If You Cheat, Just Don’t Tell Me - Chapter 1

My sister was a genius.

From a young age, nothing I did ever worked out. When I swung a sword, I was utterly useless; when I thrust a spear, it would slip right out of my hands. As for magic, I could barely manage to light a spark at my fingertip. Far from reaching the level of my mother, who was called a sage.

I, who should have been born between the “Sword Saint” and the “Sage” and burdened with everyone’s expectations, was, by any measure, just a “failure.”

I could study at an average level, and I suppose I had more knowledge than commoners. But that was only because my parents had hired expensive tutors to teach me since I was little. If I had been born into an ordinary family, I would have been just a normal, unremarkable child, like any other.

Though I was so incompetent that no one would believe I was the child of the kingdom’s greatest swordsman and its greatest mage, my features resembled my parents’ so closely that there was no doubt I was their child.

Days filled with frustration at my own inadequacy and the pressure of what others called “expectations.” I spared no time for sleep, swinging my sword, thrusting my spear, practicing magic, and studying hard. My face as a child was so haggard that I doubt there was a single day without dark circles under my eyes.

My parents were busy with work and, more importantly, had no interest in a failure like me. I hardly remember having any conversations with them. If we passed each other, we might exchange greetings, but no one ever praised or criticized me for anything I did.

There were several servants who took care of the household, but they seemed unsure how to interact with me. They did the bare minimum and kept their distance otherwise. Well, since my parents showed no interest and never engaged with me, I suppose the hired servants couldn’t decide how to act either.

The only one who treated me normally was the old man who had served my father for years.

He wasn’t exactly a butler, but he did similar work, and he was the only person who doted on me like a grandson.

When I worked hard, he praised me; when I failed, he encouraged me; when I did something wrong, he scolded me. It was thanks to him that I could be “myself.”

“Listen well. You are you, and others have nothing to do with it. Those who say cruel things to you, those who don’t, the servants in this house including me and even   your parents. The people around you don’t shape who you are. You shape yourself.”

The old man, who patted my head as he said this, died of old age when I was eight. I still remember how my father, who had never shown any interest in anything I did, shed tears when the old man passed away.

My mother looked sorrowful too, and the servants around us struggled to hold back their tears. Many people came to the old man’s funeral, all mourning his loss. That was the kind of person he was.

A little after the old man died, my sister was born.

She was an adorable girl with soft, beautiful golden hair and eyes as blue as a clear sky.

My sister was a genius.

When she swung a sword, she could mow down a giant tree; when she thrust a spear, she could easily pierce solid iron armor. With magic, she could cause massive explosions with just a flick of her finger, and she was quick to learn and excelled in her studies.

She embodied exactly what everyone had expected of the “child of the Sword Saint and the Sage.” Unlike me.

The realm I could never reach, no matter how hard I tried, was where my sister stood from the moment she was born.

The difference in how people treated those who “could” and those who “couldn’t” was stark. No matter how much the incapable ones struggled, or how little the capable ones did, it didn’t matter.

What mattered was simply whether you “could” or “couldn’t” produce results.

My parents, who had been indifferent to me and barely spoken to me, often conversed with my sister. The servants, who had been unsure how to treat me, eagerly took care of her.

Everyone else lost interest in me, who couldn’t deliver results, and gathered around my sister.

Though talented, my sister was still a child and didn’t understand the subtleties of human emotions. She seemed happy to have so many people fussing over her.

I had never been paid much attention to begin with, but after my sister was born, it got even worse. No one acknowledged me anymore. I was like air whether I was there or not made no difference.

The old man was gone. There was no one to praise me when I tried hard, no one to encourage me when I failed, no one to scold me when I did wrong, no one to even speak to me.

The moment I realized that, it felt like something taut inside me, like a thread, snapped.

If no one would say anything or pay attention to me no matter what I did, then there was no need to struggle through hardship. It wasn’t that I thought of turning to crime, but I also saw no reason to live a pure and upright life.

Once that happens, it’s surprisingly easy for a person to spiral downward. From then on, I stopped all the pointless “effort.” I no longer sacrificed sleep for training or studying. I gave it all up. That was when I was sixteen.

After that, I just went with the flow. I attended the school I’d been going to since I was fifteen only when I felt like it, went out at night and came home late, and often didn’t return home at all.

I even bought a two-wheeled motorcycle powered by something called an “engine,” which had recently been developed. Racing through the city with its roaring engine felt great.

Of course, making all that noise sometimes attracted trouble from local punks, but there was no way I’d lose a fight to mere thugs.

Playing in the night, fighting, riding my motorcycle I was a proper delinquent. I never once mentioned my family when I was out. Still, some people knew, and even the city patrol never said anything to me.

Even with this lifestyle, I earned my own money. I did delivery jobs using my motorcycle, and before I bought it, I took on monster extermination outside the city, registering as an adventurer to do what I could.

A small allowance was deposited into my account every month like clockwork, but I never touched it.

It was just stubborn pride. I didn’t want handouts from people who treated me like air and had no interest in me. I wanted to manage on my own with the money I earned. Petty pride, really.

Even while fooling around, I slowly saved up money. I planned to leave home as soon as I graduated from school.

As I lived like that, for some reason, people started following me. Those I’d beaten in fights, those who admired my motorcycle, those trying to suck up to my family. I punched the last kind and sent them packing.

The ones who followed me were all outcasts. Kids who had no place at home because of their parents, those who couldn’t fit in at school and wandered the streets, those kicked out of their usual spots because of conflicts with their friends. Some were around my age, some younger, some older.

They gathered around me. We became like a group, with no promises or rules, yet without anyone saying anything, we’d meet up almost every night.

They worked hard to buy motorcycles too. Sweating during the day, earning gratitude from the townspeople, then roaring through the streets at night, getting cursed at.

We had no future prospects. Just a group gathering aimlessly. But strangely, it didn’t feel uncomfortable.

“Dicca, you ever think about the future?”

When did Alta—the first guy who started following me, now what you could call my best friend—ask me that?

Muscular, quick to fight, yet deeply loyal, this guy, despite having a face scary enough to make children cry, was well-liked by everyone.

“Not really, nothing in particular. I haven’t really thought about what I’ll do after leaving home.”

“I see. So when you leave home, you’re leaving this city too?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Then our group’s done for.”

To Alta, who muttered that so sadly, I reflexively replied, “That’s not true. If you’re here, everyone will gather.”

“Idiot, they’re gathering around you, not me. Don’t get that wrong.”

“…I see.”

And so we’d head out into the night again, play around, work during the day to save money. Repeating those days until the year I graduated.

That woman suddenly appeared before me. Right in front of me, who was treated like a nuisance at school and spent my time alone.

With crimson hair flowing, sharp, blazing red eyes glittering, and a slender body filled with all the power it could muster.

“Dicca! Dicca Regis! You’re here, aren’t you? Come out!”

Freya—a woman who gave great meaning to my life, the kind you only meet once in a lifetime.