The Villainess is the Villainess [Otome Isekai LitRPG]

Book 3: Chapter 15 - The Devil Dances at Midnight [Part 1]

- Edwin Hubbel Chapin

The dark-haired woman looked over the curious dark display that to this day she could not believe held so much information. Even though she had lived in this world for some time now, the new Myeong Mirae could scarcely believe such a thing held more knowledge than the greatest of libraries. Had she possessed such a device in her former life, conquest would have been a thing of her simple will.

And she had found him. The man from one of her dreams—the broken sword, the wolf crushed by the march of time, and a world that no longer needed him.

Kang Daeshim, a soldier who had risen to a general from the last war this country had faced. A leader of men forged in the fires between life and death. War, true war, would always bring out the worst, and sometimes, the best in humanity. Now reduced to whispers and pity, a man whose mind had cracked not beneath the weight of battle, but in the silence that followed it. Peace had undone what war could not. It was disgusting how this country treated its heroes; she would see that it was fixed.

“I don’t have time to read all of this… give me the salient points only, Ms. Kim,” Myeong Mirae commanded with an imperious wave of her hand as she handed the tablet to her current secretary.

Ms. Kim cleared her throat, eyes moving smoothly down the tablet as its dark screen scrolled beneath her manicured fingers. “Mr. Kang has no family at all… never married, no children. A cursory investigation reveals that he earns a “living” by collecting scrap; cans, cardboard, and copper wire. Most mornings, he wheels a battered handcart to the district recycling depot and earns barely forty thousand won.” She paused. “His address is a shack in Guryong Village, Gaepo-dong. The entire settlement is scheduled for demolition; final evictions may begin early next year.”

Myeong Mirae’s lips compressed. “A man who once commanded legions… reduced to this. It is obscene.” She began writing down some instructions on some paper before handing it to her secretary. “Bring the car around. Two security vehicles, unmarked. We leave in ten minutes.”

“But, Mrs. President, are you sure that…” Kim started to voice in protest.

But whatever Ms. Kim read on the paper she was given made her eyes widen and stilled her tongue. She pivoted and strode off to obey. Minutes later, the convoy rolled out through the Blue House gates onto Cheongwadae-ro, slipped along the walls of Gyeongbokgung, and dropped onto Sajik-ro before pouring south into Gwanghwamun Square. The boulevard carried them past the ministries and hotel fronts, a straight river of traffic that widened and brightened as they pushed toward the Han River, as the President’s detail made their way to the home of one of the country’s heroes.

Eventually, the skyline sagged into cinder-block workshops, their paint blistered by exhaust, and a final turn led them onto a rutted service road. Corrugated rooftops crouched beside a luxury apartment’s marble forecourt like a rag bundle left on polished tile: Guryong Village, the shanty at Gaepo-dong’s edge where Seoul’s modern beauty fades into tin and tarps.

Dust drifted above the alleys while smoke from charcoal braziers clung to sagging power lines. Elderly women in sun-faded visors stripped labels from plastic bottles; a gaunt dog nosed through a patch of rubbish. The driver eased to a stop, and Mirae lowered her window. Before them stood a small shack. Rust-flecked tin formed three walls; the fourth was a quilt of election posters layered so thick they served as siding. Flattened cardboard was cinched beneath a blue tarp, and a pair of worn combat boots rested beside a dented washbasin. Inside the property, everything was arranged with soldierly precision: a rolled blanket, medals tucked into a plastic tackle box, and on a fruit-crate table, a field radio gutted for parts.

A length of chain hanging from the eaves rattled in the breeze. Deeper in the alley, a handcart clattered, the general returning with the day’s haul. Mirae shook her head as her door was opened by one of her men, and expensive designer heels stepped onto the dirty pavement.

“Time to pay a debt the nation forgot,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the old man emerging from the narrow path that led between the shacks.

He was weathered, like leather left to the elements. Once tall, he had thinned and stooped, tugging his cart along the rutted path. Only the eyes defied the years—dark, alert, flicking from shadow to shadow as if tracking enemies long since vanished. At last, they found the young woman in a black designer dress before him. He straightened, spine popping, drew a steadying breath, set down the cart’s handles, and stepped toward the President. Mirae’s guards moved to block him, but she raised a hand, and the men stood down.

“I’ve been expecting you,” Kang said, his voice gruff and thinned by time. He nodded toward the doorway. “You’ll be wanting to come in.”

It was not the welcome Mirae had imagined. She checked her escort with a glance; they looked ready to follow. “Secure the perimeter,” she said and went in after him.

Inside, the old soldier fumbled with practiced economy, reaching for a dented kettle and setting about to make tea. Mirae said nothing. The shack held the hush of places that have learned to be small. Kang set the dented kettle on the burner and thumbed it on until the flame caught with a brittle click. Slowly, the thin walls of the dwelling settled back into their soft creaks as the water boiled.

She folded her hands and lowered herself onto a thin cushion at the low table. The surface was a scuffed board on milk crates, wiped to an old soldier’s fastidiousness. He measured leaves from a plastic jar, tapped the last grains from the lid with a knuckle, and set two chipped cups within reach.

When the water trembled at a near-whistle, he lifted the kettle off the flame to let it settle, then poured a breath to rinse each cup, turning them in his palms and casting the water into a basin. Only then did he brew a short, careful pour that colored the liquid the weak brown of old brass. The scent was plain and honest.

He brought the first cup to her with both hands. She inclined her head and accepted it the same way. “Thank you, General,” she said, voice low.

“I know you,” he said simply.

“I don’t doubt it. Most of this country does,” she replied with a small smile.