Surviving As The Villainess's Attendant

My stomach twisted at the sight.

The legendary Phantom Thief—broken, bleeding, barely standing—was a contradiction I couldn't reconcile. The man who had danced on rooftops, mocked dukes, and snatched treasures from under the noses of kingdoms now swayed before me like a wounded beast.

"…You shouldn't even be moving," I said, my voice sharper than intended.

Doran chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "If I stop moving, I die. Simple math, Julie."

His humor grated against the gnawing unease in my chest. I wanted to snap at him, to force him to sit down and stop pretending this was nothing. But the truth was… the sight of him like this terrified me. Not because he was wounded, but because if he could be cut down, then what chance did I have in this game?

I forced my thoughts back under control. "Show me the arm."

He raised his left hand and tossed something onto the table between us.

Thud.

I stared. The severed limb, wrapped hastily in blood-soaked cloth, hit the wood with a sickening weight.

"…You really did bring it." I whispered, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice.

"Of course," Doran muttered, slumping into a chair. "Do you know how much effort it takes to grab your own arm while you're running for your life? That's dedication."

I grimaced. His face was paler now, the grin carved into it more a mask than anything real. His aura, once bright and sharp, flickered unsteadily like a candle in the wind. He was losing strength fast.

"You need a healer. Now. Amelia should have arranged one nearby—"

"No." His voice hardened suddenly. "No strangers. Too risky. You know how fast news travels. By dawn, the entire north will know the Phantom Thief was maimed if I walk into the wrong temple. And then? Every vulture in the underworld will circle."

His gaze lifted to me, dark and burning despite the weakness in his body. "You understand, don't you, Julie?"

My throat went dry.

Of course I understood. He wasn't just asking me to find him a healer. He was asking me to keep his secret. To protect his reputation, his shadow, the very legend that kept him untouchable.

I hated how my chest tightened again.

"…Yes. I understand."

Relief flickered across his features, though he covered it with another crooked smile. "Good. I knew you weren't just a pretty face with sharp words."

I ignored the jab. My eyes lingered on the severed arm. The faint aura that still clung to it told me it wasn't too late—but time was short.

My mind raced. Amelia had contacts—priests, back-alley surgeons, even forbidden mages—but each option carried its own danger. Trust the wrong one, and Doran would end up not just maimed but dead.

For the first time in years, I found myself hesitating.

"…Doran," I said softly, "what if it can't be reattached?"

He leaned back in the chair, breath ragged, eyes half-lidded. Yet even on the verge of collapse, he smirked.

"Then I'll just steal twice as much with one arm. Can't let you outshine me, after all."

I exhaled, shaking my head. The man was insane. Absolutely insane.

But he was still Doran.

And as long as he could grin like that, I couldn't decide if I should be afraid for him—or afraid of him.

There was silence for a while, until I finally broke it.

"…Let's split the loot first and then get you treated."

Jewels, elixirs, artifacts—everything we had risked our necks for spilled out onto the ground.

Even through the pain twisting his features, Doran—managed to lift the corners of his mouth.

"Heh… this is it. Worth every drop of blood. These things alone could keep me living comfortably for years."

"Is that so?"

His tone was strangely modest, especially for someone who had spent his whole life chasing and appraising rare artifacts.

Catching my doubtful look, he chuckled bitterly.

"The truly good stuff? It's impossible to turn into money. You either keep it hidden or die trying to sell it. Things like this—" he nudged a pouch of gemstones with his foot, "—are actually useful. They move fast. Liquid, reliable."

I see. So he cared more about what could be spent than what could be wielded. Makes sense. After all, what use did a half-retired thief have for artifacts now?

"Then, shall we start the settlement?"

"That won't be necessary. Just give me the thirty Frostroots we agreed on."

I had thought about using my injured arm as an excuse to squeeze out a bigger share. But looking at the man who had just lost his right arm, the thought soured in my mouth.

He caught the hesitation and gave a dry laugh.

"Don't give me that look. I'm not exactly in a position to be pitied."

"Please—reattach your arm before saying such things."

"Seriously. I've never turned away what's freely given."

Still smirking, he began sweeping the loot into his bundle with surprising ease, even with one arm. The speed at which things disappeared into his pack was almost insulting.

"Ah—" he said suddenly, not pausing in his movements, "the knife I lent you. The Fang of Hatsan."

I drew the dagger and looked at it with mixed feelings.

"Yes. It was invaluable. Because of this blade, I managed to learn counterattacks properly… and more than that, I owe my life to it. Without it, I couldn't have stopped Alice's strike—or protected the loot."

For the first time in a long while, I bowed my head sincerely.

He didn't even glance back. "Keep it."

"…What?" I blinked. "Are you serious?"

This dagger's worth was greater than most of the treasure piled around us. To just hand it over like that—

"Of course." His voice was blunt, almost bored. "With my arm gone, what use do I have for it? And I can't exactly sell it. That dagger's got a name, stolen from a noble house in the West. It would bring me more trouble than coin. Better in your hands than rotting in mine."

I tightened my grip on the hilt. His words were rough, but his intent was clear.

"…Then I'll accept it gratefully."

"Gratitude?" He finally turned, lips curved in that familiar crooked grin. "Think of it as a graduation gift… for my successor."

The words lingered, heavier than the loot between us.