Before Becoming a Professor
The faint, ashen light of dawn seeped into the room, pale and reluctant.
Euphemia stirred first—not from rest, but from suffocation. She blinked awake, her body tight with discomfort, and instinctively pushed away Perzen’s arm where it lay draped across her waist, possessive even in sleep.
She sat up slowly, wincing, and pulled the sheet down just enough to reveal the aftermath of last night’s intimacy—sweat-slicked skin, faint bruises blooming like bruises on petals, and the sharp, musky scent clinging to the air, thick and private.
“……”
She didn’t want to remember—but memory flooded in anyway, crisp and humiliating: her own voice, breathless and raw; her thighs locked around his hips, guiding him deeper, urging him on with every tremor of her spine. The sheer, unvarnished *vulgarity* of it made her chest constrict.
Especially that one phrase—still echoing in her ears, low and calm, utterly devoid of mockery or indulgence:
“Well done.”
It wasn’t lust he’d been chasing. Lust flickered, faltered, burned out. But Perzen? He hadn’t wavered—not once. Not before, not during, not after. His control had been absolute. And that was what enraged her most.
He’d wanted an heir. That was his excuse. His justification. His *right*, as far as Brutein law and noble custom were concerned.
“……”
What had he thought, watching her—this woman who’d wrapped herself around him like a vine, desperate for pleasure, shameless in her hunger?
Maybe he’d assumed it was natural. Expected. Maybe he’d looked at her and seen only what all men saw: a vessel, a function, a body trained to obey its purpose.
She exhaled, long and slow, and let a bitter, self-mocking smile curl her lips.
She’d chosen this. Chosen *him*. Chosen the life she now lived—so there was no point in painting it tragic. No point in pretending she’d been dragged here against her will. Her despair was real, yes—but it was also hers alone to bear.
Powerlessness was terrifying. Not because it left you helpless—but because it revealed how little you truly controlled, even over yourself.
The only thing left to do was refuse to be tamed.
Squeak.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed—and immediately collapsed onto the floor with a soft, startled thud.
“Ah—!”
Her knees buckled. Her thighs trembled violently, like a doe caught in a hunter’s snare. She braced herself on the rug, panting, and then froze—her breath catching as something warm and slick trickled down the crease of her buttocks.
Even a fool would know what that was.
She’d known, instantly—the heat, the weight, the unmistakable viscosity. It hadn’t coagulated yet. It wouldn’t. Not while her body still held his warmth inside her, still pulsed with the aftershocks of his release.
She stared at her own hand as it fumbled blindly for the discarded underwear beside the bed—then watched, numb, as the fabric darkened further, soaked through, dripping faintly onto the polished floorboards.
She laughed—a dry, hollow sound—and flung the ruined panties onto the bed with a disgusted flick of her wrist.
“Fucking bastard… How much did you even *come*?”
It felt like being a flower blooming in the heart of a desert—fragile, defiant, already wilting under the sun’s merciless gaze.
Rustle.
Perzen shifted behind her. A slow, languid roll of his shoulders. Then, eyes still half-lidded with sleep, he sat up, bare-chested and unruffled, and watched her—kneeling on the floor, hair tangled, face flushed, one hand still gripping the edge of the rug like a lifeline.
“The sun hasn’t even risen properly yet…”
“Does being lowborn mean I’m not allowed to wake early?”
“How childish.”
“……”
His arrogance was effortless—untouchable. Even drowsiness and fatigue bent to his will. One sweep of his fingers through his hair, and the sleepy haze vanished, replaced by that familiar, razor-edged composure. His gaze was cool, assessing, utterly unimpressed.
“I’ll summon the maids. Pull your straps up. You’re not going to parade your chest around all day.”
“I—I know, okay? I don’t need you to say it.”
Only then did she register her own state—bare shoulders, exposed collarbone, the thin silk of her nightgown clinging damply to her skin. She scrambled to adjust the straps of her dress, fingers clumsy with lingering exhaustion and simmering resentment.
“This… I can’t even bring myself to call it clothing.”
His eyes flicked to the bed—where her black panties lay, twisted and glistening, reeking faintly of salt and musk.
He clicked his tongue, a soft, dismissive sound.
“Yours. And yet somehow still filthy.”
Euphemia stared at him—then, without warning, let out a quiet, brittle laugh.
“Was last night really that disappointing? I thought I satisfied you thoroughly. Why so sour this morning?”
“……”
Was she mocking him? Or herself?
She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned her head away, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the window where dawn bled into the sky.
Perzen didn’t press. Didn’t react. He simply reached for a small brass bell on the nightstand and gave it a single, clear ring.
Footsteps approached—light, precise, hushed. A soft knock. Then the door opened, and three maids entered, heads bowed, hands folded neatly at their waists.
“Change the sheets. And—she’ll be exhausted. Take her to the bathhouse and see she’s cleaned thoroughly. Use strong scents sparingly. Nothing cloying.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“M-Maybe I can bathe myself?”
The thought of them seeing the marks on her thighs—the faint red imprints of his fingers, the swollen, tender evidence between her legs—made her stomach clench with shame.
“A master who exhausts her servants is problematic,” Perzen said, voice smooth as oil. “But a master who leaves her servants idle is worse. They won’t feel gratitude. Only awkwardness. Your ‘consideration’ becomes an inconvenience.”
“W-Well, *your* consideration toward me is also inconvenient. I already know how impressive you are. Stop making me feel cheap and pathetic.”
Perzen regarded her for a long moment—then rose, expression unreadable.
“There is no absolute standard in this world. The closest thing is law. So if you feel diminished in my presence, the flaw lies with you—not me.”
“……”
“If you wish to protest, do so with grace. With dignity. Come back when you’ve grown more refined—and stop sounding like a commoner who’s lost her way.”
“You rotten—”
“Last night was exhausting. See that breakfast is prepared—something rich. Something she’ll enjoy.”
And with that, he left the room, leaving Euphemia surrounded by silent, efficient women—and the heavy, unspoken truth hanging in the air like incense smoke: she was not his equal. She was his obligation. His project. His possession.
[After bathing, changing, and composing herself, Perzen summoned Chris and asked about the painter he’d requested the previous day.]
I called for Chris and asked about the painter I’d instructed him to hire the day before.
“He’s waiting in the reception hall now.”
“Now?”
“He says he must depart urgently for Rosenberg…”
“Ah. Of course—the festival begins soon. Any artist worth their salt would rather die than miss it.”
I nodded, dismissed Chris, and descended to the first-floor reception hall—where a single painter sat perched on the edge of a velvet chair, knees pressed together, hands clasped tightly in his lap, radiating nervous energy like heat off stone.
“B-Bru-Brutein, my lord!”
“Enough. Sit.”
“Yes, sir!”
He looked like a dog holding its bladder—twitchy, anxious, barely able to contain himself. I didn’t care. I sketched quickly on parchment: the sharp line of Ciel Midford’s jaw, the hollows beneath his cheekbones, the quiet intensity of his gaze—even the faint, old burn scars tracing his collarbone. I handed it to him without a word.
“I’ll describe him in detail. Use this sketch as reference and complete a portrait of a man. Chris brought you here, so I won’t question your skill—but if you exceed my expectations, your fee will increase accordingly.”
“T-The skill is truly—”
“Flattery is poison. Discard it.”
“Y-Yes, my lord…”
Artistry, after all, was part of basic noble education. Perzen’s hands knew charcoal and ink as well as sword and seal—and I considered that a blessing. Words could only carry so much weight. Too much description risked abstraction—worse, caricature. But a precise sketch? That was a compass. A guide. A guarantee.
And it worked. The painter absorbed my words, cross-referenced them with the sketch, and rendered Ciel Midford with startling fidelity—not perfect, perhaps, but *true*. Enough to make the blood in my veins run cold.
“Acceptable.”
“Th-Thank you!”
“Collect your payment from Chris.”
I took the portrait, instructed Chris to add a generous bonus, and headed for Jeremiah’s study—the office where my elder brother, the Marquis and head of House Brutein, held court.
“This is…”
“It’s a lot. But read it if you can.”
Jeremiah handed me a thick stack of documents—bound in stiff leather, sealed with wax bearing the Brutein crest. When I accepted the portrait of Ciel Midford, he’d already anticipated my next request.
“This contains the names and backgrounds of those who accepted the professorship appointment—including the children of nobles slated to enroll this year.”
“…Thank you.”
This was invaluable. Perzen had never moved in high society—not once. He’d been raised in isolation, groomed for duty, not diplomacy. These names, these connections, these subtle hierarchies—they were currency I’d never possessed before.
I bowed deeply, left the study, and settled beneath the cherry blossoms in the garden—spreading the documents across my lap like sacred texts.
“……”
I paused—then closed the file halfway through the first page.
Printing existed, yes—but personal records like these were always handwritten. And every single character, every flourish, every loop and stroke… was deliberately *asymmetrical*. Left-right balance warped, letters leaning, curves distorted. Just looking at them sent jagged spikes of stress straight into my temples.
It wasn’t rage—not yet. Just irritation. An itch I couldn’t scratch.
So I gritted my teeth, forced my breathing steady, and began again—slowly, deliberately, forcing my eyes to track each malformed glyph.
“……”
My head throbbed.
Not from the handwriting.
From the names at the top of the first page.
1. Lizzie Paul Liana Claudia (Age 20)
Youngest daughter of House Claudia. Rumored to ascend to Euclid-rank black mage within 1–2 years.
The Baron of Claudia died three months ago. The second son currently holds the title; the eldest has joined the Royal Knights this year.
“Lizzie… Lizzie…”
A name buried deep in Perzen’s memory—so deeply filed away that its mere appearance felt like a physical jolt.
Of course it wasn’t positive.
After the incident with his obsessive-compulsive disorder—the one that fractured his relationship with Jeremiah—their bond had grown brittle, distant. It shouldn’t have surprised anyone. In fact, it was miraculous they’d reconciled at all.
That reconciliation happened at Jeremiah’s seventeenth birthday banquet—the formal coming-of-age ceremony. Perzen had stepped forward, uncharacteristically bold, and offered both apology and congratulations. That single act had thawed the ice between them.
But he should have left *then*.
Should have walked away before the guests noticed him—before the whispers started, before the noble families, sensing opportunity, began maneuvering their daughters into his orbit.
Baron Claudia had been one of them.
And his daughter—Lizzie—hadn’t merely bowed.
She’d asked to dance.
Was it ambition? Was it genuine, startled attraction? Had she truly looked at Perzen—cold, rigid, seventeen-year-old Perzen—and felt something real?
We’d never know.
Because during the dance, she stumbled.
And Perzen, reflexes honed by years of martial discipline, stepped *down*—not aside—to stabilize her.
His boot crushed her ankle.
That, in itself, wasn’t unforgivable.
But what came next was.
As she limped away, weeping, he followed—and broke her *other* ankle. Deliberately. Symmetrically.
Shiver.
The memory slammed into me with visceral clarity. My fingertips trembled. I pressed them hard against my forehead, nails digging in.
She’d been twelve.
A child. A girl with violet eyes and red hair, already too thin, already too quiet. And Perzen—calm, precise, methodical—had shattered her body like glass, ensuring perfect, horrifying symmetry.
And yet… part of me understood.
No—*understood* wasn’t right.
I *recognized* it.
That cold, surgical logic. That need for order, for balance, for control so absolute it bordered on divine punishment.
And the realization—that *I* recognized it—that terrified me more than anything else.
“Can I really call this coincidence?”
I didn’t have the courage to turn the page.
But I forced myself.
“Fuck.”
One word. One name.
House Alfred.
A viscounty ranked nearly equal to Brutein itself—infamous for plague, crime, and conditional loyalty. A house built on shadows, where blood meant less than leverage.
I threw the documents onto the grass.
If this weren’t a novel—if this were reality—I wouldn’t be clutching my temples or tasting bile. I’d be fine. Normal. Human.
But this *was* a novel.
And I was the villain.
So Lizzie and House Alfred weren’t just names on paper. They were stepping stones. Landmines. Pieces placed on the board long before the game began—waiting to detonate beneath my feet, to pierce my heart with the same precision Perzen used to break bones.
“……”
What could I even say?
I finally understood the full weight of the role assigned to Perzen: Evil.
I’d thought keeping Euphemia close, watching the heroine, would be enough. A simple, elegant solution. But that was naive. A fatal miscalculation.
“Hah… hah…”
Was it possible this was all a narrative trick? A fake-out? What if *Perzen* was the true protagonist—and everything I’d done, everything I’d suffered, was just part of his grand, tragic arc?
I let that possibility go.
Because if Perzen *were* the hero, then his atrocities would be redeemable. Excusable. Washable in the spin cycle of backstory and trauma.
But they weren’t.
No hidden coercion. No misunderstood motive. No external force pulling his strings.
Pure, unadulterated evil—polished to a lethal shine by obsessive-compulsive rigidity.
That flaw didn’t absolve him. It just made him *more dangerous*—a weakness others could exploit, a crack in the armor they’d learn to widen.
If only it were soap. If only it could clean.
But it wasn’t.
I am the villain.
The title of this story—I Became the Villain Who Plundered the Heroine—wasn’t a boast.
It was a diagnosis.
Who, exactly, was supposed to survive?
“I want to regress…”
A single, fragile sigh—carried away on the spring breeze, vanishing before it could settle.