Surviving As The Villainess's Attendant

The Wampa remembered.

Not the echo of battle or the weight of blood on snow—those came later.

No, what returned first was the wind. The cold, unyielding wind that howled across the plains, whipping up white curtains of frost that bit into flesh and blurred the line between earth and sky.

Back then, this place didn't even have a name.

No kingdoms. No borders. No bastions of order staking claims on land they barely understood.

No "North."

Just chaos.

Monsters, demons, humans—all clawing at each other like rats trapped in a frozen box. There was no balance. No alliances. No grand reason for the violence.

Kill, or be killed.

He thrived in it.

Back then, he wasn't called a guardian. Wasn't bound to relics or ancient pacts. He was just... him. A beast born of snow and storm. The apex predator of the white fields.

Thick fur that the cold couldn't pierce. Layers of fat like armor. Limbs that cracked boulders when he stretched. Claws that left scars across hillsides.

Nothing challenged him. Not truly.

The humans came with their fire and metal—stubborn things with loud voices and louder weapons. They died in lines, one after another, wearing sigils on their chests like that meant something. They called it valor. He called it noise.

The demons were worse. Cocky things, cloaked in shadows and teeth. They thought themselves untouchable, rulers by birthright. But when the frost clung to their skin and slowed their pulses, they begged for mercy just the same.

He didn't give it.

Because back then, he didn't understand the meaning of mercy.

And then she appeared.

Not this one. Not Alice.

The first one.

He remembered her—no matter how long it had been, no matter how many centuries had buried her name in silence.

She didn't come with an army. Didn't chant spells or carry a blazing staff.

...But that doesn't mean she was alone. There was one more human with black hair besides her.

Like Beast he was, he fought at them. The black haired human didn't fight him but That woman did.

He had charged her like he had all the rest, certain she'd fall like the others. But she didn't. Her steps never wavered. Her breath never clouded in the cold. And when she raised the blade...

Everything stopped.

Even the storm held its breath.

He'd fought her.

And for the first time in his life—he had bled.

Not just once.

Again. And again.

He roared. He raged.

But it wasn't enough.

At the end of the day… he lost.

He thought death stood before him—tall, black-haired, sword raised, eyes cold.

The final blow was coming. He could feel it. The way the air thickened. The way the man's blade gleamed in the dim light. He was no match for them.

He didn't want to die.

Clang—!

Steel met steel, ringing out like a cracked bell across the stone chamber.

Just as the black-haired human—Draken—swung his sword toward the Wampa's neck, the silver-haired woman stepped in. Her dagger intercepted the blow, sparks skidding across the blade as metal ground against metal.

"What are you doing?" Draken barked, his voice taut with frustration.

"Don't kill him," she said, calm but firm.

"What?! Why?"

"Can't we take him with us?"

Draken narrowed his eyes. "Snow Moon… be reasonable. It's a Wampa. From the North. You can't tame monsters like this. We need to finish it. Now."

But Snow Moon didn't budge. Her hand held steady, her expression unreadable—ice and moonlight.

"Maybe. But this one didn't attack us until we touched the sword. It didn't ambush us. It challenged us."

"That doesn't mean it's safe."

"It means it's trying. Think about it, Draken. Mimicking human behavior? That's survival instinct—and intelligence."

The black dagger in her hand pressed harder against his sword, gently forcing it away from the Wampa's neck.

Draken held her gaze for a long moment.

Then, with a reluctant grunt, he lowered his blade.

"…Fine. But if it rips your arm off, I'm not reattaching it."

Snow Moon smiled faintly. "Noted."

The Wampa blinked, stunned. He didn't understand their language perfectly—but he understood enough. He was… spared?

Snow Moon knelt before him, her silver hair cascading down like moonlight spilling over snow.

"Come on, big guy," she said softly. "You're coming with us."

That day, the monster's name changed. He was no longer just a beast, a nameless guardian doomed to die in a forgotten vault.

They named him Fletz.

And from that moment on, his world changed completely.

---

"Let's go, Fletz!"

Snow Moon called one morning, stepping out into the icy wind with a satchel of stolen relics slung over her shoulder.

The Wampa groaned.

'Weren't I supposed to guard those, not fetch them?'

That would be the response he would give to silver haird woman if he could talk properly.

Fletz grumbled under his breath, but followed.

----

Their days turned into weeks, and weeks into years. Together with Draken and Selena, Fletz helped carve out a new dominion—one of power, fear, and strange harmony.

Draken, the man who ended wars with a single swing.

Snow Moon, the woman who could silence nobles with a glance.

And Fletz, the Wampa once feared as a monster, now known as the gatekeeper of their stronghold.

They built a castle atop the northern cliffs, forged alliances, crushed uprisings, and outwitted kings.

And though he had once lived by instinct—hunting, surviving, fighting for scraps—he had grown.

He had changed.

He belonged.

He wasn't just a beast anymore.

He was Fletz, the tamed Wampa.

A monster no longer.

He was come to know family affection.

The silver haird woman....Is like mother to him and the black haired Draken human was like father.

He was happy with them.

He thought he was going to be together them forever.

...But no one can escape passage of time.

Not even great heros like them.

It's law of nature.

The woman whom he thought as mother was dying due to old age.

---

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