Isn’t Being A Wicked Woman Much Better? - Chapter 200

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Side Story 17
* * *
“I never expected you to grant me a diploma so quickly.”
Summer semester graduation, no less!
Bert Marquis, the Dean of the Magic Department at the Academy and my great-uncle, sets down his teacup and lets out a soft chuckle. At first glance, it might seem like a cold sneer, but having seen that same face so often, I could tell his mood wasn’t entirely unpleasant today.
“It does look rather odd for a mere mage to instruct the saint who saved the Empire.”
“However, by academy regulations, this graduation is indeed premature. I thought you would object, sir.”
“Do I seem as inflexible as your father?”
If anything, you seem even more rigid than he does.
I barely swallowed the words that had risen to my throat.
“Truthfully, I disliked making exceptions, but I had no choice. My work has come to a standstill because of you.”
“….”
“Graduates keep showing up at the Magic Department building at all hours just to catch a glimpse of you. I’m at my wit’s end.”
He shakes his head with a thoroughly exhausted expression.
In truth, when the Academy first opened, things were far more chaotic than they are now. My arithmetic lectures resembled a bustling marketplace.
“We admire you, Saint! Please give us your autograph!”
“Just say my name once!”
“Saint, please tell us we’ll pass our graduation theses!”
“Simply being in your presence from afar makes me feel I’ll surely pass the Magic Tower promotion exam!”
Some didn’t even listen to the lectures—they treated me like a lucky charm.
‘Of course, one sharp glare was enough to silence them immediately.’
In the past, everyone would bow and respectfully make way the moment I appeared. …
‘I don’t particularly wish to return to my villainess days, but there were certainly conveniences to it.’
Still, thanks to several overzealous fans causing such disruptions that they troubled both the Academy Dean and the Headmaster, I finally managed to escape this place. My long years of compulsory education, five years of undergraduate studies, and all my hardships at this Academy flashed before me like a lantern show.
“…It is a shame, though.”
Bert Marquis murmured suddenly as I felt relieved.
“What is?”
“I believed you had a talent for teaching. I was planning to make you a Teaching Assistant. It’s the fastest path to becoming a professor.”
‘That’s rather harsh, isn’t it!’
He spoke this chilling remark about wanting to exploit me like a graduate student without the slightest concern, casually pushing a cake toward me along with a small box.
“This is….”
Opening the box, I found a rose-shaped brooch inside. His scar twitched slightly.
“You remind me of Marien. She was a junior I cherished. I was planning to make her a Teaching Assistant because she was excellent at teaching, but I never expected my brother to snatch her away.”
“…?”
Could it be that this wasn’t a love triangle, but rather he wanted his favorite graduate student slave number one?
I, who had composed several romantic novels in my head during all this time, deliberately erased the question that was surfacing. Sometimes it’s better to remain ignorant.
“Your mother was a beautiful bride befitting May. Congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you, Dean.”
“What ‘Dean’ now that you’ve earned your diploma? Call me Great-Uncle.”
“…Great-Uncle.”
At the somewhat awkward form of address, he smiled with a gentleness incomparable to moments before.
“I’ll see you at the wedding, Deborah.”
* * *
The moment Countess Basslein heard of Knight Isidore’s impending marriage, she rushed to the Capital with her family in tow to assist with her nephew’s wedding preparations.
In the Empire, the bride brought a dowry while the groom’s family handled the wedding arrangements, so Knight Isidore would have much to oversee.
“Ordinarily, the family elders should take the lead in such preparations….”
The Countess’s mind held a crystalline image of young Isidore from years past—angelic and innocent. Thus she found herself pitying her nephew, who bore the burden of all preparations alone. Yet it wasn’t long before her sympathy transformed into exasperation, and she found herself shaking her head in disbelief rather than sighing with compassion.
‘To put it charitably, he’s a perfectionist….’
Though she herself had earned a reputation for meticulousness, her nephew took it to another level entirely.
‘There’s not a single thing he lets slide carelessly.’
During his preliminary inspection of the ceremony venue, Knight Isidore scrutinized not merely the seating arrangements but also the ballroom curtain decorations, candelabras, goblets, carpets, and even the cutlery the guests would use.
“These dishes follow the latest fashion.”
His attendant responded promptly to his observation.
“Yes, sir. Many of the Capital’s nobility prefer this design lately, so we prepared accordingly.”
“Yet this is a formal occasion—the design lacks gravitas. Moreover, the floral pattern doesn’t suit the season.”
“I’ll have them changed at once.”
Countess Basslein approached Knight Isidore as he examined the embroidery on the tablecloths with meticulous attention.
“Duke Visconti, might I offer you a word of counsel?”
Knight Isidore, who had removed even his gloves to feel the texture of the tablecloth fabric, lifted his head at his aunt’s call.
“Please speak freely, Aunt.”
“Then I shall. Culling the guest list alone must be taxing enough—if you scrutinize every trifle like this, you’ll exhaust yourself entirely.”
“….”
“The moment word spread that you’d rented this venue for the ceremony, the entire Empire was thrown into upheaval. At this point, even the founding patriarch of House Simour would be satisfied.”
“Trifles create the highest refinement. Those are the words of our founding patriarch.”
“…Did the patriarch truly leave such a saying?”
“Yes, I remember it well.”
Seeing her nephew parry her concerns by invoking the laws of House Visconti, Countess Basslein shook her head in defeat, as though conceding the argument entirely.
“You truly remember everything.”
“You have an excellent memory yourself, Aunt. I only wish you’d forget some of my foolish childhood antics….”
She often embellished her memories of young Isidore—how the child with rosy cheeks, brilliant golden hair, and wide, luminous eyes had resembled an angel freshly descended to earth.
“Isidore, when were you ever foolish? Your reckless father simply caused you to mature far too early.”
“I acted opposite to my father’s nature out of dislike for him—it merely appeared as though I’d grown wise.”
“…True enough. He was the perfect cautionary tale.”
Though she spoke lightly now, the depravity of the previous Duke Visconti, Albert Visconti, had been beyond imagination. Because his only son had been so worthless, the great-grandfather’s affection for his brilliant grandson had only deepened, while the rift between father and son had widened correspondingly.
‘It was truly dreadful….’
As she clicked her tongue remembering her dissolute brother, she paused. Knight Isidore had fallen into thought, his expression characteristically impassive.
“….”
His eyes, as he recalled the past, grew dark and fathomless as the deep sea.
* * *
Long ago, Visconti Castle had been perpetually tumultuous due to the advanced age of the great-grandfather, Bardo Visconti. Even the harsh waves crashing against the Alea Strait could not drown out his thunderous roars.
“Bringing drug traffickers into the castle? Albert, have you lost your mind?!”
“F-Father…!”
“Aren’t you ashamed to face Knight Isidore?! While you’ve been tarnishing House Visconti’s spotless reputation and defiling the honor of noble blood, your own son awakened the talent of a Sword Master! At merely eight years old—the same age you were sneaking into the underground cellar to steal liquor!”
As Bardo Visconti invoked Knight Isidore’s name in his fury, the trembling Albert Visconti suddenly foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog.
“Father! Where exactly do you say I have a son?!”
“What?”
“I know everything. Knight Isidore is actually my younger brother, isn’t he? That’s why you treat him like your own son and parade him about?”
“Y-You wretch! What nonsense are you spouting now?!”
“As I thought. You’re enraged because I’ve struck a nerve.”
Albert’s eyes flickered wildly as he thrashed his tongue about like a madman.
“I think I’ll drag that woman Olga here by her hair and give her a taste of my fists. How dare that adulteress, who played around with my father-in-law, presume to criticize my conduct and profit from it?! It’s I who should receive the massive alimony! How dare she! That filthy woman!”
Olga was a victim of a political marriage who, disgusted by Albert Visconti’s sordid behavior, divorced him after bearing only Knight Isidore, fleeing as though from a plague.
It had been five years since word reached them of her death from illness, and now, watching his son desecrate even the honor of the dead, Bardo Visconti could no longer contain his rage. He drew a decorative sword from its sheath.
“You consort with back-alley thugs, and every word from your mouth reeks of filth! Today I’ll cut out that tongue of yours.”
“H-Hieek!”
Albert, having drunk far too much to even properly wield a blade, froze beneath the killing intent radiating from his father—a true Sword Master.
“You worthless fool! You lack even the mettle of a ten-year-old Knight Isidore. I’m beginning to doubt whether you’re truly my son at all!”
Just as Bardo Visconti, his patience exhausted, was about to slash Albert’s tongue with his blade, Agate burst in and stopped them. Having come to Visconti Castle for the first time in ages from Ripples Estate, she could only gasp at the spectacle unfolding before her eyes.
“Agate, get out of here!”
“Father! Knight Isidore is watching!”
Why must Father inflict such brutal punishment on her brother precisely where the child can see? Forcing that innocent boy to witness his grandfather cutting out his father’s tongue—wasn’t that cruelty beyond measure?
“Hgh… Ack! Uuugh!”
“Albert, you’ve just incurred a debt to your younger sister.”
The sharp blade that had bitten into his crude lips slowly withdrew.
“Gggh… Uuugh….”
Blood cascaded like a waterfall from the deep gash across Albert Visconti’s lips and jaw.
“….”
“Knight Isidore! Don’t stand there—go to your room at once.”
“Agate, you see that child as far too young. My grandson doesn’t bat an eye at such things. He’s a true Visconti—bold and unflinching.”
The young Knight Isidore, standing motionless beyond the chaos, watched his father’s tears, mucus, and blood streaming down his face, and thought a single word.
Filthy.
The thick stench of blood mingled with the reek of his father’s soiled body, assaulting his nostrils. It was dozens of times more nauseating than the stench of a pigsty.
“Gggh….”
The moment his eyes met his father’s clouded gaze, he felt insects crawling across his skin. Goosebumps erupted across his forearms and the nape of his neck.
No matter how much he scrubbed, the repulsive sensation would not fade. Watching Knight Isidore wash his hands raw throughout the day with an expressionless face, Bardo Visconti sighed briefly.
“Even in this, you are truly a Visconti.”
The distinguished Visconti patriarchs of old had invariably possessed an ingrained obsession with cleanliness. Thus, seeing the child’s fingertips cracked and bleeding from his compulsive washing, Bardo Visconti felt a peculiar satisfaction.
Innate perfectionism, the talent of a Sword Master, superhuman memory, an instinct to accumulate wealth by any means necessary—the boy was so extraordinary that calling him a reincarnation of the founder would not have been amiss.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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