Surviving As The Villainess's Attendant

Clang!

The Duke's blade met the Phantom Thief's rapier in a shower of sparks. The air itself seemed to shudder from the impact, the clash of aura-filled steel reverberating like a thunderclap.

"Kh…!" The Phantom Thief gritted his teeth, sliding back across the cobblestones as if the ground itself rejected him.

The Duke didn't give him time to breathe.

Boom!

With a single step, the ground cracked beneath the Duke's boots. He surged forward, his sword a streak of silver lightning.

Clang! Clang! Chaeng!

The thief barely managed to deflect the rapid strikes, his once-arrogant grin gone, replaced by clenched desperation. His footwork wove frantically, weaving around the Duke's relentless onslaught, but the rhythm faltered—his famed grace couldn't match overwhelming strength.

"Too slow."

The Duke's voice was calm, cold, and final.

Swoosh!

His blade carved through the air with a speed that blurred vision.

Crack!

The Phantom Thief's rapier snapped in two, fragments scattering across the bloodstained stones.

"…!" His eyes widened in shock, instincts screaming as he tried to retreat—

But it was already too late.

Shhhk!

Steel flashed. A deep, searing pain tore through his shoulder as the Duke's sword cleaved cleanly down.

Splat!

His right arm hit the ground, severed at the shoulder, crimson spraying across the cobblestones.

"Guaaaaaah!" The Phantom Thief's scream tore through the night, ragged and broken. He staggered back, clutching the mangled stump, aura faltering into tatters.

The Duke lowered his blade, its edge still dripping with the thief's blood, his expression unchanging.

"You should have stayed a shadow," he said, voice like iron. "Instead, you stepped into my domain."

The Phantom Thief, pale and trembling, collapsed onto one knee, his arrogance shattered along with his sword and arm.

The Duke stood tall above him, a wall of unyielding steel, as the battle's echoes faded into the night.

Splat!

Blood streamed across the cobblestones, the Phantom Thief clutching his severed stump. His body trembled, teeth grinding as he forced himself to rise.

"You won't… catch me… that easily." His voice was ragged, but the defiance in his eyes still flickered.

The Duke stepped forward, boots cracking the stone beneath. His blade glistened crimson, his gaze sharp enough to cut deeper than steel.

"Running will not save you."

The Phantom Thief's lips twisted into a broken grin, pain etched across his face.

"Heh… that's what… I do best."

Bang!

A sudden cloud of thick smoke burst from the thief's belt, swallowing the street in choking darkness. The sharp scent of gunpowder filled the air.

"Cheap tricks," the Duke muttered, swinging his sword in a wide arc.

Whoosh!

The gust from the slash tore apart half the smoke, revealing splatters of blood trailing down the alleyway.

Clang!

One of the conjured traps the thief had left behind sprung open, shrapnel scattering as it collided against the Duke's aura barrier. Sparks rained against him harmlessly, but it forced his step back for the briefest moment.

The Phantom Thief staggered into the shadows, his vision blurring, body screaming at him to stop. Every step left behind a smear of red, but somehow—instinct, pride, sheer stubbornness—he forced himself further.

The Duke followed, expression unreadable, but when he reached the end of the alley, the blood trail vanished. Only a mocking mark remained on the wall—a crimson handprint smeared in the shape of a mask.

The Duke's jaw tightened.

"Pathetic… yet still alive."

The night fell silent once more, though the smell of iron and smoke lingered.

Somewhere, far from the battlefield, the Phantom Thief collapsed in the dark, clutching the gaping wound where his arm once was. His breaths were shallow, his mind hazy, but his grin—broken and bitter—remained.

"…Next time… Duke… next time, I'll take… everything…"

His voice faded into the night, carried away by the wind.

----

Julies Evans POV:

"Ouch… that hurts."

The makeshift bandage around my arm was already soaked through. Alice's rapier had pierced deep, and though I'd wrapped the wound tight, the pain burned like fire. If I didn't get proper treatment soon, this arm would be useless.

"When is this gentleman supposed to arrive?" I muttered, glancing around the dim rendezvous point Amelia had arranged.

I'd been waiting far too long.

Doran was supposed to shake off the guards and come straight here. Since he had taken the riskiest role of bait, it was natural for him to take time… but even so, this was excessive.

A sour thought crept in.

"…Wouldn't it be easier if I just kept all the artifacts for myself?"

"That's absolutely not going to happen."

A voice cut through the night, sharp and amused.

"I show up a little late, and you're already plotting banditry without me."

I blinked, startled. Speak of the devil—Doran had arrived. The linchpin of tonight's plan.

I forced a smile. "Of course, I was joking. Please, come in. Let's get to splitting the loot—"

The words died in my throat.

"Doran? Your arm…"

His right shoulder was empty. His sleeve hung limp, stained dark.

"What on earth happened?!"

This was Doran—legend of the underworld, the thief who had danced around the pursuit of dukes and nobles alike. He was untouchable. Indomitable. And yet… he stood before me broken, missing an arm.

He clicked his tongue. "Tsk. Talk about bad luck. Who would've thought there'd be a monster hiding in the auction house?"

"A… monster?" I asked, my voice low.

Doran gave a crooked grin, though his face was pale. "If you cross swords with the war god himself and only lose one arm? That's a bargain."

The words struck me like a blow.

Alice's warning echoed in my head. She was certain my ally at the auction house would die.

I'd thought she was bluffing. That maybe some mercenary would bite the dust. But this? This was far beyond what I'd planned for. My chest tightened with a sinking dread.

"Don't look at me with those eyes," Doran muttered. "It's burdensome. Anyway, I managed to grab the severed arm on my way out. If I can get to a decent priest, it'll be stitched back on soon enough."

He spoke lightly, almost mocking, but his breathing was ragged, and the tremor in his fingers betrayed him. No one could lose an arm and remain untouched. He was holding himself together with sheer stubbornness.

And yet… he was still smiling.

That was Doran—the man who could laugh in the face of the abyss.