The Father Who Hates Me -2-

A blue window hovered before her eyes. It was a foreboding panel filled with ominous words that made her brow furrow.

Hanna blinked. What the hell was this? She could feel it with her body, but her mind couldn't comprehend why it was appearing before her eyes.

Was it from overdoing her training? Or skipping meals?

She blinked hard, but the blue window didn't vanish.

What the...?

Chills raced across her skin. The window spoke of a grim fate: without the butler, she would have died.

She'd swung her sword mindlessly. Only for her father's approval.

The words pierced her past self, and her fingers trembled faintly.

Why would I die...?

Hanna had always seen herself as tough. Back then and now. She'd endured a lifetime of dismissal thanks to her strong will, she thought.

The idea that she'd made a foolish choice despite not breaking under her father's scorn—it was unimaginable. But knowing herself better than anyone, she couldn't hide her shaking heart.

Her gaze kept drifting back to the blue window, unease gnawing at her. Deep down, she dismissed it as nonsense, but thinking of her past self... she might have done something stupid.

What if... she hadn't gone to find the butler back then...?

Hanna shook her head, trying to shake off the thoughts.

Slap!

She slapped both her cheeks. Snap out of it. Distracted from training, fixating on the butler—that's why weird shit was appearing, she figured. She shook her head and willed it away.

Opening her tightly shut eyes, the ominous blue window was gone.

"Must be fatigue... yeah, just tired."

She struggled to her feet, clutching her father's letter tightly.

It's nothing. It'll be fine.

With lingering unease, Hanna headed back to her dorm.

*

Three days earlier.

Commander of the Imperial Knights, Rowen Histania, sat at his desk in his office, pen in hand for the first time in ages.

Not his sword, but a pen. He rubbed his throbbing forehead, lost in thought.

[To Hanna...]

His hand with the pen wouldn't move. What to write? What words to choose? Nothing came to mind. He let out a deep sigh.

"Hoo..."

The red-haired boy's words echoed relentlessly in his head.

-Going after elite orcs at your age? That's for lunatics.

-Isn't it impressive? Why no applause?

-You've never even tried it yourself...

The boy had defended Hanna with unwavering eyes. It took real guts—probably because he knew Rowen was the Imperial Knight Commander.

Rowen had seen it: the ferocious killing intent vanishing the moment their eyes met, the faint aura cleanly dispelled.

He could infer the rest. Yet those unyielding words lingered.

"Insolent brat..."

The pen felt heavier than usual today. He'd faced countless foes, survived death countless times, but this pen weighed more than his sword, gripped a hundred times over.

Hoo...

The blank letter grew damp with ink from the pen. Rowen crumpled it and sighed again.

"This is maddening."

Behind him loomed a mountain of crumpled papers. Starting with "To Hanna," even simple greetings like "How have you been?" took an hour—only to be torn up.

Where had it gone wrong? Rowen, who always sought the optimal path, couldn't pinpoint it.

Everyone praised Hanna. The youngest to awaken aura—such a reliable daughter, the family's blessing. Fellow knights and nobles showered compliments.

But Rowen, the father, didn't welcome them.

Did I do wrong?

Asking himself brought only firm denial. He wasn't wrong.

Writing letters yielded only sharp words.

-Put down the sword.

-It's dangerous. Sheathing it will help you.

Before her aura awakening, he'd have dismissed her talent. But now, her achievements surpassed even that—impossible feats.

For the family's glory, pushing her was right. Yet the hallucination he'd seen twisted his words negatively.

-Save me... Daddy... ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Save me...

Hanna dying? Unthinkable. That's why it tormented him so.

What father imagines his child dying? Rational judgment eluded Rowen.

For the family, pushing her was correct. Malik had awakened aura and shone, but paled next to Hanna's fame.

Logically... it made sense. But picturing Hanna with a sword made his heart quake.

-Save me. I don't want to die like this.

Crack...

Rowen snapped the pen in his grip.

"...Need another way."

Sighing, he pulled out fresh paper.

-To Hanna.

...

The paper dampened with ink again.

*

Crumple.

Sitting at her desk, Hanna stared at the letter with conflicted eyes. Covered in traces of hesitation—she'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nearly torn it but couldn't.

She slammed the desk in frustration.

Bang!

"What the hell does he want now?"

Her clenched fist trembled. She didn't want to see it. She knew what it'd say without opening it.

-Put down the sword.

-You have no talent.

She was certain. What fresh wound would it inflict this time? Would he call her the family's shame? Hanna feared it. She feared her father.

He hadn't changed despite her proving her worth. She hated him for it.

She just stared at the unopened letter, heart in turmoil.

"I proved it..."

Proved it—what more did he want? Hanna couldn't fathom it.

Tears welled as she glared at the blue window.

"I'm not doing it."

Better to avoid an unwanted ending. Her life was happy enough now. No clinging to the past—not when someone cheered and believed in her, unlike her rejecting father.

Hanna coldly refused the blue window.

But anxiety drew her eyes back. What if she followed its path...? She'd never see her father's face again.

Heart heavy, Hanna gazed at the sky.

"Haa... I miss the butler."

Today, the red-haired butler weighed on her mind more than usual.

"Sit!"

In the peaceful lady's room, the girl—more serious than ever—held jerky, training the dog sitting under the bed.

Gomtangi, clueless, tilted his head at her hand, while her irritation boiled over.

She yelled at him.

"Sit! You lowly beast!"

Woof?

Gomtangi ignored her completely. His eyes fixed on the jerky, drool pooling as he waited.

She twirled it before his nose.

"Sit, and I'll give it."

Nom!

Gomtangi snatched it—and her hand. Unable to match beastly reflexes, she stared blankly at her saliva-soaked right hand.

Jerky gone in an instant.

Woof!

He wagged ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his tail happily.

"Eek...! You damn bear cub!"

"He's a dog, not a bear."

"Bear or dog—pisses me off!"

She flailed her hand threateningly at Gomtangi, but to me, it just looked cute.

A peaceful day. Sun shining bright. No visitors. Lounging like a jobless bum.

This is life. Wanna live like this forever. Do nothing, play, eat—dump work on Mikhail and enjoy slothful bliss...

Then.

Gomtangi, who'd been playing nicely with the lady, hopped on the bed, looked out the window, and barked.

Woof! Woof!

"Eek!! Where you going? Time for punishment!"

Yelling at the ignoring dog, she glanced out the window where he stared—and tilted her head. 'Huh, who's that?'

"Ricardo. Thief's here."

"Pardon? Nothing worth stealing here."

"There is."

"What?"

"The world's prettiest me."

I brushed off her words lightly.

"Why ignore me!"

"..."

"Eeeek!!"

I shrugged. Who'd visit this haunted-looking mansion?

I inwardly cursed the intruder ruining my happy sloth life, vowing to post a sign at the door: [Enter and the villainess bites.]

Slowly peering out the window.

A brown-haired man stood at the gate, waiting for someone to appear. Towering height. Striking looks.

The man destined to be Mikhail's master.

Rowen Histania.

I told the lady,

"Air raid alert!!!"

"Hieek!!!"

We dove onto the bed and hid.