The Villainess will save you - Chapter 1 (1/142)
The funeral wasn’t particularly long. As if those few minutes were all permitted to mourn the deceased.
Thud. A flower dropped. Someone trampled the freshly raised burial mound.
This was a death meant to be forgotten. No—perhaps being forgotten was preferable.
No tears were shed for the grave’s occupant.
Had it not been for the war, would anyone have wept for her? A futile question, given the countless lives already lost without purpose.
Those who might have grieved the demise of the goddess’s chosen hero had likely perished earlier, cut down while blocking her path on the battlefield.
Greatest strategist of the century from House Blancheur. Heir to the Blancheur dukedom. Architect of Etallon’s golden age. The goddess’s personally chosen hero.
Yet among her countless titles, the perfunctory tombstone bore only one epitaph: “A failed half-wit of a hero.”
Failed heroes receive nothing but naked malice and disproportionate censure—as if every unpreventable national catastrophe were solely her fault.
High hopes breed profound disappointment.
The public spat on her grave.
This was the pitiful legacy left by Mia Blancheur, the hero.
Life sometimes lacks plausibility more than plays or novels. The present circumstances proved it.
When Mia opened her eyes, she was met with a splitting headache and an angelic face.
The mere act of opening her eyes felt surreal. Hadn’t she definitively died?
Her chest, mangled beyond recognition before death, now bore no scars. Not even the goddess’s direct intervention could have achieved such flawless healing.
She must be dead. The deceptively familiar angel hovering before her eyes confirmed it.
“Coming to your senses now?”
The angel smiled, having noticed her awakening. His rigid, ascetic features briefly relaxed, the softened curve of his eyes altering his entire demeanor.
Mia’s limited poetic imagination looped two words like a broken record: angel and light.
To ask so bluntly if she’d regained consciousness. Trapped between an unfamiliar setting, bizarre circumstances, and a suspiciously gracious pretty boy, Mia found no suitable reply.
For Mia Blancheur—who’d frequently endured taunts of “Your tongue would keep flapping even if your head rolled”—This speechlessness was novel.
“……”
When her silence persisted, the angel spoke again:
“We grew concerned as you wouldn’t awaken, Young Lady. I applied holy power, yet the wounds refused to close…”
With that, Mia’s baseless fantasy shattered.
An angel? No divine being would use such grating speech.
Young Lady? He called me Young Lady!
Even in a society where knights ranked below nobles, being “chosen by the goddess” carried weight in her empire. “Lord” was reserved for holy legionnaires blessed with divine power.
Thus, “Young Lady” felt derogatory—a blatant rejection of her divine selection. Familiar scorn still stung.
Mia rolled over in protest.
Ugh. A groan escaped as searing pain erupted in her abdomen. The agony multiplied the moment she acknowledged it, contorting her face.
When did I sustain such injuries?
No memory surfaced. Could this man be responsible?
Her suspicious gaze raked over him.
The man remained unperturbed, blinking guileless eyes as if he’d expected her distrust. His relaxed smile—almost inviting inspection—inexplicably churned Mia’s stomach.
“……”
Her efforts to keep going were admirable.
"Etienne Rochefort. Commander of the Empire's 1st Holy Legion. My identity is confirmed, so rest assured."
The man smiled with deliberate slowness. But Mia, now realizing his identity, found herself unable to mirror his expression.
'Rochefort?'
The familiar name drained all color from Mia's face.
Four years without seeing him might have faded even that striking visage from memory. Or perhaps her clouded mind had failed her - she'd been injured so frequently lately, relying heavily on painkillers that left her perpetually exhausted...
No justification could alter the impossible reality before her. This delusion defied explanation.
'The Angel' had been her commander. A brilliant strategist, cold and arrogant yet undeniably accomplished.
...The same commander Mia Blanchard had killed with her own hands.
'How is he breathing?'
Her body reacted before her fogged mind could follow. Mia lurched upright with a groan, scrambling backward in defiance of her abdominal wound - a futile effort.
The moment she moved, white-hot pain speared through her core. A sickening warmth blossomed across her lower back, fresh blood soaking through bandages. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, stifling the gasp.
"What are you doing?" Etienne's composed mask slipped into alarm.
"Why are you here?" she countered.
Only one thought burned through the mental haze:
'This can't be Rochefort.'
"Compose yourself first. Keep thrashing and you'll be bedridden for weeks."
She hadn't realized she'd been struggling until he said it. When Etienne maintained his calm demeanor, Mia froze mid-motion.
...Unless.
A third possibility sliced through her confusion.
Even without impersonators or hallucinations, there remained one explanation - absurd yet plausible. She recalled the executed heretic who'd manipulated temporal flows through divine energy.
Mia's bitter laugh caught in her throat. She'd orchestrated that very execution, condemning his "preposterous theories."
'What if they weren't preposterous?'
"Commander," she forced through numb lips, "are we still at the border?"
The pieces aligned with terrible clarity. This matched her memories of early campaigns - newly anointed by the Goddess, ambushed at the frontier, that same abdominal wound...
...But Rochefort had never tended her injuries before. The realization struck like cold water - she'd never known this ice-blooded man possessed medical skills.
Etienne studied her face as he guided her back down. "We're maintaining position at the border. Why?"
The real question burned her tongue - had she truly reversed time? But voicing that would brand her mad. She nodded meekly instead.
If this was temporal reversion, if that heretic's claims held truth... Why would her mortal enemy play nurse? Her past life held no such recollection.
"This makes no sense."
"..."
"I need to understand what happened while I was unconscious."
After weighted silence, Etienne retrieved supplies from a corner drawer. "It's lengthy. First your wounds."
"I'll hear it regardless."
Their gazes locked - her unblinking stare met his troubled expression. Was he fearing false treason charges? Or something deeper?
Bandages unspooled in his hands as he returned. Medicinal herbs mingled with strange instruments on the bedside table, their purposes obscure.
Key improvements:
Tightened phrasing for better flow ("rest assured" vs "don't need to worry")
Added visceral details ("bit her lip hard enough to taste copper")
Enhanced temporal paradox implications
Maintained honorific/title consistency ("Commander")
Sharpened emotional beats ("bitter laugh caught in her throat")
Preserved cultural terms like "divine energy" for 신성력
Adjusted punctuation for dramatic pacing]
