Still a Knight Unworthy of Help
The first emotion I'd harbored toward him was one of profound inferiority. He, chosen as the Hero, was still just a child—far younger than me—and upon hearing he was a mere fledgling, barely a week into his role, I foolishly imagined I could cast myself as his mentor, the wise teacher of the Hero.
But... from the very start, the Hero trampled me like I was nothing. My swordsmanship, my hand-to-hand combat skills, my eloquence, my character—even my noble lineage couldn't surpass him. As the daughter of a marquis, clinging to my sole pride of joining the Imperial Female Knights Order... it was only natural that I'd envy him.
"Zenovia."
But he was different from me. Noble. Pure. Unstained. And more than anyone... he embodied the Hero.
I never stooped to whispering petty gossip fueled by base desires like my own, nor dismissed his feats as flukes just to belittle him. I didn't sneak off to secret trysts with other men while pretending to be his ally...
I knew it deep down. That debasing myself like this wouldn't fill the void in my worthless pride. That he, unlike me, would forever remain the noble Hero...
"Zenovia...?"
So I killed him.
I seduced the Saintess candidate, deceived the mage, corrupted the maid. It was something I'd done countless times before, turning them into trash like me—and it was laughably easy. No, the mage was already one of my kind. Being around him had shattered her pride and self-esteem until nothing remained.
It all unraveled far too simply. The Hero, having slain the Demon King, approached us—his trusted companions—with a smile.
Puuk—!!
Stabbing a knife into his heart? That was trivial for someone like me.
And so he died. I spread the rumor that the Hero, defeater of the Demon King, had been slain by the Demon King's curse in a mutual destruction—and basked in my status as a member of the Hero's party.
That was the plan, at least.
"You filthy traitor bitch!!"
"To kill the Hero...!!!"
"No wonder the Hero suffered—with trash like her in the party."
But fate didn't side with me. It started with suspicion. The sword wound on the Hero's chest didn't match the "curse killing" tale I'd fabricated, so a noble he'd saved launched a secret investigation. They examined the wound on his corpse, analyzed the mana traces, summoned archmages to resurrect past memories from his blood. They presented it all to the Empire, proclaiming that the Hero's false end had been uncovered by them and one brave noble—and branded us, his former party members, as criminals.
A massive manhunt ensued. Naturally, I was excommunicated from the Knights Order, and my family was utterly destroyed. My father, charged with birthing the traitors, was stoned to death in the streets by the citizens, dying in abject misery.
My mother and little sister were stripped naked, bound in the gutters, tormented by the shame of it all until the homeless and mobs used them as playthings—before their arms and legs were hacked off and they were sold to brothels.
My older and younger brothers bought a few extra years as slaves by exposing our house's disgrace... but they couldn't adapt and died within three years.
I, the last one left... survived as a beggar.
My once-beautiful long golden hair turned into a short, manly crop streaked with black and brown. The firm abs and thighs honed as a knight withered to bony skeletons from starvation. There was no room left for pride or self-esteem.
Kneeling in the streets, bowing my head, scraping by on whatever scraps people tossed my way—that was my wretched existence. In such a life, all I could cling to inwardly was regret.
If only I hadn't killed the Hero out of petty jealousy. No, from the start, he was the one chosen by the Goddess herself—pure and noble. Envying him was no different from pointing fingers at the divine will.
"...Haha..."
Spending a full year as a beggar gave me ample time to reflect objectively on myself. How pathetically I'd lived. All for some fragile pride... as if wealth and honor were everything.
Gnashing my teeth and wiping away tears changed nothing but left me wallowing in misery.
I lost my purity, my noble spirit, my family's glory, my honor as a Hero's companion—even the family I loved more than anything. Only then did this pathetic wretch finally come to her senses.
No, not come to her senses—become human, perhaps.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry...!!"
I couldn't die. I was too much of a coward to burn through my last life.
So I clung on desperately. Barely surviving on the streets, I took on menial labor to earn coin. It wasn't enough, so I went to the brothels and sold my body too, scraping together every penny.
For nearly ten years, days of manual labor by morning and whoring by night. By my thirties, there was no allure left in me. The labor had given me a decently sturdy body for my age, but as a woman? No—as livestock, maybe.
Few men wanted a rough-muscled brute, so I was naturally kicked out of the brothel. Fortunately, with my savings, I bought a modest shack. A few more years of labor, and I could scrape by.
Miserable, but alive. I could no longer afford to belittle others to prop up my ego. When you're at the absolute bottom, who are you to look down on anyone?
At 41, I quit the labor and secluded myself in that tiny home. Meals were simple broth. Occasionally, I'd buy discounted fruit or meat scraps, throw a little party for one, and drown my gut with cheap booze. Days like that stretched on for 10 years, 20...
Eventually, the end of my lifespan loomed. As a mana user, I could've easily hit 100, but when my family fell, they'd sealed my meridians, wrecking my Mana Force Circuits beyond repair.
To the end... I believed I'd lived a worthless life.
"...May I be of help to the Hero."
That was my final wish. In my next life, to aid the Hero I'd killed... to not meet a miserable end like mine, lost in ugly jealousy.
A touch greedy, but I'd pray: Please, please... in the next life, don't live in envy of him. Just help him, wash away the sins of my past self.
This has to be a dream. Things can't end up like this.
Me, betraying him again? Never. I'd already lost all pride and everything else, finally realizing that being useful to him was the only way to prove my worth—only for him to die by my hand once more. He'd become an Imperial Knight, and now, in this life too, he was dying at mine.
"Wow, Zenovia. You're incredible as expected."
"Y-Yes...?"
Her appearance was familiar. The captain of the Imperial Female Knights Order, someone I'd idolized—her image lingered faintly in my memories from nearly 40 years past.
"To go toe-to-toe with the Empire's loyal lion and win... At this rate, I could hand over the captaincy without a second thought."
What was she saying? The Hero had "fought" me... and I'd won?
The old me would've crowed about my skill, but objectively, I was mediocre. Barely fit to kiss the Hero's toes... and I'd beaten him?
Maybe my body was different? Checking, I found more mana and developed muscles than in my past life. But that still wouldn't beat the Hero. I was certain.
Only one conclusion remained.
"You let me win...?"
Why? Because he trusted me.
Why me? Because he loved me.
Enough to die for it.
Indeed, my body bore not even a glancing scratch.
"Ahh..."
He hadn't been killed by me. He'd let me kill him.
My mind crumbled. I'd sworn to be of help...!!
"..."
"Zenovia?"
No more hesitation about death. I'd been through it before, but I was disgusted with myself for breaking even that vow.
Just die. Die and let him kill you.
Zenovia Aphiliano.
"Why!!!!!!!!"
Even death wouldn't forgive me? In my third life, witnessing his death again drove me mad. Without a moment's pause, I slit my own throat.
Please, this time kill me... or at least let me help him... no, make me someone who can carry his burden.
My third death held no pain. Only bitter memories and acrid regret swirled in my mind.
"Ahh.... Aaaahh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
It failed again.
Zenovia Aphiliano.
Just die already. That would help him.
Help the world.