Surviving As The Villainess's Attendant

My dagger twisted under her blade, dragging it just a fraction off its deadly line.

Clang!

Steel sparked against steel, the shock running up my arm, but the opening was there—her stance slightly broken, her balance faltering.

I drove forward without hesitation.

"—Kh!" Alice's breath caught as I slipped past her guard, my shoulder slamming into her with just enough force to disrupt her footing.

For a heartbeat, the conjured swords hovering behind her wavered, their movements no longer perfectly in sync.

Good. That meant her focus had cracked.

Seizing the moment, I thrust my blade forward.

Alice's eyes flickered in realization, her body jerking to withdraw—but too late.

The essence of a parry wasn't just defense. It was the art of exploiting a single heartbeat of carelessness, turning it into an unstoppable counter.

I had baited her perfectly.

Steel rang as I twisted her weapon aside, redirecting her thrust into empty air. My own strike surged in its place—fluid, inevitable.

The first step was to cut off her retreat.

Just as Doran had drilled into me countless times, I slid my foot between hers, a clean sweep that robbed her balance.

Alice stumbled, her weight thrown off. For the first time, her flawless form cracked.

"Kuhuk!"

The blunt edge of my sword slammed against her neck with a sharp thwack.

Her body shuddered from the impact, aura flaring for a moment before breaking apart.

[Parry against formidable enemy: Successful.]

[Additional proficiency awarded.]

[Skill proficiency reached 100%.]

[Ghoststeps (Rank: S) has evolved.]

A translucent window flickered into my vision as Alice crumpled to the ground, her rapier clattering beside her.

I let out a long, uneven breath, my arm throbbing with pain—more than a bit, honestly.

"…I told you," I muttered, watching her shoulders rise and fall faintly, "I win when it's a serious fight."

The ache in my arm burned, but it didn't matter. The loot was safe, and Alice was down.

"Isn't it over there?"

"Perfect. Just like they say—call for a sandworm and it comes crawling. Please, take care of the lady."

The aftermath could be left to the devoted fan still frozen behind me.

Those burning eyes belonged to none other than Amelia.

Honestly, given her personality, it was already a miracle she hadn't rushed in swinging her sword.

Without sparing her another glance, I turned and hurried toward the prearranged rendezvous point.

The pain in my arm throbbed with each step, but another thought pushed through the haze.

"All this chaos… and only for a handful of relics? Doesn't make sense financially. I'll need to squeeze out more."

The corners of my mouth curled upward despite the blood and sweat.

A bigger cut of the reward would make this whole mess worth it.

"Wait!"

Amelia's voice rang out, sharp as the steel still clenched in her hand. She finally snapped free of her hesitation and stormed a step forward, eyes burning with something between fury and indignation.

"You think you can just walk away after cutting down Alice?" she spat, her blade trembling ever so slightly. "That's not victory—it's betrayal!"

I glanced back at her, the corner of my lip curling. "…Betrayal? That word suits me, doesn't it?" My tone dripped with amusement. "But between us, Amelia, you should save your righteous speeches for someone who actually cares."

Her knuckles whitened around the hilt. "Do you think I don't care? That I'd just stand by and let you mock her? Alice fought to protect everyone here, and you—"

"And me?" I cut in smoothly, turning fully now, ignoring the sting in my arm. "I fought to win. To survive. You're a noble, Amelia, you can afford pretty ideals. I can't."

Her face twisted, a mixture of pride and frustration clashing. For a moment, her sword lifted, but then it stopped, wavering.

"You're insufferable." The words slipped out through clenched teeth, low, almost trembling.

"Insufferable?" I chuckled, stepping closer. "No. Just honest. That's the difference between me and Alice. She plays the saint, but in the end, she bleeds like anyone else."

Her lips pressed tight. I could almost hear the words she wanted to hurl at me, but didn't.

Instead, she hissed, "If you think this ends here, you're sorely mistaken."

I tilted my head, smirk widening. "Oh, I'm counting on that."

For a heartbeat, silence hung between us—her fury against my sly calm. Then, with one last searing glare, Amelia sheathed her sword and turned away, every step stiff with barely-contained anger.

I watched her go, then chuckled under my breath. "Jealousy looks good on you, Amelia. Dangerous, but good."

Her boots clicked hard against the marble, but she stopped halfway, as if something inside her refused to let me have the last word.

Amelia turned back, her eyes glinting like a drawn blade under torchlight. "Don't flatter yourself. This isn't jealousy—it's contempt."

I arched a brow, my smirk never wavering. "Contempt, jealousy… they look awfully similar when you glare at me like that."

Her jaw tightened, breath sharp. For a moment, she looked ready to strike me down where I stood. But instead she whispered, just loud enough for me to catch, "Alice deserved better than you. And one day, I'll prove it."

With that, she spun on her heel and strode away, her back stiff, her shoulders rigid with pride.

I let out a slow laugh, low and mocking, though my arm throbbed with pain under the act. "Prove it, huh… I'll be waiting."

The words lingered in the air long after she vanished down the hall, heavier than the clash of steel.

"How did you know…?"

Aden held his breath, peering over the crumbled wall. His grip on the hilt of his sword was slick with sweat.

"Hah! They say you're a promising mercenary, but all I see is a joke!"

The Phantom Thief's mocking voice cut through the chaos like a whip.

It hadn't been long since Aden had taken up the guard post.

The request had seemed simple enough: patrol duty, keep watch over the noble guests during the auction, nothing out of the ordinary. But the moment the commotion broke out, he had rushed in, rallying what few troops were nearby to contain the threat.

Still, it wasn't enough.

The enemy's swordsmanship was elusive, almost impossible to track.

His movements flickered in and out of sight like smoke, and every step seemed to carry him just out of reach. Hidden traps and sudden flashes of fire drove the mercenaries back, leaving Aden to grit his teeth and push forward alone.

This was the Phantom Thief—infamous across the western lands. Aden had expected to chase, to pursue a shadow slipping through alleys and rooftops. He hadn't imagined being the one cornered instead.

It hadn't taken long for reality to sink in: defeat was inevitable.

His chest heaved, lungs burning, yet his stance didn't falter. A mercenary could only face death head-on.

But just as his knees threatened to buckle, salvation arrived.

"Step back."

A new voice, calm yet heavy with authority, carried through the battlefield.

Aden turned his head, eyes widening as he recognized the figure approaching with a steady, unshaken stride.

The ruler of the North—the very same whose portrait hung in the halls of power—stood before him, sword drawn, aura radiating like a storm about to break.

"Leave this to me," the ruler said without looking at him. "Go. Check the warehouse."

Relief surged through Aden's battered body, nearly strong enough to bring him to tears. He nodded once, forcing strength into his legs, and sprinted toward the storerooms.

Behind him, steel rang as the two forces collided.