Birthday Gift -3- "I'm No Villain—I'm an Artist"
"I'm no villain. I'm an artist."
With a creepy kishishi chuckle, the adventurer hunter drew the dagger from his belt. His narrowed eyes and the way he thrust the bluish-honed blade toward Hanna and me evoked some kind of insect.
"First time fighting an insect."
"I'm no entomologist. I'm an artist who sculpts people with the beautiful magic created by the gods."
"No matter how I look at it, that fits... Head, chest, abdomen. Oh... but only six arms? Wait, no, not quite."
Noticing I was insulting him, the adventurer hunter squinted at me. "Which part exactly?"
The man glared with narrowed eyes, radiating killing intent like he'd slit my throat any second if I said the wrong thing.
I shrugged. From the way he hunched forward and crept closer, gripping two daggers in reverse grip—it was a mantis through and through. I'd sworn not to judge people by their faces, but this guy's mug was way too insect-like. Calling that thing human felt like an insult to humanity itself.
To defend human dignity, I shared the uncomfortable truth with him.
"You look so much like a mantis, I mistook you for an insect."
"Pardon?"
"You look scrawny enough to drop dead from a single flick, but damn if you don't have the temper of a filthy bug."
Yeah, you. You're ugly as hell.
"You look just like a mantis."
A crack slowly spread across the man's face. Maybe from facing the uncomfortable truth. His mom must've always gaslit him that he was handsome. I felt bad for making him an unfilial son by spilling it.
But what could I do? He really looked like one.
The man flashed a venomous smile. Not wanting to seem petty, he forced an awkward grin and let out an "ahaha"—man, that felt satisfying.
"I look like a mantis?"
"Yes."
"Hahaha... This is insane. You're the first to talk to me like this."
"You've got some real good friends, huh."
"...Wanna die?"
My sincerity didn't get through to the mantis who'd just realized his mom's lies. I knew from the novel that Mikhail gets crushed by this guy.
-Archbishop of Madness...! Do you even know how many innocent lives you've taken!
-Kishishit... I merely created artwork. I just purified the world's filth into the art of death.
-I'll kill you...
-You said that last time too, but couldn't, could you? How tragic. Mikhail... I do want to turn you into my artwork someday.
He'd overwhelmed Mikhail with true madness. The guy who dominated the heroine's party.
But not now. Right now, he was just an insect-mimicking performance artist.
I said to him earnestly, "This is a first for me too."
"..."
"Meeting someone who looks like a mantis. If I were in elementary school, I'd have caught you in a bug jar to raise."
The adventurer hunter's smile grew drier by the second. Maybe realizing a truth he'd been blind to for decades. If he had a mirror at home, he'd know. No way he didn't realize he looked like an insect—unless he'd deluded himself into thinking he was hot. The novel never mentioned that detail, so I'd unintentionally landed a personal attack. Felt kinda sorry.
"Sorry. But you really do look like one, so I misspoke."
"I..."
Rage boiled in the adventurer hunter. His voice trembled, like he was questioning his very origins. Who knew I'd pity a villain? It hurt my heart. If this were modern times, plastic surgery could've helped—but wrong era for that. Blame bad luck, mantis.
"Iii..."
Black energy began gathering on the mantis's dagger. An ominous, chilling aura. Black Magic.
Flick.
The mantis's eyes snapped wide as he spat, "You mean I resemble that ugly thing?"
I drew my sword from my belt. "Yep."
In that instant, the mantis launched at me. Black haze like heat shimmer shrouded my vision, aiming to choke my throat.
Pop.
With a faint sound, only a powerless afterimage remained.
Offsets Pascal's magic.
I flashed a villainous smile—cruel, yet overwhelming in its pure whiteness.
"What was that? Did you just shoot venom?"
A taunt stronger than any mental magic hit Pascal.
"Thought you were a mantis, but you're some other bug. Sorry for the mix-up."
Pascal's sanity flew out the window after that.
"Huff... huff..."
Rowen raced forward. His destination: the source of the thunderous booms echoing from the mountaintop. Ominous energy rode the wind, thick with the stench of blood.
His heart raced anxiously for no reason. He knew it shouldn't be, but the dread wouldn't fade.
Images of his youngest daughter dying kept flashing in his mind. Her desperately calling for him. Him cradling her cold, stiff corpse.
'Damn...'
On the way here, all sorts of thoughts had plagued him.
'Did I mess up?'
'Could I handle it if my baby girl died?'
'Would I have no regrets?'
One thing was certain: If he found his daughter as a cold corpse, Rowen wouldn't think rationally like this.
If any of the worries in his head came true—if he saw it right in front of him—he doubted he could hold onto his sanity.
He might wipe out every orc tribe in the Hamel Mountains. Or demand the empire exterminate orcs entirely.
Any excuse would do. If there were no orcs, she wouldn't have died—he'd ignore his own role in it, convinced of that.
Rowen knew himself best: stubborn, rigid, a perfectionist who couldn't admit fault easily.
'Foolish bastard.'
The source of the noise came into view bit by bit. Corpses littered the trees between—clearly orc work on some, human scorch marks on others.
Rowen gripped his sword tight. Urgency clawed at him. The fallen bodies overlapped with his daughter's image in his mind. His iron resolve wavered like a reed.
He'd thought himself numb to death after countless battlefields, creating and witnessing it.
But now terrified him more than any war.
A familiar sight entered his vision.
-Father...
The orc habitat from his hallucination appeared, where his dying daughter had called out.
Rowen kicked off the ground. He had to check—convinced she'd be there.
But against his hopes, a thick dust cloud billowed.
Visibility zero.
'Damn it all.'
Instinct told him he was too late. In the hallucination, the dust was the end of his daughter's final breath.
As he stumbled blindly into the cloud, losing reason—
Clang.
A familiar sword struck his toe. Ornate golden hilt, inlaid central ruby, family crest engraved on the blade.
The sword he'd gifted Hanna at birth: "Grow up and spread the Histania name with this."
She'd kept it all this time. Edge dulled, hilt worn from handprints—used for years.
He'd bought countless swords for his other kids, but only this one for her. It stabbed his heart like a nail.
Sharper than any blade, deeper wound than any technique.
The sword he'd given her lay mercilessly on the ground.
"..."
Blood pooled thick on the floor. Mostly orc green, but plenty of human red mixed into a murky hue.
Rowen murmured in a daze. "...No."
The denial spilled from his lips aloud. He couldn't believe it. Shouldn't. Her father was a Sword Master. He was the empire's blade.
She couldn't die so pointlessly—not on his watch as her father.
What had all his sword swings been for? Why had he treated the daughter who craved his approval so harshly?
Rowen's mind found no answers.
Only now did he recall the single line on that blue spear: 'Sinner.'
Ah, yes. He was the sinner.
For the first time in ages, Rowen awkwardly called her name.
"Hanna. Where are you?"
Toward the billowing cloud. In a voice burning away.
"Come spar with me. We had a promise..."
No reply.
But he hated himself—the one who'd coldly ignored her on her birthday that day.
When the smoke cleared, what tragedy awaited? Would the nightmare from his vision replay?
Rowen was afraid.
"Daddy's..."
Now he could admit it.
"Daddy's sorry..."
Then—
Thwack...!
"Don't hit Hanna there. Hit the armored spots—no bruises show."
"Aha! Perfect crime?"
"Exactly."
Through the fading dust, he saw his daughter gleefully beating someone alongside some guy.
"Hehihi..."
Hanna's face as she clubbed the man with a scabbard—it was the happiest he'd ever seen.