A Psychopath Reborn as a Third-rate Villain

Andras set his utensil down lightly against the plate.

”Seraphina.”

She looked up from her plate, her eyes steady on his face.

”About yesterday,” Andras said. ”I meant what I told you. You had a right to know.”

Her expression did not soften, but neither did it harden.

”I know you meant it. That doesn’t change the fact that you decided on your own what I needed to hear.”

There was no heat in her voice—only the same quiet firmness she had shown in the corridor the day before.

Andras gave a slight nod.

”You’re right. I treated it as finished business. That was convenient for me. It wasn’t respectful to you.”

Seraphina’s expression shifted by a fraction—surprise, then something closer to consideration. She had clearly expected deflection or another smooth justification.

”You’re unusually direct today,” she said.

”I’m trying to be.”

He picked up his cup and took a measured sip of the mild tea.

”I don’t enjoy being questioned about every decision I make. That part of me hasn’t changed. But you’re not a servant, and you’re not a political acquaintance I can keep at a convenient distance forever. You’re my fiancée. Acting as though that title carries no weight would be stupid.”

Seraphina studied him for several seconds.

”That almost sounded like an apology.”

”It was an acknowledgment,” Andras replied. ”Whether you accept it is your choice.”

A faint, almost reluctant smile touched the corner of her mouth.

”I’ll accept the acknowledgment. For now.”

She returned to her meal. The earlier tension between them loosened, though it did not disappear entirely. Andras preferred it that way. Complete comfort invited carelessness. A residual edge kept both of them attentive.

When they finished, Andras paid without drawing attention, and they stepped back onto the street.

The morning had brightened. More people filled the walkways, and the air carried the mixed scents of baked goods, fresh fruit, and the faint metallic tang of the nearby smithing district. They walked without a fixed destination, letting the flow of the street guide them.

After a short while, Seraphina’s steps slowed.

”There’s a bookstore,” she said, nodding toward a clean two-story building with wide windows displaying neatly arranged volumes.

Andras glanced at it. ”Do you want to go in?”

”Yes.”

They entered. The interior was quiet and well-organized, the air carrying the familiar dry scent of paper and binding leather. Seraphina moved between the shelves with the ease of someone accustomed to such places. Andras followed at a measured distance, observing more than browsing.

”What do you usually read?” he asked.

”History. Magic theory. Records of ancient civilizations.” She pulled a slim volume from a shelf, glanced at the spine, then returned it. ”Most of it is dry. When I get bored, I read novels instead.”

”Novels,” Andras repeated.

”Yes. They’re less useful, but more entertaining.”

He gave a small hum of acknowledgment. ”The useful ones are usually the most boring.”

Seraphina glanced at him, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. ”You sound like you’ve suffered through your share of them.”

”More than my share.”

They spent a few more minutes moving through the shelves. Eventually Seraphina selected a book with a dark cover and understated lettering. Andras took it from her hands before she could reach for her storage ring and carried it to the counter. He paid without comment. When he returned the book to her, she looked faintly surprised, then slipped it into her storage ring with a quiet word of thanks.

They left the bookstore and continued along the street.

Further down, Andras’s gaze lingered on a small shop with canvases and brushes displayed near the entrance. Seraphina noticed the direction of his attention.

”Why are you looking at the painting shop?”

”It reminded me of the brush I bought for you,” Andras said.

Seraphina’s steps slowed. She raised her hand, and a moment later the brush appeared in her palm—the same one he had given her before the academy term began. The handle was smooth, the bristles still clean and well-kept.

”You’re still carrying it,” Andras observed.

”I use it,” she replied simply. ”Even after coming to the academy. Painting is one of the few things I do without calculating whether it’s useful.”

Andras studied the brush for a moment, then looked at her.

”You’re a painter, then.”

”I am.”

”A good one?”

Seraphina met his gaze without hesitation. ”I don’t enjoy sounding arrogant, but yes. I’m a great painter.”

Andras’s expression remained flat.

”I don’t believe you.”

She blinked. ”What?”

”I can only believe it if I see the work myself.”

For a moment Seraphina simply stared at him. Then a spark of competitive pride lit her eyes.

”You want to see my painting?”

”I said I would need to see it to believe you.”

”Then let’s find a place.” Her voice carried a quiet challenge. ”I’ll paint you. After you see it, you’ll admit I’m a great painter.”

Andras regarded her for a second, then gave a slight shrug.

”Lead the way.”

They eventually found a quiet corner of a small public garden, away from the main flow of pedestrians. A stone bench sat beneath a tree that cast mottled shade across the ground. Seraphina withdrew a compact set of painting tools from her storage ring—canvas, pigments, a small folding stand—and arranged them with practiced efficiency.

”Sit there,” she said, pointing to the bench. ”And stay still.”

Andras sat.

Seraphina worked in focused silence. The soft sound of brush against canvas filled the space between them. Andras remained motionless, watching her more than the surroundings. Her expression was different when she painted—sharper, more absorbed, stripped of the careful social composure she usually wore.

Eventually she lowered the brush.

”It’s finished. You can look.”

Andras stood and walked over. The portrait on the canvas was unmistakably him—precise in its lines, accurate in its proportions, and rendered with a clarity that suggested genuine skill. The coldness in his eyes had been captured without softening. Even the faint detachment in his posture had been preserved.

It was good.

Seraphina watched his face. ”Well? How are my skills?”

Andras raised a hand to his chin and made a show of considering the painting with exaggerated seriousness. After a long pause, he spoke.

”The painting is... so-so.”

Seraphina’s expression froze.

”But,” Andras continued calmly, ”it looks impressive because the subject is me. If it weren’t such a handsome face on the canvas, I would have to say your skills are below average.”

For a moment, Seraphina simply stared at him.

Then her eyes narrowed.

”What do you know about painting? No one has ever told me I was below average.”

”Are you asking what I know about painting?” Andras’s voice remained flat. ”I’m also a great painter. If I painted right now, I would do better than you.”

Seraphina’s chin lifted.

”Oh? You think you can paint better than me?”

”Yes.”

”Then do it. I’ll sit. You paint.”

Andras looked at her.

”No.”

”What do you mean, no? You just said—”

”It’s a waste of time,” he interrupted. ”I don’t spend effort on things that give me nothing in return.”

Seraphina studied him for a second. Then a sharp, determined light entered her eyes.

”You want something in return? Fine. Paint right now. If your work is better than mine, I’ll do anything you tell me to do before the day ends.”

Andras’s gaze sharpened slightly.

”Anything.”

”Anything,” she repeated.

He watched her for a long moment.

”You’re certain you don’t want to take those words back?”

For the first time, Seraphina hesitated.

She realized that she had made the promise without thinking too carefully about what Andras might ask of her. Still, she had complete confidence in her painting skills. She had spent years developing them, and no one had ever told her that her work was anything less than excellent.

Seraphina’s pride held. ”I don’t.”

”Very well.” Andras extended a hand toward her tools. ”Sit on the bench.”

Seraphina sat, spine straight, expression composed despite the faint color that had risen to her cheeks.

Andras picked up the brush, examined the blank canvas for a moment, and began to paint.

Time passed.

The garden remained quiet around them. Seraphina held her position with the same discipline she had demanded of him earlier, though her eyes occasionally flicked toward the movement of his hand. Andras worked without visible urgency, his expression unreadable, the brush moving in steady, deliberate strokes.

Eventually, Andras lowered the brush.

He examined the canvas for a moment before stepping back.

”All right, Seraphina.”

He looked toward her.

”I’ve created my masterpiece.”

He gestured toward the painting.

”Now come and take a look at it.”

Seraphina stood from the bench and walked toward him.

Her eyes settled on the canvas.

Then she saw what he had painted.

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I hope you guys liked the Chapter. I’ll release two Chapters tomorrow.

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