Surviving As The Villainess's Attendant

Julies Evans' POV:

Starting as the dark horse of the tournament, I had surprised everyone by tearing through the competition—victory after victory, without breaking a sweat.

To be honest, aside from the first match against that mercenary—whose name I've already forgotten—and the second match against Gareth, no one else had posed any real threat.

I hadn't even needed to use my blood magic. Nor had I relied on [Shadow Pin], the new skill I'd gained from the system. Not once.

If I ever wanted to finish a match quickly, I'd just activate [Ghoststeps]—an S-rank assassination movement technique passed down to me by Doran, my mentor and thief master, whom I met deep in a dungeon in the western desert.

…Not that I could keep using [Ghoststeps] carelessly. It burned through mana too fast.

So instead, I handled most matches the same way I dealt with Gareth—systematically dismantling my opponents piece by piece.

Speaking of Gareth, how did I even manage to tear through his relic-grade armor?

It was simple, really.

I just used the [Echo Rod].

The moment it touched the armor, the rest was automatic. That rod had a way of analyzing and exploiting structural weaknesses magic—like it was made for breaking through enchantments and defense mechanisms.

That was the secret behind my swift wins.

And no, it wasn't cheating.

Relics were allowed in this tournament, after all. If someone failed to prepare for that, it was on them.

Now, it was time for yet another match.

The colosseum was still packed to the brim. The crowd hadn't lost its excitement.

Northern folk had always been like this—drawn to the thrill of combat, the spectacle of clashing wills. They didn't just watch fights for entertainment. They lived for them.

And right now, I was giving them something worth watching.

From the moment I stepped into the arena, all eyes were on me. The crowd's cheers and whispers rolled together in a wave of anticipation.

They were waiting to see if I'd keep winning. If I'd keep destroying expectations.

And I had no intention of disappointing them.

----

"Ugh!"

I winced, still catching my breath, but my lips curled into a faint smirk.

"I'll gladly take the win."

"The winner is Julies Evans, representing the Draken Duchy!"

…And just like that, another clean victory in the palm of my hand.

But of course, it didn't end there.

"I refuse to accept this! Referee, call a rematch! You saw it too—he used sorcery that pierced through armor!"

Here came the sore loser's performance.

As always, the moment things didn't go their way, they tossed around excuses like candy at a harvest festival.

Do they seriously not realize that gear is part of one's spec? Artifacts, enchantments, even relics—they're all fair game.

"If you're that jealous, why didn't you bring something out of your own family vault?"

Another shouted, "Just look at his complexion! Clearly not from around here. And the referee sides with him? This is favoritism!"

I rolled my eyes. Racism and whining—classic combo.

The referee looked visibly troubled, caught between appeasing arrogant nobles and sticking to protocol. Not a position I envied.

"Enough," came a stern voice from the VIP section. "There's no issue with the ruling. The match will proceed as planned."

The cold voice of Duke Draken cut through the commotion like a blade.

That shut them up.

The noble who had been shouting the loudest turned pale, bowing stiffly before retreating like a whipped dog.

'As expected of Duke Draken. You never disappoint.'

With the Duke's endorsement, the organizers swiftly shut down any remaining complaints, and the next match was called up.

I stepped off the arena floor, letting the cheers—and scattered boos—wash over me.

But none of it mattered.

A win was a win.

And this one? Well earned.

---

After the match, I made my way back to the resting area. The corridor behind the colosseum was quieter, the roars of the crowd muffled behind thick stone walls. My boots echoed on the polished floor, mixing with the occasional chatter of attendants, fighters, and healers moving about.

I loosened the grip on my rod and exhaled slowly. The adrenaline was still thrumming through my veins, but now it was fading, leaving behind the usual post-battle weariness.

"Julies."

I turned my head slightly. A familiar voice.

It was the healer assigned to my section—Tessa, I think her name was. She had a towel in hand and a faint frown of concern on her face.

"You're limping a little. Want me to take a look?" she asked, already motioning for me to sit on the bench nearby.

I glanced down. My leg did ache, but it wasn't anything serious. I probably twisted it a bit during the finishing move. Still, refusing medical attention would just draw unnecessary attention.

"Fine. Make it quick."

She nodded and knelt beside me, starting her diagnostic spell. A soft green glow enveloped my ankle.

"…Your tendon's a little strained," she muttered. "Nothing a basic healing spell can't fix."

I nodded in acknowledgment and let her work.

It just takes her few seconds to do her work.

"You're good to go," Tessa said, rising to her feet with a smile. "Try not to overextend next time, though."

"Thanks."

She blushed slightly and scurried off. Probably one of those who bought into the 'dark horse' hype. Whatever.

I stood up and stretched my neck.

I stepped out of the resting corridor, the sunlight warming my face for a brief second as the announcer's voice echoed over the colosseum once more.

Only a few matches left until the final.

And in that final… it would be her.

Alice Draken.

I didn't need the system to tell me she'd made it this far.

I'd felt it in my bones.

Someone like her wouldn't fall before the final.

Not with her skill.

Not with that pride.

And definitely not with that fire in her eyes.

----

Author Note:

Thank you for reading the chapter. I hope you continue to do read more in future.