Too Lazy to be a Villainess-Chapter 41: The Weight of Growing Up (and Papa’s Sass)

After Papa’s totally unnecessary joke about taking me to war, he left with a smirk on his face. A smirk. Seriously?

Sometimes I really wonder: Is this man really my papa?

I mean—first, he took me to an execution ground when I was just three months old! Three! Then he casually kills people in front of me like he’s just flicking lint off his clothes. Now he’s out here cracking jokes like, "What if I took you to war?" Sir, please, with your straight face, how is anyone supposed to tell whether you’re joking or actually preparing me to become the youngest general in history?

I honestly wonder what kind of parenting guidebook he’s been reading. "How to Raise a Villainess Baby 101"? "Murder, Mayhem, and Milk Bottles"?

And just like that, my life with Papa kept moving.

Time passed, just as fast and confusing as ever, and now—drumroll, please—I am three years old.

"Wahhh... I can’t believe I’m growing so fast," I said, standing in front of the mirror and turning this way and that.

My golden curls had grown longer, and my cheeks had gotten rounder. My red eyes sparkled with concern.

"But... why do I feel like I’ve gained so much weight?" I mumbled, gently poking my belly.

"Because you eat like a pig."

A familiar deep voice came from behind.

I turned around slowly, and there he was.

Papa.

Lounging like a king on the couch in my playroom, one hand behind his head, the other lazily flipping through some reports.

Sigh.

Look who’s talking. The man who eats two entire steaks in one meal and drinks wine like it’s apple juice. And he’s lying there doing absolutely nothing. Does he have no work today?

I raised an eyebrow at him. "You’re the one who keeps giving me dessert."

He didn’t even blink. "That’s because you cry if I don’t."

"...Touché."

He smirked. Again.

He smirked. Again.

I waddled over and poked his leg. "Why are you not working?"

"I am working. Watching over a lazy kid. Do you know how hard that job is?"

I blinked at him, utterly dumbfounded. What kind of excuse was that?

Then I smirked.

"But..." I trailed off sweetly, tilting my head.

He looked at me, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

I clasped my hands together, putting on the most innocent puppy-eyed look I could manage.

"...I got all that from you, papa."

He froze.

For a moment, he just sat there staring at me like I’d sprouted wings. Then he stood up with a sigh. "Looks like my daughter has started to talk back."

I folded my arms and lifted my chin, smirking proudly. "I even learned that from you."

Papa went silent again.

Hehe. How does it feel now, Papa? Getting out-sassed by a three-year-old?

Just then—knock knock—a familiar voice came through the door.

"Your Majesty, the Black Knights have arrived." It was Theon.

Papa nodded once, then turned to me. Without warning, he scooped me up like a bag of rice over his shoulder.

Sigh.

This again.

You’d think being royalty came with a little more dignity, but nope. Papa still carried me around like I was his favorite sack of potatoes.

So...nothing changed except my age.

As we walked, I rested my chin on his back and mumbled, "So... Sir Ravick is finally back, huh?"

Eight months. It’s been more than eight whole months since Sir Ravick went to war. And now, he’s returned—after conquering an entire kingdom.

I heard he fought like some mad dog. I mean, I get that wars are brutal and all, but I didn’t know knightly conduct included canine behavior.

Papa walked down the corridor like usual—unbothered, powerful, scary—and I just dangled over his shoulder like a plush toy.

"Papa, are we going to greet them outside?" I mumbled, watching the grand hallway pass by upside down.

"Yes," he replied simply. "They are someone who shed blood for us. So they need respect."

Right. They’re particularly the heroes of this empire—the ones who bled for Elarion, who kept it safe while the rest of us slept soundly in silk sheets. They deserved this kind of welcome.

I only met Sir Ravick once, and honestly... I’m a bit excited. I mean, who wouldn’t be? He was scary in that cool way. The kind of scary that made you want to grow up faster just so you could be scary too.

And then we reached the imperial grounds.

The massive gates had been opened, sunlight pouring in like golden water. The Black Knight troops marched in—heads high, steps in sync, armor shining despite the grime. There were people lined up along the stone path, nobles and commoners alike, clapping, cheering, and throwing petals.

"Long live Elarion!"

"Glory to the Black Knights!"

I wriggled slightly in Papa’s grip, trying to see better. "Papa, let me down," I whispered.

"No. You’ll get trampled."

Ugh. Logic.

But even from here, I could spot him.

Sir Ravick Blackthorne. Towering over everyone even without a horse, long black coat whipping in the wind, armor scratched but solid. His face was still the same—sharp jawline, cold blue eyes, and that shiny silver hair that made him look like he’d stepped out of a romance war novel.

He spotted us almost immediately.

Then he knelt.

One knee to the ground, one fist to his chest. The entire unit followed his movement like a wave of black steel.

"Your Majesty," he said loudly. "We return victorious."

Papa didn’t speak at first. He just stood there, staring like he always does—like he’s measuring people’s souls or something. Then he stepped forward and raised a hand, his voice calm and commanding.

"Welcome back, Black Knights. You’ve done well."

The cheers grew louder, more petals flew in the air, and Sir Ravick stood again, his gaze briefly flicking to me.

I waved, grinning. He blinked, then nodded.

Oh, he nodded. I thought he would ignore me.

***

Throne Room,

The throne room felt heavier than usual today.

Maybe it was the lingering scent of blood and battlefield still clinging to the air—or maybe it was just the weight of victory pressing down on everyone’s shoulders.

Papa sat on the throne like a true monarch—cold, regal, untouchable.

And me?

Well, I was settled quite comfortably on his lap, legs dangling off the side and a grape in my hand. Priorities.

The massive doors creaked open, and Sir Ravick entered, flanked by silence and the echo of his boots on marble.

He stopped before the steps to the throne and knelt.

"Your Majesty," he said, his voice like gravel soaked in frost.

Papa nodded, his expression unreadable as always. "Congratulations. You did a good job."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Ravick replied, voice low and steely. "As you ordered, I have beheaded every last one of them. The Tevrothian lords, the commanding officers, and the royal family. The traitorous bloodline no longer exists."

Papa’s expression didn’t change—calm, but somehow colder. "Good. They dared to raise their blades against my people. I trust you made an example of what happens when they do."

Sir Ravick nodded. "I made sure they understood that the Empire does not tolerate challenges."

Papa leaned back slightly, fingers tapping the gilded armrest. "And the city?"

"Subdued. There were minor skirmishes, but they surrendered once their leadership fell. We’ve installed temporary governance under Lord Callen, as per your prior decree."

"Good," Papa said again, simply. "You’ve done well. You’ve upheld the Elarion Empire’s name."

Sir Ravick gave a small bow. "I only did what was expected of me."

"You’ve done more than that," Papa replied. "Rest for now. When the new vassal state is fully stabilized, I’ll have further orders."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

And then... it happened.

Sir Ravick’s gaze slid toward me.

I blinked back at him, grape still half in my mouth. Our eyes locked awkwardly. What do I do? Nod? Salute?

Instead, I just smiled and gave a little wave again.

He stared a moment longer—then, unexpectedly, smiled this time. It was brief. Barely there. But it was a smile.

Then he bowed to both of us and turned, leaving the throne room in silence, the hem of his cloak trailing behind him like spilled ink.

I stared at his back until the doors shut, then tilted my head and looked up at Papa.

"Papa..."

He hummed, looking down at me.

"Is Sir Ravick your friend too?"

He nodded, already rising from the throne with me still comfortably in tow.

"That’s right. We learned the sword together. He was with me and Regis since we were kids."

"Ohhh..." I nodded slowly, like I understood, even though part of me was still imagining tiny serious-faced versions of them swinging wooden swords around and falling over dramatically.

So... they were like best friends, huh? And now they were ruling this whole empire together.

Sir Ravick, the cold, loyal sword.

Grand Duke Regis, the silent, terrifying genius.

And Papa... well, Papa was Papa. Scary emperor, doting (weird) dad, and possible war criminal.

What a trio.

Suddenly, something stirred inside me. Maybe it was the way Papa stood there, cold and untouchable, his presence swallowing the room. Maybe it was the idea of growing up to be just like him—a ruler, feared and respected.

Maybe... if I grow up right, I can be scary and cool too. Just like Papa. Just... maybe without the bloodshed part.