Apparently, I’m a Poisonous Woman Who Sells One-Night Dreams, but I Ended Up Awakening a Hero’s Devoted Love - Chapter 1.27

“Are you truly my son?! You are the heir to the Duke of Stanley!”

The violent insults were accompanied by sharp pain shooting through my body.

The dull thwack of the whip resonated through my bones and tore through my flesh.

(Mother!)

I curled into a ball, making myself small, my face a mess of tears and snot. The image that surfaced in my mind was the fading memory of my mother, whose face I could no longer clearly recall.

The whipping and shouting showed no signs of stopping.

It wasn’t always like this.

When Mother was alive, the three of us would gather around the dining table, a family filled with constant laughter.

Mother had always been frail. After giving birth to me, her health deteriorated further, and she passed away from an epidemic when I was five.

Father collapsed two years later.

The doctor said it was due to his increased drinking after Mother’s death.

Fortunately, his life was spared, but his left hand remained paralyzed, forcing him to resign as captain of the First Knight Order.

He was asked to stay on as an instructor, but my proud father apparently refused.

The Stanley ducal family had served as captains of the First Knight Order for generations. His pride was wounded that this legacy ended with him, and that resentment was directed at me.

“Do you think you can become a knight captain with that kind of performance?!”

The reprimands repeated endlessly.

At some point, harsh training became my daily routine.

I woke at five for running and sword drills.

After breakfast, it was nothing but swinging my sword, followed by strength training in the afternoon.

And after dinner, I crossed blades with Father.

Even with his left hand paralyzed, a child whose body wasn’t fully developed stood no chance against a man who had once been captain of the First Knight Order.

Initially sober, Father eventually began gripping his sword while drunk. As if confirming he hadn’t deteriorated as a knight by beating me down, he swung his sword mercilessly.

If I lost, I was insulted—”Do you think you can become the Duke of Stanley like that?”—whipped, and sometimes even burned.

In those inescapable days, I thought only of becoming stronger.

The summer I turned fifteen.

For the first time, I defeated Father.

When his sword flew through the air and stabbed into the ground, I thought I’d finally be freed from this hell.

But I was wrong. Father suddenly punched me, pinned me down, and rained blows on me repeatedly.

“Don’t get cocky over something like this. I’m not this weak. Don’t look down on me.”

I don’t remember what happened after that.

When I woke, I was in bed, my face wrapped in layers of bandages.

I was in despair.

I’d wondered if maybe, if I could beat Father, he’d praise me, and we could sit at the table together laughing like we used to.

But that was all just my delusion.

The only fortunate thing was that I never crossed swords with Father again after that.

Not that the violence ended, though.

He could always find a reason.

My grades were poor.

My expression was insolent.

My manner of speaking was improper.

I finally realized it. He just wanted to hit me.

So, I decided I’d shatter that pride of his. I’d show up my father, who retired peacefully without any military exploits to his name.

That’s why I became a knight.

I became the youngest vice-captain of the First Knight Order, and shortly after being given command of a mid-sized unit, war broke out on the western border.

I did it, I thought.

I thought I could finally show him up.

Volunteering for the most dangerous role on the front lines, I made my presence known there too.

“They truly are of the Stanley ducal bloodline,” they said, even claiming we could win as long as I was there. I must have gotten carried away.

When the captain ordered a surprise attack, what crossed my mind was that if it succeeded, I could surpass Father.

But the enemy saw through the surprise attack, and our encamped formation was surrounded.

If only I’d been more cautious, this wouldn’t have happened.

I blamed myself for being so focused on surpassing Father that I’d acted recklessly.

In my desire to prove myself, for the sake of my own pride, I’d endangered my subordinates.

While I’d spoken of fighting for the country and its people, in the end, I’d only been thinking of myself. I was appalled.

But the enemy was right there.

I didn’t care what happened to my own life.

If only the subordinates who’d believed in someone like me could survive…

…No, I had to ensure they lived.

My only thought was to protect the subordinates I’d dragged into my foolish pride.

Before I knew it, I was charging into the enemy soldiers.

I just swung my sword relentlessly.

It wasn’t about technique, it was brute force.

Eventually, my sword became slick with blood and useless, so I discarded it, seized an enemy’s sword, and swung it again.

How much time had passed?

When I regained my senses, my surroundings were a sea of blood.

Seeing the man reflected in the sword gripped by a fallen soldier, a chill ran through my entire body.

The person there was that blood-drenched bastard.

Reflected back at me was my own face, identical to the father who’d hurt me like a madman.

—Squad Leader! You did it! You were like a demon god!

Were they talking about me?

Their voices sounded distant.

As if hearing them through a curtain of water, I turned and asked, “Is everyone alive?”

“Yes! There are injured, but no critical casualties! Thanks to you, Squad Leader!”

A muffled voice replied.

Unable to bear it, I staggered away from my subordinates toward a thicket. Some tried to follow, but when I ordered them to tend to the wounded, they turned back.

I’m just like Father.

Having lost my sanity and crossed a line, I was the spitting image of that hateful bastard.

There was a spring at my feet, and I washed my hands, stained crimson. But no matter how much I washed, the blood seemed stuck to my hands as if glued on. Was everything looking unusually red because of blood in my eyes, or had I lost my mind? I didn’t know which.

I hate this.

I don’t want to fight anymore.

From afar, I could hear the sound of reinforcements arriving.

This victory would likely be the start of pushing into the enemy’s main camp.

But I never wanted to hold a sword again.

I don’t want to kill people.

I don’t want to become like that bastard.

A nearby stone was just heavy enough for me to barely lift.

Perfect.

This will end it all.

CRACK!

As the stone fell on my right knee, intense pain overwhelmed me.

In my hazy consciousness, I heard laughter.

Whose voice was it? Father’s? Or mine?

No, it doesn’t matter.

After this, I’ll never become that person again.

That is why Jerf drags his leg.