The Villain Who Will Kill Me Is Too Handsome, It's Troublesome - Chapter 23

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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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Episode 23.
The man wearing Kirien’s face stood with a crooked posture.
‘The resemblance is uncanny.’
Was this the person Peter had seen?
But having the same face didn’t make them the same person.
Kirien possessed a certain dignity that this creature lacked. The languid slouch, the shirt torn open to the chest—all of it stood in sharp contrast to Kirien’s composed bearing. Stranger still was how that pallid, sickly face sat at odds with the muscular frame beneath.
Yet the most striking difference lay elsewhere.
The Black Aura.
As if broadcasting to the world exactly how wicked an entity it was, a dark miasma coiled and writhed across the creature’s skin.
Far darker and more oppressive than the shadow she’d glimpsed before.
“I hadn’t expected to meet you here. Some fool refused to cooperate, so I’m running late.”
A smile? On that face?
The creature knew precisely how to exploit its borrowed visage’s advantages.
It wielded even the smallest facial muscles with practiced grace—curling the corners of its mouth naturally, blinking its eyelids slowly until crafting a smile of perfect harmlessness.
An ordinary person would’ve been enchanted already.
But I have Bardo. I possess eyes that see through the essence of such wickedness—how could it deceive me?
Artiela drew her sword slowly.
‘What if he really is the Duke?’
Watching that beautiful soul blacken would be agony. And yet, if even a glimmer of light remained in that soul, couldn’t it be saved?
Even if the method eluded her.
‘In the fairy tales I read as a child, when a gallant knight kissed the prince, the curse would break.’
Well, she’d try anything.
Whether she had to erase the evil or suppress it.
After a deep breath, Artiela began to channel her aura with care.
At that moment, the creature suddenly spread both arms wide.
“Hmm, I have to admit—this shell suits me better.”
Then it lifted one leg and spun in a complete, elegant rotation. The arc of the spin, the steady pivot, the flawless landing—every element was perfect.
The most terrible being on this earth seemed to have cast off all seriousness.
“You’re insane.”
The creature paid no mind to Artiela’s condemnation, still grinning with obvious delight.
“Tell me quickly. You like this shell better? Or do you prefer that emperor fellow behind us?”
Artiela studied her opponent carefully.
The Source of Evil felt no resistance to being observed and analyzed. Instead, it turned its body this way and that, as if inviting her to look her fill.
‘I can’t see anything.’
The soul, already blackened beyond redemption, revealed neither who it had been nor what sins it had committed.
It was merely a black shadow.
Normally, a soul would reflect the reality of its being.
As Artiela’s eyes widened in alarm, the creature shrugged.
“The soul’s a bit unsightly, isn’t it? With the power I gained today, this was all I could gather.”
“So you didn’t steal the Duke’s body?”
“Ah, so that’s who you’re wondering about?”
It could swap bodies so easily? It had stolen someone else’s flesh, yet deliberately chosen this face—but why?
It hadn’t corrupted the most virtuous of souls, so why was its Black Aura so overwhelmingly dominant?
‘Can I… actually win this?’
Perhaps the future Yushiel had foreseen was this very moment.
“Your face wears so many questions.”
“You’re going to fight me looking like this?”
“You’re weak for this face, aren’t you?”
Had the Source of Evil also earned a reputation for being discriminatory about appearances?
Artiela bristled, her brow furrowing as she snapped out loudly:
“Outward appearance means nothing!”
“That’s a lie.”
It made a petulant sound through its nose, its expression the very picture of innocence.
Then it kicked the unconscious Percell’s neck with its foot, a playful glint in its eyes. But despite the lightness of its demeanor, the blow carried real weight.
“The Master of the Holy Sword shouldn’t lie. I’ve seen everything.”
“What do you—”
Before it could press its foot down on Percell’s throat, it leaned its torso toward Artiela instead, and whispered with a sickly sweet murmur.
Again, its face perfectly innocent.
As if that mattered.
“Your cheeks turn red whenever you look at this face.”
“What nonsense is that?”
The quality was never the same to begin with.
“Enough. Face judgment!”
Artiela swung Bardo with all her strength.
The surprise attack proved meaningless—he leaned back swiftly, and the moment she reversed her swing, he retreated with practiced steps.
“I don’t even have a weapon, and yet you attack? That’s cowardly for a Master of the Holy Sword.”
Sharp, wasn’t he.
Rather than let him seize Percell’s blade, she widened the distance.
Fighting an unarmed opponent violated the code of chivalry—but then again, it made little difference whether he carried a weapon or not.
Each close strike he evaded without shifting his stance more than a few times. Thrust at him, and he twisted his waist with subtle grace. Slash, and he leaned back with fluid ease. Swing hard, and he vaulted over with nimble agility.
Like actors moving in perfect synchrony, each exchange unfolded with flawless rhythm.
Artiela was no slowpoke. He was simply faster.
But what about ranged attacks?
“Shield.”
He drew in the mana around him and wielded magic to scatter the Sword Energy she had launched with such effort.
The gap in skill was starkly obvious.
‘He’s holding back.’
He could attack whenever he wished.
It stung her pride. This was mockery, plain and simple. Once he tired of this game, would he throttle her to death with his bare hands?
“Hah—huff.”
Damn. Damn. Damn.
She leapt high and brought Bardo down in a vertical arc—only to cleave empty air. With a loud crack, the blade struck the ground, sending up a cloud of dust.
Artiela barely managed to steady herself, breathing hard.
And at that moment, he grew listless. As if his interest had evaporated.
“Give up already?”
“Never!”
“That’s the spirit—that’s what I expect from a Master of the Holy Sword.”
Yet for all her defiant posturing, no path to victory presented itself. Was this truly how she would die?
Death itself held no terror. But the weight of infinite responsibility crushed down upon her.
If I fall, this world ends.
“It’ll take you a good while longer to defeat me.”
Artiela clenched her teeth. Only one option remained. Holy Power. That force which had flickered into being and then vanished—she needed it now.
Please, God.
Grant me the strength to burn away every last drop of my life force if it means I can judge evil and protect those I hold dear.
Artiela drew forth her meager Holy Power. Layered within the pale green aura, it accumulated—more than usual, at least. Yet it still fell short of what even a novice priest could muster.
The Source of Evil noticed and sneered at the sight.
“Must I work hard playing the world’s villain so you, the Master of the Holy Sword, can grow stronger? Very well—if that’s what you and your God desire, I’ll happily spread evil far and wide.”
I don’t need your pity.
Artiela pushed off the ground with force and hurled herself at him. He retreated using the same pattern as before.
As he withdrew, she swung her blade with all her might.
“Receive the judgment of the Holy Sword!”
This time, he did not evade.
Or rather—did he let her hit? Just before the Sword Energy collided with him, she saw him smile. With a wet sound, his muscular form and the black shadow separated.
The jet-black shadow burst forth into the air, laughing in a grating way.
“I’ll come visit again.”
Leaving only that familiar parting, the black shadow scattered.
Purified even by her meager Holy Power, it dispersed in white, radiant light.
* * *
Some time later, Peter regained consciousness.
“What in the world happened?”
“Your Majesty, are you awake?”
He frowned, observing the knight who attended him and the physician at his side.
“Lord Percell is also unharmed, sire.”
“Percell is… wait, what of Artiela?”
“Commander Artiela is of course safe. She is overseeing the cleanup with us.”
Where the physician gestured, a muscular knight lay collapsed, his face turned a sickly blue.
“This man is…”
The knight’s armor bore a sharp, clean gash across the chest. Yet there was no external wound—the mark of one judged by Bardo.
Artiela withdrew a small scrap of cloth from between the split pieces of armor. Strange patterns were etched upon it.
Black Magic.
I’ll need to show it to Yushiel to know what kind it is.
“Artiela.”
At Peter’s call, Artiela turned.
But then.
“Disaster, sir!”
A knight who had gone down to check the Underground Prison came racing back up, his face drained of all color.
“What’s happened?”
“Grand Duke Ypeiler and his retainers who were held in the prison—they’ve hanged themselves.”
“What? Just like that?”
“The Grand Duke left a suicide note.”
The knight’s words were true.
In the Underground Prison, there was a suicide note written in blood on the wall.
“Kirien Rufel is… innocent?”
Truly, this is too much.
The methods of framing someone are endlessly inventive.

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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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