Too Lazy to be a Villainess-Chapter 22: Enter the Warlord Grandfather

The seasons were changing again. It’s winter now.

Can you believe I’m about to turn one year old? One. Whole. Year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of nonstop nonsense.

Frankly, I didn’t even want to be one yet. Because knowing my bloodthirsty, spectacle-obsessed Papa, he’ll probably declare some catastrophic empire-wide holiday just to celebrate the fact that his baby princess survived one year with him.

And... I’m already exhausted imagining it.

All I want is a nap. Maybe some mashed pears. Not a military parade in my honor.

Really, being a princess is a full-time job. Just existing feels like manual labor. Breathing? A chore. Don’t even get me started on teething.

And as if things couldn’t get worse, the wind outside clearly had its own agenda. One sneaky, swirly little leaf kept slapping at the window like it was trying to break in.

Meanwhile, I was draped lazily over Papa’s shoulder, the very definition of a royal sack of potatoes. Chewing absentmindedly on his long golden hair like it was some artisanal caramel popcorn stick. (Listen, the chewing reflex is a sign of superior baby development—don’t question me.)

Papa, of course, was deep in warlord mode, furiously scribbling over documents like each sheet had personally betrayed him. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if they had. But being the multitasking emperor he is, he kept one muscled arm locked around me like a vice, preventing me from leaping off the chair and attempting a daring escape out the window.

Across the desk stood Theon, sharp as ever, his expression severe enough to scare lesser men.

"The army you sent to the western provinces reports that the situation is still unstable," Theon said.

Papa’s eyes darkened like an approaching storm. "Useless," he muttered. "Why do I even keep them if they can’t handle a few merchants?"

Merchants. Peasants. Generals. Papa has no time for anyone. Frankly, I relate.

Theon sighed—the sigh of a man who’s been enduring Papa’s dramatics for far too long. "Your Majesty, the army’s job is to prevent chaos. War. Bloodshed. You’re the one who has to handle those arrogant merchants and their people."

Papa let out one of his signature annoyed-emperor sighs, the kind that makes the furniture tremble.

Then, bold as ever, Theon dared: "It’s you who should go there. You don’t really have a choice."

Oh, look at Theon! Handling Papa like he’s the real ruler here. Honestly, I approve. He’s got strong potential for Papa’s next lover. Keeps him grounded. No nonsense. Good cheekbones, too.

Now, I must decide: what should I call him in the future? Mommy? Daddy?

Just Dad sounds fine, right?

Papa glared at him, voice low and dangerous. "You’re getting too bold, Theon."

Theon didn’t blink, flipping a paper like he was swatting a fly. "I know."

Papa’s pen nearly snapped in half. "Get lost, before I kill you."

"I will. After you finish those papers."

Papa was vibrating with royal rage. His pen cracked ominously. I, meanwhile, kept chewing his hair peacefully like nothing was happening.

Then, Papa scooped me up and plopped me onto his lap—my rightful throne. But now that I’ve discovered the magic of standing and walking, sitting still feels like divine punishment. So, naturally, I stood right there on Papa’s thigh, my tiny legs wobbly but determined, and reached for the nearest document.

Instinct. Baby governance, you know?

Papa’s eyes flicked between me and the papers, probably wondering what fresh disaster I’d cause. I stared at the scribbles he was signing, hoping maybe, maybe this time the lines and dots would finally make sense.

I squinted. Nope. Still gibberish.

Frustrated, I slapped the paper dramatically, sending a few sheets fluttering to the floor.

STUPID LANGUAGE!

Theon didn’t flinch. He bent down calmly and slid the papers back like he was dealing with this nonsense daily (he is).

"Oh," Theon added casually, like it was an afterthought, "Don’t forget. You need to finish all this before the Former Grand Duke arrives."

Papa froze mid-scribble. His jaw twitched. His soul visibly left his body.

Ah yes. The Former Grand Duke.

The living legend. The war machine. The man responsible for turning my already insane father into the bloodthirsty emperor he is today.

From what I’ve heard, the story goes something like this: He plucked Papa straight out of the royal mess he was born into, whisked him away from backstabbing relatives and palace plots, and raised him like a feral wolf cub. Didn’t just teach him how to read or rule—no, no. He taught him how to wield a sword, lead armies, and crush rebellions before breakfast.

Leader of the Three Royal Knights. Conqueror of kingdoms.

Basically, he dragged little traumatized Papa straight onto battlefields, handed him a sword, and said, "Good luck, kid."

He’s the reason Papa swings his sword like a toy, casually slashes off people’s heads, and plays football with them afterward.

And today... he’s coming here. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

To meet Papa. And—horrifyingly—me.

I flopped dramatically against Papa’s chest, staring at the stormy window. The wind outside felt like it was whispering warnings. Maybe even the weather was scared.

I gnawed harder on Papa’s sleeve, practically chewing through the fabric like a stress reliever.

Mentally preparing myself. Bracing for impact.

Because really—what’s this terrifying Former Grand Duke going to do when he lays eyes on me? His precious prodigy, his ruthless war-forged heir... now saddled with a one-year-old who drools on imperial documents and uses Papa’s hair as a chew toy?

Will he burst in, grab Papa by the collar, and thunder?

"How dare you become a father?! You were supposed to conquer kingdoms, not toddlers!"

Maybe he’ll demand a royal duel right there in the drawing room. Maybe he’ll draft me into military service on the spot—tiny sword and all. At this point, anything feels possible, you know.

***

The courtyard was a sea of people.

Servants, guards, Marella, Theon—everyone had assembled in perfect formation like the gates of heaven (or doom) were about to open.

And in a way, they were.

Because Papa’s god father—was coming.

Papa stood front and center, the picture of regal menace, one hand cradling me tightly against his chest like I was the crown jewel of the empire (spoiler alert: I am).

And then there was my nanny, the fearless, unshakable warrior in her own right—unshakable when it came to one thing: me.

Not even the mighty Emperor fazed her.

"Careful, careful, Your Highness might catch a chill!" she muttered, pulling the blanket up to my chin, layering me like I was a delicate pastry. One blanket. Two. Three. Four.

I peeked out over the mountain of fabric like a swaddled burrito, my hair sticking out wildly while Papa—might I remind you, the terror of the continent—stood by encouraging her like a worried hen.

"Is this enough?" Papa barked, glancing at her. "Bring another one. Two more. The wind is too sharp."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

I will die of suffocation, Papa. I am already covered in four blankets here. I’m practically a boiled dumpling at this point.

"Papa..." I wriggled, my tiny hands poking out desperately, telling him to stop the madness.

But like always, he misunderstood, eyes darkening with concern. "I think she’s still freezing," he declared grimly.

UGH. I GIVE UP.

Someone—anyone—help me before nanny starts knitting me a blanket straight off a sheep’s back. And then... thank the heavens. My plea was heard.

Before nanny could dash off for a fifth layer, a distant sound broke the tension—a low rumble of hooves, wheels crunching over frostbitten stone.

Every head snapped toward the grand gates.

The massive double doors creaked open like the entrance to the underworld itself, dramatic and terrifying, and in rolled a monstrous black carriage, ominous and elegant, flanked by knights carved out of steel.

But, naturally, the carriage door didn’t open immediately.

No, of course not. The tension had to simmer first. Like good soup.

Then, slowly, deliberately, the door swung open.

A boot hit the ground. Not just any boot. The kind of boot that had seen battlefields, crushed rebellions, and probably kicked a king or two in the face.

Out stepped the Former Grand Duke Gregor.

He was enormous. Towering. Cloaked in a storm-black coat lined with silver embroidery, his sharp, severe face carved out of stone. A long scar ran from the corner of his eyebrow down his cheek—the kind of scar that screamed I could write an entire history book, but I’d rather glare at you instead.

His cold, calculating eyes swept over the crowd.

And behind him, following neatly like ducklings, came the Current Grand Duke Regis, and of course—Osric.

Why the hell is he here, again?

They looked ridiculous. Like a miniature version of themselves. From ancient warlord to middle-aged brooding duke to the grumpy kid.

Honestly, it was like one of those weird milk ads: Drink this, and you’ll grow from Osric to Grand Duke Gregor!

They walked closer, boots echoing ominously.

The three of them bowed in perfect unison. "We greet Your Majesty the Emperor and the Imperial Princess."

Papa gave his usual stiff nod. "Please rise."

The Former Grand Duke’s eyes landed on Papa first, voice deep and thunderous. "How are you, Your Majesty the Emperor?"

Papa’s jaw twitched. "I am fine, Uncle Gregor. I hope you had safe travels."

The old duke nodded once, sharp and clipped. No smile. Just pure warlord energy. "Yes, Your Majesty. We had safe travels up to here."

Then... his eyes slid down to me.

I flinched.

Hey, I didn’t get scared! I’m a baby, okay?! Reflex.

But the man’s gaze didn’t leave me. Cold, unreadable, like he was evaluating me for the throne already.

What? Why is he glaring at me like I’ve committed tax fraud?

Wait... I get it.

This is a glaring competition.

Alright, old man. Let’s see who wins.

I glared back. Full baby power, eyes wide, lips pursed, full-on toddler death stare. I am not scared of you, Grandpa Warlord.

And then...

He smirked.

Actually smirked.

And said, voice like rumbling thunder, "I see you’ve already conquered the empire’s most challenging task."

WHAT.

Was... was that a joke?

Did the war machine just make a joke about me?!