Reincarnated as the Villainess’s Unlucky Bodyguard

I sneezed.

It wasn't dainty. It was the kind of sudden, full-body sneeze that jerked my head forward and made the ever-present shadows swirl slightly around my face like startled snakes. The air in the dark stone chamber was dry, stale, and tasted faintly of ash and old magic, but I'd gotten used to that. What I hadn't gotten used to, apparently, was spontaneous nasal rebellion.

I blinked.

And then narrowed my eyes in suspicion.

"…Is someone talking about me?"

The words never made it to my lips. They couldn't. My mouth remained closed, my body unmoving, still locked in this exquisite hell of obedience and silence. But the thought rang loud and clear inside my skull, echoing off the damp walls of my mind like a stone tossed into a still lake.

[Oh, look, she sneezes and suddenly she thinks she's the center of the narrative,] the system chimed, voice dry and unhelpfully smug. [Yes, Liria, it's entirely possible that someone, somewhere, is talking about you. You're possessed by a sadistic megalomaniac and indirectly responsible for a high-profile escape. You're a very popular topic.]

I mentally scowled. No need to be sarcastic.

[Oh, darling, if I ever stopped being sarcastic, the entire cosmos would collapse in protest.]

I would've rolled my eyes if I'd been allowed to. Instead, I stayed rooted in place, trapped in the suffocating stillness of the spell that bound me like barbed wire through every nerve. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything except stand here in the hollow, ruin-slick chamber where Azael kept me between wars like a particularly inconvenient decoration.

But the sneeze had set off something more dangerous than dust irritation. My mind, still my own despite everything, had begun to drift down a treacherous, maddening path I didn't have the luxury to indulge.

What if Enara was talking about me?

And worse what if she wasn't?

What if she was talking to him?

The so-called "hero."

The glowing one. The human. The walking cliché in leather armor with his perfectly tousled hair and his sword that looked like it had a messiah complex.

I hadn't forgotten his face how could I? His magic had pierced the battlefield like a sunrise through stormclouds, arrogant and golden and far too bright. The moment our eyes had met, I'd felt something shift in him, something disturbingly focused. He hadn't looked at me like an enemy.

He'd looked at me like a cause.

Worse—like a tragedy he intended to fix.

And I knew exactly the kind of damage that mindset caused.

Do you think Enara… likes him?

The question was pitiful, insecure, desperate and very, very real.

[Why do you do this to yourself?] the system asked, suddenly less amused. [Do you want to spiral into a jealous rage while paralyzed in a cave? Or is this just a new hobby?]

Just answer the question. Statistically. What's the percentage? What are the chances she falls for him?

A long pause.

[I don't know.]

What?

[He's the protagonist, sure, but this world's already off-script thanks to you. You're a rogue variable with an emotional support pineapple and a growing collection of psychological scars. So, no—I don't know what the chances are, because someone keeps rewriting fate with spite and bad decisions.]

That shut me up.

Or rather, it would have if I'd been talking aloud in the first place.

I hated the thought of it Enara laughing at one of his bland jokes, or listening intently while he recounted a tragic backstory involving an orphanage and a missing twin, or touching his arm because she thought he was brave and noble and not completely full of himself.

She was supposed to belong to me.

Even if we hadn't said it. Even if I'd never dared whisper it. The truth had lived quietly in the space between us for years sharp and tender and unmistakable.

And now he was going to ruin it.

[Okay, wow, I'm detecting some serious hormonal turbulence,] the system said. [Should I call a therapist? Or maybe a hitman?]

I'm going to kill him.

[Please make sure you do it after we solve the whole cursed mind control thing.]

Speaking of that, I snapped. You're supposed to be the glorified intelligence in my head figure out how to break this fucking spell so I can move again.

The silence that followed was heavier than I liked.

[It's not that simple.]

Nothing ever is. Explain.

[You're under a multi-layered dominion enchantment, woven into your soul by a being who controls a conceptual domain. Azael doesn't just use magic—she rewrites rules. Your autonomy wasn't just suspended, it was overwritten. It's going to take time to separate you from that web without killing you in the process.]

Time we don't have.

[No kidding. But unless you want to end up a glorified houseplant forever, you'll have to wait while I work.]

How long?

[Days. Weeks. I don't know. It's like trying to defuse a bomb made of emotion, trauma, and infernal contracts. But hey at least you can still sneeze.]

My mental retort never arrived.

Because the shadows thickened suddenly around the chamber. The temperature plummeted. The air filled with pressure sharp and suffocating like being wrapped in barbed fog. I felt it before I heard her. Always. Her presence preceded her voice like a warning before a scream.

Azael.

She emerged from the far corridor like a crimson specter, her form sleek and burning with quiet fury, her long hair spilling down her back like a sheet of liquid flame. Her eyes glowed brighter than I'd ever seen, not with the seductive calm she often wore but with rage.

She didn't say anything at first.

She didn't have to.

Her magic pulsed outward and hit me like a hammer, sending me crashing to the floor without ever touching me.

Pain bloomed sharp across my shoulder, then spread like fire across my ribcage. I couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't even flinch.

She approached slowly, every step deliberate.

"I gave you one task," she said softly. "One."

Her voice was worse than shouting. It was disappointed.

"They escaped. Because of you."

Another wave of pain wracked my limbs, forcing silent tears to burn behind my eyes.

"I'm tired of excuses. I'm tired of disobedience. You will learn your place."

She struck again this time with force so precise and sharp that I felt a rib fracture. I couldn't move to protect myself. Couldn't even turn my head. I was a statue beneath her fury, carved in agony.

Still, she wasn't done.

She crouched beside me, gripping my chin with cruel fingers and tilting my face up toward hers.

Her voice was low now, almost intimate. "No more mercy. No more games."

She stood, her cloak trailing like smoke behind her as she turned back toward the chamber's entrance.

"Next time," she said, "we erase the kingdom entirely. No survivors. No speeches. Just ashes."

And just like that, she vanished.

Leaving me crumpled on the cold stone floor, breath shallow, body broken, mind spinning with rage and helplessness.

Inside me, the system was quiet for a long time.

[Don't worry. We'll break it. We'll burn her down. I promise.]

I stared at the ceiling, unblinking.

I didn't want promises.

I wanted revenge.