as any person does."

"…You're aiming for the prize. You have some grandiose ideas above your station."

Tsk,

Gareth clicked his tongue, further lowering his opinion of his opponent.

"Well then, you will die by my hand."

...And then match began.