Reincarnated As The Villainess's Son

It was midday, but the flash and thundering made the air seem heavy and dark.

Armor clanking, soldiers patrolling along the wall near them.

A few reporters stayed close to the wall, trying to find anyone they could ask, interrogate, or scapegoat for their story.

High-ranking nobles and officials have visited this place in the last few days, especially those whose family members have been buried here. freewebnσvel.cѳm

"Is it true?" A reporter asked, flashing money towards a soldier who walked past him.

"Is what true?" asked the soldier, a greedy look flashing across his eyes.

"Lord Oliver, we heard he is dead. Is that true? Is he really dead?"

The man seemed to flinch at the words, eyes wavering, body moving, but the flashing money stopped him.

"Not dead but missing," the soldier muttered under his breath. "...But it's been so long that they declared him so."

"What about the commoner boy?" the reporter asked, trying to get more information. "...Why is the church protecting him so much now?"

The soldier leaned in as he whispered softly, "...They say he is the one."

"The one?"

"One of the main gods' avatars."

The reporter's eyes widened at his words.

A lot of people have already guessed as much, but hearing it from an official, even at a lower rank, gives a lot of credibility to the rumors.

"Any news on Lord Azariah?" the reporter mumbled as he looked around to ensure no one heard his next words. "...They say he betrayed the Gods."

Finally, the soldier showed a fearful look on his face. His eyes trembled violently as he stepped back.

"Don't talk about that," he growled, snatching the money away from the man.

The soldier moved on, guarding the place again, while the reporter looked around.

A sudden commotion caught his attention, and he rushed towards the main door.

"Huh?"

A lady with black hair and eyes walked into the graveyard along with a man.

He didn't recognize the woman and had never seen her in any of the news.

But he did recognize the man at a single glance.

His distinct grey hair was easily recognizable, and his face represented the empire in many places.

...Paul Polarral.

The head of the Polarral family and the father of the now-presumably deceased Oliver Polarral.

The reporter quickly moved towards him, but before they could, the soldiers pushed them aside.

They couldn't even talk to them properly as they entered without looking at them.

The wind shifted as they both entered inside.

The chilling silence clung to their hearts, the smell of mourning and death making their sorrowful faces even worse.

They walked through the half-empty place filled with nothing but graves.

Before long, they slowed down at a grave.

Hannah, Oliver's mother, broke down at the sight of the grave.

Her once normal body had now turned thin, dark circles covering her eyes.

She limped towards the grave with Paul's support.

And in front of the grave, a single boy sat with his legs crossed, wearing formal attire.

Wind howled past him, messing his black hair, dried-up leaves swirling around.

His breath was ragged, and bloodshot eyes stared blankly at the grave.

A name was etched on it—the name of his brother.

"...Aimar," a broken feminine voice echoed from behind.

He turned around to notice a woman he recognized immediately.

Hannah slowly walked towards him, arms stretched apart.

"Stay there," he snarled, pointing at her. "Stay right there, don't come closer."

Her steps halted, and all she could do was blankly look at him.

"Amai—."

"Stay out of this, father," he growled as he looked at Paul, who tried to intervene. "I don't want to hear anything."

His breath quickened as he slowly stood up from his place.

"...I am sorry," Hannah whimpered, silently gazing at him, but Aimar shook his head.

"What are you sorry for?" he growled, slowly walking closer. "...For abandoning us as soon as we were born? For not even caring for us? For not being a good mother? WHAT ARE YOU SORRY FOR?!"

"...I am sorry," she whimpered again, trying to wipe the tears that blurred her eyes. "...I know it's impossible for you to understand—"

"Oliver is dead," Aimar cut her off, glaring at her. "He's been dead for weeks. Where were you?"

Hannah stopped in her tracks, her lips parted to reply, but all that came out were strange noises.

"...You didn't care enough to visit your sons on time," wiping his own tears, he whispered. "...What kind of mother are you?"

Hannah's tears trickled down; she wanted to say a lot of things, but as if her mind had stopped working, all she could do was cry.

Cry to let him know she was sorry. She was hurt. She was broken.

"Go away from here before I say something else," Aimar said solemnly, turning around.

His eyes returned to the grave, which was slowly breaking him from the inside.

"...Aimar," Paul walked towards him, "don't be like this."

"I don't want to talk about it, father," he replied, trying to keep his emotions in check. "...Please don't make me."

"...I am sorry."

Aimar finally snapped as he once again heard his mother's voice.

He turned around, walking towards her before standing right in front of her.

"Do you even know what Oliver always wanted?" he asked, his voice cold like never before.

"....."

Hannah quietly lowered her head.

She didn't want to say it, not now.

"He always wanted his mother back," Aimar continued, glaring at her. "...Since childhood, that's all he wished for, and do you know why?"

Tears started dripping down her face as she heard his words.

"Because his worthless mother filled his mind with those thoughts," he grunted through his clenched jaw, not holding back his words. "...Since he was nothing but a child, he was forced to work harder under the pressure of saving you!"

He slowly moved back while glaring at her, his breath ragged.

Her sobbing echoed in the silence as he turned around, walking towards the grave.

"...I beg you," he whispered softly as he slowly took his previous seat. "...Never try to contact me again."

"..."

"Aima—."

"I don't want to hear anything, father," he interjected sharply, not even trying to listen to Paul's words. "...From this day on, she is dead to me."

A chilling silence lingered between them, the wind shifting again as footsteps echoed.

Aimar didn't even glance back as the sound of footsteps slowly trailed off until he could no longer hear them.

Thunder flashed across the horizon.

And without him even noticing, time passed away.

Aimar sat there, looking blankly at the grave.

Until...

He heard someone's footsteps.

He didn't turn around to see who it was; he just stayed seated on the ground.

A boy now stood beside him, forcing him to look at his side.

And there he stood, with messy pristine white hair and a handsome face.

His eyes, heterochromatic—one blue and the other purple—looked at the grave.

"...Why are you alive?" Aimar grumbled, staring at Azariah, who turned to look at him.

"...I ask myself the same question daily," Azariah replied as he slowly sat beside him. "...Why am I still alive?"