When I Finished Playing the Terminally-Ill Villainous Omega C4

Chapter 4

He was not mad— merely bewildered by the sudden kindness of the master who had tormented him for so long.

Still, to change demeanor this drastically the moment I treated him gently… he must have been holding back a great deal.

To be honest, the wrongs committed before I woke in Cedric’s body were not mine, which made it feel somewhat unfair. But the situation justified his reaction, so I chose to let it slide.

Not that I had a choice— this man was originally the Emperor, and with a flick of his finger he could annihilate my family. The protagonist’s whim alone could destroy us.

I closed the ointment jar and placed it into Locke’s hand. He trembled violently, jaw clenched so tightly his cheekbone stood out sharply.

How harshly must he have been treated to flinch from the slightest touch?

It was my burden to bear. Even if it was my first time living this life— I had still wronged him in the past. There was no excuse.

“If you don’t want me applying it, wash up and put it on yourself.”

Locke looked at me.

That gaze— colder than ice, sharper than steel— dragged to mind the face he bore when he became emperor.

“…It is difficult to adjust to such sudden behavior.”

I could hardly say, If this hellish relationship doesn’t change, you will kill me, so I fashioned a plausible excuse instead.

“You are my personal attendant. To mistreat someone assigned solely to serve me would imply that my own standing as master is weak. Take it as my apology for failing to protect you from my brother.”

Had I said something wrong again? Locke slowly lifted his hand.

Reflexively, I yelped and flung both arms over my head.

Why raise your hand out of nowhere?! Terrifying man…!

“…A spider.”

“H-huh? What? A spider? Aagh!”

I thought he was about to strike me for talking nonsense after tormenting him all this time— but no. That part was a relief.

But a spider was not. I detested bugs with every fiber of my being.

The moment he said “spider,” I burst up screaming and shook myself off like a rain-soaked mutt.

Locke’s golden eyes quivered, almost imperceptibly. Whether that tremor was real or merely the effect of my frantic flailing, I could not tell.

“Anyway, avoid my brother and sister as much as possible. Anything they do to you reflects poorly on me as your master. Understand?”

We walked back toward the manor together.

Spring was melting into summer, and roses blanketed the garden.

“You have said that six times.”

“Then answer all six for my peace of mind.”

“…Very well.”

“And what else did I say?”

“You said that if you suddenly become irritable, it is due to illness and never because you dislike me.”

“Correct.”

I smiled contentedly as we strolled through the rose-scented garden side by side.

But the peace shattered in an instant.

[Mission: Order your attendant Locke to pluck ten thousand thorned roses with his bare hands.

Choose one of the following lines.]

The catastrophe I’d feared had arrived.

I should have walked ahead and left him behind.

Caught up in the novelty of finally speaking with Locke properly, I had forgotten this garden triggered a mission.

And this mission… could not be tricked. “Pluck the roses” was too specific to manipulate with loopholes. I had wanted to avoid this one at all costs.

Damn.

I turned. Locke’s face was bruised purple, his lip torn and crusted with dried blood. Beneath the shredded fabric of his clothes, whip marks cut across his skin like angry lashes.

Despite them, he stood tall— proud even. But just because he endured did not mean he did not suffer.

Haah…

I hesitated— but the decision was already made.

How could I possibly do this to you again?

With trembling fingers, I chose to reject the mission.

The second heart flickered— then vanished.

“Cough—”

A lump of blood burst from my lips.

Fire-hot needles stabbed into my heart by the thousands.

“Hgh…!”

The pain was so blinding I could not even scream.

I had endured this before— knew exactly how it shredded the mind— yet I still could not force myself to choose otherwise.

I could not forget Locke’s blood-soaked form from the previous timeline, wounds so many they blurred together.

I collapsed and writhed on the dirt, shrieking until consciousness faded.

The last thing I saw was Locke’s cold gaze, staring down at me without a word.

I awoke on the familiar antique bed.

[♥]

…I’m sick of this.

Back again to this wretched routine— always fearing the moment death would strike.

I stared dully at the single remaining heart, lost in thought— and then my gaze drifted.

There was something unfamiliar.

On the bedside table sat a glass vase— clear, tinged faintly blue— holding a single pink rose, fresh and elegant and just beginning to bloom.

This was no repetition.

The scenario had changed.

❖ ❖ ❖

A week passed— a week of enduring agony from the failed mission.

Each day, a rose bloomed fresh in the vase.

It’s a different flower from yesterday.

A flower, once in full bloom, wilts quickly.

Knowing that, I would stare at the rose in melancholy, as if watching my own predetermined fate wither. Every night, before sleep stole me, I prayed silently that the petals would hold on a little longer.

Yet this morning— another perfect bloom greeted me.

Someone had replaced it before the previous one could fade.

At first, I assumed a servant placed it to brighten the room.

“A flower? I thought you had another servant bring it, young master.”

But the servant shook his head. When I asked who might have done it, he insisted he did not know.

It must have been placed secretly, late at night while everyone slept.

Who could it be?

My mother, worried for her terminal son, instructed servants to check on me regularly. I saw the same faces each day— but when unconscious, anyone could come.

I briefly suspected Locke— he entered my chamber most often, and I had once lamented to him about growing uglier by the day.

Could it be sympathy?

No. I dismissed it immediately.

In moments of extremity, a person’s true nature emerges. The cold cruelty I witnessed in him was not circumstance— it was who he was. He himself had called his nature monstrous, inhuman— and he proved it in front of me.

Impossible. If he had even a shred of tenderness, he would not have done what he did last time.

A man who slaughtered without remorse would never bring roses.

“Ridiculous.”

I erased the notion from my mind.

Here, flowers serve as compliments.

Pink was usually given to a beautiful person— a confession, “You are the most beautiful in the world.”

A servant would likely not know the meaning… yet still.

Someone in this house left these for me— each morning, fresh, never letting me witness them wilt.

Such delicate care had never happened in my previous life.

I tapped the rose petal. Dew shimmered on its soft surface.

A smile tugged at my lips— the first time I had awakened with one since my transmigration.

❖ ❖ ❖

Life in this novel was dull. I was weak, unable to leave the estate; there were no phones, no television.

Still, after two lives as Cedric, I had cultivated a tolerance— even an appreciation—for boredom.

Sometimes I borrowed romance books from my mother’s library; when they bored me, I watched servants tend the garden outside.

Occasionally, Locke and I crossed gazes— not quite “making eye contact,” but sensing each other’s presence. Sometimes he turned sharply, catching me staring; other times he glared first, and I looked away to avoid his burning hostility.

I still had not identified the mysterious rose-giver.

I even tried staying up until dawn— but this weak body failed each time, falling asleep before light touched the horizon. After several failed attempts, my resolve waned and curiosity dulled.

Today, again, I sat propped against the bed’s headboard with a book— one of the imported romances.

“I knew he’d cheat! Ugh— why are stories in this country all so messy? Anyone with money or power is a shameless snake— no loyalty whatsoever!”

I nearly threw the book but restrained myself.

Why is it that unless it is myth or legend, every novel is scandal-ridden trash?

I longed for a friend my age, once. But it was impossible.

I was frail— unable to hunt, ride, or engage in any pastime of youth. How could I bond with peers who lived entirely differently?

I could force friendships with my status— but those would not be real.

Knock, knock.

I snapped out of my complaints.

The moment chills ran down my spine, I knew— it had to be Locke.