The Villainous Male Supporting Character Courts Death Every Day : Chapter 27

Through the mirror, Milo bared his teeth at Kyle, who was combing his hair. Kyle, unlike his usual habit of doing without seeing, instead raised his eyes to meet his gaze, his dark eyes slightly bright, his lips curving into a smile.

Milo snorted and looked away.

Claiming he was there to help the young master quit drinking, Kyle had reduced his outings and would run back on his own to attend to him whenever he had a free moment. Allen and Mark, those two, naturally vanished without a trace the moment they saw him. With no one else around, the young master could only grit his teeth and let him be, though his mood had improved considerably.

He heard the marriage scandal had been suppressed, but for some reason, the Duke had never lifted his house arrest order. He had written several eloquent letters to the Duke, apologizing and pleading, but the Duke only sent back a single line: Rest and recuperate in peace.

The corner of Milo’s mouth twitched. Recuperate my ass! He was going to recuperate himself into illness!

Milo did not think he had a drinking problem. He thought he had a sex addiction.

Ever since the villa had gone completely dry, naturally there were no more drunken escapades. But Young Master Milo always felt a fire burning inside him, and Kyle’s punishments and torments somehow missed the mark.

Seeing the curve of his lips made his throat go dry. Seeing the lines of his neck made his lips and teeth itch.

And looking at the scars on his body, what came to mind was not the thrill of lashing him, but a broad and solid expanse, burning hot, melting a person right down to the bone. Lightly stroking and caressing, that uneven texture sent tingles through his fingertips.

It was more addictive than alcohol.

His gaze kept wandering, his imagination running wild. How could he rest in peace? Milo blamed all of this on the confinement of house arrest.

The white mouse addiction experiment had made it very clear: if the cage only contained drugs and food, the white mice would get bored and keep taking drugs. But if there were other toys, companions, social relationships, and emotional bonds, their dependence on drugs would decrease.

So he told Kyle about the white mouse experiment, hinting between the lines that he should get him a mistress.

In the original story he had no mistress, but in the original story he had not been under house arrest either! Who knew whether the villainous young master, confined to the house, might get so bored he kept a mistress? Of course he would. His character setting was someone who would do any outrageous thing.

Besides, he had been in this book for twelve years. What was wrong with getting a girlfriend in the book? In any case, everything had to be blamed on the male lead. Making him figure out a solution was only right and proper.

After hearing the young master’s instructions, Kyle’s expression was strange, but he accepted the order and left. The next day, he really did bring a woman, but she was a middle aged woman with a face full of pockmarks.

“Greetings, young master. I am Ursula, a professional bird trainer.” Ursula bowed.

“Bird trainer?” Milo was shocked, instinctively clamping his legs together.

Ursula raised her head, and at a glance she saw the golden parrot wandering on the floor. Her cloudy eyes instantly brightened, her voice rising with barely contained excitement: “Is this the Xuanli golden parrot? This is my first time seeing one in person!”

Ursula crouched down, palm up, holding it out toward the floor, making a series of cooing sounds like bird calls from her mouth. The parrot, obligingly, flapped a few times and hopped into her hand. Ursula stood up, her eyes sparkling, smiling like a child: “I have never trained this breed before, but we have many methods we can try.”

Milo turned to Kyle with a face full of dark lines. Kyle bowed and introduced: “Madam Ursula is a professor of animal linguistics at the Royal Academy of Natural Sciences. She is an expert in birds, and specializes in parrot training.”

Milo said nothing. His gloomy expression said it all.

Kyle continued to explain with a smile: “Young master, raising animals requires a great deal of time and energy. This way you will not be bored. You can also build an emotional bond with a pet, which helps with emotional regulation and mental and physical health.”

Ursula earnestly began her lesson, covering everything from the parrot’s living habits, vocal frequency spectrum, to emotional feedback, all in meticulous detail, speaking with gentle thoroughness.

Milo naturally sat on the sofa with a dark face, ignoring them completely. The result was that Kyle and Madam Ursula sat harmoniously around the table, chatting with the golden parrot. He sat alone in the corner like a sulking child.

“We can start with simple phrases, using a steady tone, repeating constantly.” Ursula cleared her throat and slowed her voice toward the golden parrot: “Hello… hello…”

The golden parrot turned its head, curiously staring at Ursula, turning in circles, letting out a string of strange chirps. It could not be called similar; it was completely different.

Ursula placed a few treats on the table as encouragement and said with a smile: “Steward Kyle, would you like to try?”

Kyle followed Madam Ursula’s example, softening his voice, repeating in a low voice to the golden parrot: “Hello… hello…”

The golden parrot tilted its head but made no sound. It only paced back and forth, looking Kyle up and down, as if wondering what kind of fool this was.

With a snort, Milo laughed out loud, not knowing whether he was laughing at the parrot or at Kyle.

~~~~~~~~

Sophie stood at the harbor, inspecting the cargo as it was loaded onto the ship one by one. Each crate was wrapped in azure canvas, covered with the flag of the Music Association, snapping in the wind like a proclamation to the world, like extravagant publicity.

These relief supplies would travel through the canal to the northern territories, then via long and arduous overland transport, accompanied by songs and slogans, to the snowy front lines of the north.

A luxurious carriage slowly approached and stopped at the dock. A graceful figure stepped out. Charlotte wore a light white dress, its hem fluttering in the wind, with a few guards and attendants beside her, all traveling light.

Sophie stood frozen. She had known in advance that, for publicity purposes, a noble representative would travel with the convoy to the frigid lands of the north. But she had never expected that representative to be her.

“Do you have any idea what the north is like right now!” Sophie suddenly pulled Charlotte aside, her tone urgent and furious: “Do you know what snowstorms are? Do you know what war is?”

Charlotte smiled faintly: “It is precisely because I do not know that I must go see with my own eyes.”

Some time ago, at Kyle’s instruction, Charlotte had joined the Music Association as a volunteer. From inventorying and cataloging supplies to organizing donor lists and reply letters, she had been meticulous and orderly. Sophie had revised her opinion of her somewhat, but this could not change the fact that she was a hothouse flower.

Such a delicate young lady actually wanted to go to the north? She must be mad.

“What do you think you can do there? Do not cause trouble.” Sophie stamped her foot in anger, her voice torn apart by the wind.

“I once thought I could do nothing too. But I was wrong. In truth, I can do a great deal.” Charlotte’s tone was gentle, yet her eyes brightened like light reflecting off river water, shimmering and dazzling. “As long as I am willing, I can be anything.”

Sophie paused, her expression shifting between light and shadow. After a long while, she said darkly: “That person… told you this?”

Charlotte said nothing, only turning to look at the rippling blue waves, her expression at ease, as if enjoying the breeze, as if roaming freely between heaven and earth.

“Actually, that person… has never been to the north.” Sophie spoke softly, as if having made up her mind, biting her teeth: “…Neither have I.”

“Then I should go all the more…” Charlotte looked up at the clear blue sky, her expression unchanged, as if she had known all along, or as if it was only to be expected. She turned around, gently taking Sophie’s hand, tender yet firm: “I hope that I too can compose a movement, for you, and for myself.”

Sophie wanted to say more, but Charlotte, for once, interrupted her. Her voice was not loud, yet it rang especially clear in the wind:

“I will write the true Snowblown.”

No blame, no challenge, no disgust. Only infinite softness, and unshakable resolve.

Sophie’s lips trembled lightly, yet no words came out.

The wind howled, the sails billowed. Charlotte stepped onto the deck, her skirt hem flying, the pure white and azure canvas weaving together into the color of the sky. She suddenly turned back, lightly waving her hand, her smile radiant.

Sophie’s hand rose unconsciously, yet fell halfway.

“North! Victory! North! Victory!”

The ship’s horn sounded, the crowd seethed, azure flags and banners blotting out the sky, flying high in the wind. The band on shore struck up, the melody drowned by slogans and clamor. People shouted at the top of their lungs, children waved colorful ribbons, reporters raised their sketchbooks, pens flying to capture that spotless white figure.

Sophie watched helplessly as the ship grew smaller and smaller, pushed northward by morning light and wind together. Amid the surging commotion, that color of the sky stood out yet felt real, as if it belonged to the north, and as if it belonged to her.