IDKML 03

Chapter 3

Even with study and effort, the time and efficiency of learning inevitably depend on whether one has talent or not.
But what if you were forced to do something countless times — in different situations — and if you didn’t do it, you’d die?
Even if your talent for that task was close to zero, eventually, you’d get good at it.
Because there would be no other way to survive…

“I’ve never even properly held a sword. The most I’ve used is a kitchen knife or a letter opener. But somehow, I managed it — sneaking behind assassins and hitting them in the back of the head.”

Now she could say it casually, even with a small smile, but back then, her blood had truly run dry.
In fact, there was a time when her blood literally dried up.
She had no idea what kind of trick the assassin had used, but the moment she drank whatever it was, blood had gushed from every hole in her body, and she’d died looking like a dried-up mummy.

Remembering that moment made Ophelia’s stomach twist.
“Drink this.”

Seeing her face turn pale, Richard offered her the teacup he’d been drinking from.
If anyone had seen that, they would’ve fainted on the spot.
It wasn’t as though they were tasting for poison — yet one person was handing another a cup they’d already drunk from.
Anyone who taught court etiquette would have clutched their chest in horror.

But Ophelia didn’t have the energy to care about manners. She took the cup and drank it all in one gulp, then exhaled deeply.

Richard watched her quietly before speaking.
“How many times have you regressed during the Founding Festival?”
“S-seventeen… no, after the eighteenth time, I stopped counting.”
“Then isn’t it premature to conclude that your regression happens because of me? The fact that the regression ended the moment I came back to life could just be coincidence.”

It sounded logical, but Ophelia instantly saw through it.
No amount of calm reasoning could shake the conviction she had built by literally throwing her body into death over and over again.

“Your Highness, you’re just saying that because you can’t be bothered to deal with this properly, aren’t you?”

Richard didn’t even try to deny it — he just nodded.
“I have no desire to do that anymore.”

His voice was dry, rough, like sandpaper. Ophelia bit her lip hard.
She couldn’t say she understood him completely.
Even if two people go through the same thing, they each cope differently.
And she hadn’t even experienced his suffering firsthand, so she couldn’t judge.

Just as Ophelia was debating whether to grab him by the collar again, a knock came at the door.
Knock knock.

“Your Highness, it’s time.”

The voice from beyond the door made Ophelia jump like a startled fish.
She let out a silent scream and looked between the tightly shut door and Richard, eyes wide in shock.

H-how? How did anyone know Richard was here?
Or if they knew, why hadn’t they done anything until now?

As if reading her thoughts, Richard spoke.
“I didn’t pass out immediately after you hit me. While you were dragging me away, I left subtle marks warning my people not to follow.”

That answered one question, but raised another.
“Why…?”

“I was curious why a lady with no title would go so far as to kidnap me.”

His answer was simple — almost careless.
“But what if my intention had been to harm you, Your Highness?”
“Well, it wasn’t, was it?”
“It wasn’t! But still — why did you kill all the assassins before I even hit you?”
“Because I knew you were behind me.”
“What if I had been another assassin?”

Richard tapped the dried blood on his sword hilt with a dull thunk.
“It wouldn’t have mattered. If I died, I would’ve just regressed anyway.”

His voice was brittle, lifeless. Ophelia was at a loss for words again.

Richard Isaac Tunk Million.
The one and only Crown Prince of the Empire.
A man burdened with the crushing pressure of standing above all others — and the duty to support them all.
Not only unmatched in strength and political power, but also blessed with jet-black hair darker than night, and golden eyes as rich as honey — a man who exuded the lazy, predatory grace of a black panther.
Even drenched in blood, he was breathtaking — lethally so.

If the word “perfection” were to take human form, it would be Richard.
And Ophelia understood — he was the protagonist.
The one and only hero of the novel she’d been thrown into.

This wasn’t a fantasy story about a hero’s growth through hardship.
It was the tale of someone who had been perfect from the start, unstoppable in every way.

If it had been a novel she liked, maybe she would’ve been more motivated to do something.
But before all this regression nonsense started, she had only possessed a nameless extra — a background character with no connection to the main plot.
Her plan had been simple: avoid marriage, save money, and live quietly in hiding.

Of course she still missed her past life, but whoever or whatever had made her transmigrate here had at least spared her the pain of longing.
She remembered her old life — but didn’t yearn for it. That was a small miracle.
If she had even a drop of desire to return, she would’ve gone insane by now.

While she sat there gaping wordlessly, the voice outside called again.
“Your Highness?”
“I’ll be out soon. Tell them to wait.”

The Crown Prince’s answer was lifeless, but the aide didn’t question it and stepped away.
Even if the person Richard was meeting was his greatest political rival — no one argued with him.

“Let’s go.”
Composed as ever, Richard stood. The spot where Ophelia had hit him earlier had long since healed.
He brushed off the stiff, blood-stained cuff of his sleeve and began to walk away.

Ophelia was startled in a different way now.
Wait — that’s it? It’s just over?
After kidnapping the Crown Prince, that’s how it ends?

Shouldn’t they be working together to find a way to stop the regressions…?

He’s… exhausted.

Should she grab his collar again? If she did, would he just shout “How dare you!” and have her executed?
She nervously touched her neck, torn between acting and freezing, when Richard suddenly stopped.
He turned around and held out his hand.

“Will you come with me?”

His dry eyes revealed nothing, but Ophelia took his hand without hesitation.

Imperial Year 588, April 16th. 3:23 PM.
Ophelia Bolsheik — just before her second infinite regression.

Maybe she shouldn’t have come.
Ophelia tried her best to stare into the far distance.

Richard had brought her to a meeting — where two people were already waiting.

“Your Highness, please don’t misunderstand my words.”
“I only repeated what the Marquis himself said.”
“Of course you did. But let me say this again…”

The Marquis of Neir — one of the most powerful nobles in the Empire.
People commonly described her with one nickname: The Vampire.
Others called her shameless, highly competent but intolerable, or someone you’d rather not deal with.

None of that mattered to Ophelia — before her regressions, she had no connection to the Crown Prince, let alone the Marquis of Neir.
But there was one crucial fact about the Marquis.

She was the main villain of the story — the one who stood against the protagonist, Richard.

I should’ve read the book. Even if it wasn’t my taste, I should’ve read it!

Too late. Regret always comes too late.
She remembered only the back-cover blurb that called Neir “the first and worst villain,” but not what she had done.

At least she could see one thing now: even faced with Richard covered in blood, the Marquis showed no hint of shock.

As Ophelia silently cursed herself, her heart nearly stopped.

Lady Lysa Neir — the Marquis’s daughter — was here too.
Their eyes briefly met (or so it felt), and Ophelia did her best to pretend she was part of the furniture.

Even if she had no interest in the Empire’s brutal social circles, as a count’s daughter she’d been forced to mingle just enough to know the gossip.
And one particular rumor stuck out:

“Never catch Lady Neir’s eye — for any reason. Good or bad.”

She’d never asked why. When someone was so dangerous that even good attention from them was bad news, it was better not to know.

I should’ve asked… she thought bitterly.
If she could go back, she’d wring out every bit of information she could.

Because if Lady Neir ever said something like—

“You’re not even a maid. What gives you the right to stand beside His Highness?”

—then the bullying would begin, just like in every cliché noble drama.

If it were just a story, she’d be screaming at the characters to fight back — but now, she was the one who’d be bullied.
A chill ran down her spine.

If only she’d known more, maybe she could avoid what was coming.

Facing the two greatest villains of the novel at once, Ophelia could only cry inside.

While she sat there radiating “I am a piece of furniture,” Richard and the Marquis’s conversation reached its end.

“And if fate allows, please look kindly upon my daughter.”

The Marquis said it outright — she wanted her daughter to become the Crown Princess.
Richard didn’t even twitch an eyebrow.

“I’m not desperate enough to take the Marquis’s heir as my wife.”
“Oh, I don’t mean right away. But should the opportunity arise, please consider it.”

The Marquis smiled. Her daughter did not.
Lady Lysa’s expression was like a mask — not a single muscle moved.

Seeing that neither side cared much for the other, Ophelia exhaled in relief.
At least Lady Neir wasn’t one of the hero’s love interests.

But that relief lasted less than a minute.

The tea had gone cold, so the Marquis and her daughter hadn’t touched it.
But Richard lifted his cup and drank without hesitation.

“…Hmm.”

After emptying it, Richard slowly — very slowly — turned his head toward where Ophelia sat.
Their eyes met.
His lips twisted faintly.

Then—

“Khk—!”

“Your Highness!”
“Your Highness!”

Before Ophelia’s disbelieving eyes, Richard collapsed, coughing up an impossible amount of dark red blood.
The Marquis gasped and reached for him in apparent panic—

But Ophelia’s instincts, sharpened by dozens of regressions, screamed danger.
She immediately dropped to the floor.

Whsshhk!

A blade sliced through the air — and a few strands of her red hair drifted down.

“Oh, come on… not again—”

She didn’t even finish the sentence before the sword flashed again, and her head was severed.