The Villainous Male Supporting Character Courts Death Every Day : Chapter 28

Watching the ship sail away, Valak clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. His expression was cold and severe, his iron dark skin setting off his gray blue eyes like the sharp gleam of cold light on a blade. His features were deeply carved with fierce intensity, his jaw tight, his teeth nearly grinding to dust.

He wore an azure velvet military uniform, tailored to fit his tall and powerfully built frame, outlined like a perfect sculpture. The gold tassels on his shoulders glinted, swaying slightly with his movements. A delicate medal hung on his chest, its gemstones sparkling brilliantly in the sunlight. A red silk sash cinched his waist, and his long boots were polished black, making him look dashing and imposing, majestic and awe inspiring.

The ship was loaded with military supplies, grain, and medicine, returning to the Snowblown he longed for day and night. Yet he could only stand on the dock, draped in this gorgeous military uniform, watching the vessel sail away, unable to join the battlefield himself.

A year ago, the long standing disturbances had suddenly worsened. Allied brother tribes had suffered defeat after defeat, and multiple mineral veins had been lost in succession, dealing a fatal blow to the only economic lifeline of the barren snowfields.

Without ore, there was no money. Without money, there were no provisions or military equipment, let alone any hope of counterattack.

As the son of a major tribal chief, Valak naturally knew the situation was dire. His heart burned with anxiety as he scrambled to find a way out everywhere.

His father, however, had lost heart and completely given up. His meaning was to pack up their belongings, flee with the whole family, live under assumed names from then on, and settle down to a peaceful life.

But Valak understood clearly that once they left the snowfields, they would ultimately be nothing.

They were a tribe born of the snowfields. Even a mighty empire like Orsay could not interfere with the Snowrei people.

The northern borderlands were scattered with countless tribes. The empire had only granted titles and territories to five of them. In his view, this was both an alliance and a recognition of them. They were the true masters of the ice and snow, proud warriors of the snowfields.

He would rather die on the snowfields than abandon his tribe, abandon his pride.

Together with several like minded tribal chiefs and elders, he had traveled thousands of miles to the imperial capital to seek an audience with the king, hoping to gain the support and aid of their imperial ally.

But how could he have known that in the empire’s eyes, they were not friends of the snowfields, nor allies. They were lords of a worthless wasteland, utterly unqualified to knock on the palace gates. They could not even find an official willing to introduce them.

They sought help everywhere. Some would not even meet them. Some who were willing to meet, upon hearing their plea, would not discuss further. Some who were willing to discuss played dumb and pretended not to understand. Those who were willing to speak plainly told them that losing territory was a grave crime, and they should hurry back to actively defend their borders, or flee far away and save their lives.

Three months of running around in circles, with no way forward. The expenses of the imperial capital were staggering, quickly draining their savings until they were nearly out of money even for the journey back to the snowfields.

Until that day, a merchant who had once shared a meal with them but never followed up came to find him and introduced him to someone. A young black haired gentleman, and he felt hope at last.

He thought he would soon enter the royal palace, meet the king or imperial generals, and discuss strategy. Instead he met fashion designers, etiquette teachers, reporters, and all manner of strange and bizarre people. Their gazes held curiosity, fascination, as if viewing him as some exotic beast from the snowfields.

And to make matters worse, he was dressed up in this flashy azure military uniform, attending banquets and events like a clown, while the gazes of gentlemen and ladies lingered on him, filled with mockery and spectacle.

“His skin really is as dark as iron, his eyes as blue as ice. I hear they drink snow and eat minerals…”

“Those eyes, truly both dangerous and captivating…”

“The Wolf of the Snowfields, truly like a wild beast… If only he could hold me in his arms…”

The Wolf of the Snowfields was a name born of his enemies’ fear and respect, referring to his command like a wolf pack in the snow, fierce and swift, appearing and vanishing like ghosts. Coming to the capital, it had become a topic of ridicule for nobles and fantasy for ladies.

Valak only felt a weight on his chest. He knew this outfit was not a military uniform but a costume. This iron dark face, at this moment, was not the pride of his people but the strangest exhibit at the capital’s ball.

Here, he was admired, romanticized into a legend of the snowfields, rather than a warrior who killed in wind and frost, mud and blood.

His heart ached for battle. How he wanted to tear off this attire, board the ship, and return to the snowfields. But that black haired gentleman had only told him calmly:

“If you only want to be a beggar once, you can go back now. But if you want to become the ruler of the snowfields, you must stay another three months.”

Valak’s chest shook. These words made him swallow his humiliation and bear the burden, staying on.

The ship grew smaller and smaller, yet the dock remained bustling with noise. The crowd saw his iron dark skin and shouted at him excitedly, seeming to encourage yet seeming to mock. He turned his head and ignored them, gazing at the last speck of sail on the distant horizon.

“Mr. Valak, please do not worry. These supplies will reach the north safely.”

A young businessman in a suit and tie stood at Valak’s side, his voice low and gentle, carrying the steady composure of someone who had negotiated countless times over many years: “That gentleman has already planned a detailed route with tight security. Arrangements have been made along the entire way. You may rest assured.”

Valak turned his eyes to scrutinize the newcomer coldly. “That gentleman” referred to the black haired gentleman who orchestrated everything from behind the scenes. It was this warm and refined young businessman before him who had introduced him, letting him see a glimmer of hope.

“Ryan…” Valak’s heart was heavy, his words pressing down like blades, his suppressed coldness pushed to the limit, low and hoarse: “You had better not be deceiving me…”

Ryan’s smile did not change, his tone unhurried, like warm water dissolving the edge of a knife: “I understand your feelings. That gentleman said three months, and not a single day will be less. Every step here is paving the way for your future.”

Valak fell silent. But a red haired servant behind him suddenly spoke, his tone lazy and casual: “Iron must be burned through in fire before it can be forged into steel. What are three months? If the heat is not enough, you must wait however long it takes.”

Valak’s eyes sharpened, his tone cutting: “What do you mean?”

The red haired servant shrugged, looking utterly indifferent: “I do not mean anything. Only if the steel is not forged, would it not become scrap iron?”

Valak’s pupils contracted sharply, a flash of killing intent crossing his gray blue eyes like a cold blade leaving its sheath.

“Does a servant have the right to interrupt when a gentleman is speaking?” Ryan immediately spoke up to stop him, then turned to Valak with a warm smile that carried a touch of mediation: “Andrei is young and unruly. Please do not take offense, sir. For now, we must keep the bigger picture in mind.”

Valak’s chest heaved. He let out a cold snort, barely suppressing his anger. The servant Andrei, however, leaned lazily against the wall, his attitude carefree, as if no one could do anything about him.

Valak truly could do nothing about him. Andrei was the attendant assigned to him by that gentleman, assisting him with daily matters in the capital. But everyone knew he was merely a pair of watching eyes, a controlling hand.

The Wolf of the Snowfields who made enemies tremble at the wind was now a puppet, manipulated by others.

But at this moment, he and the snowfields were alike, isolated and without aid. In this vast capital, only they extended a helping hand. He had no other choice, he could only rely on them.

Valak closed his eyes, as if hearing the howling wind and snow, the rough and heroic battle songs. He galloped across the ice fields, horse hooves striking the snow, a flash of cold light, the hot blood of his people boiling as he severed head after head.

They needed no gilded medals to prove their glory. As long as the songs of the tribe echoed, as long as women and children laughed by the firelight, that was enough fire to burn through all the snow and wind.

Valak slowly opened his eyes, his gaze heavy: “Three months. I will wait.”

Valak drew his blade, raising it toward the distance, tracing a clean arc through the air, as if saluting his distant comrades, as if slashing at invisible enemies. The cold light flashed, ringing with a clear metallic sound.

The blade cut through the wind as he roared out in his tribal tongue: “Norwak!”

The voice was low and burning hot, like the first horn of a snowfield battle song.

~~~~~~~~~~

Night fell. After having Kyle complete his daily task with proper and conventional pleasure, Milo listlessly curled into the blankets.

But Kyle did not leave. After rinsing his mouth at the porcelain basin, he walked to the window and drew the curtains tight, blocking out the last thread of moonlight, plunging the room into pitch darkness where one could not see a hand in front of their face. Then he felt his way toward the bedding, quietly climbing onto the bed and lying down on one side.

This was the villainous young master’s latest wicked idea.

“Since you refuse to cooperate, then you can do it yourself.” Milo propped his chin on his hand, reclining on the armrest, looking down at the man kneeling before him. The corner of his lips curved up, his tone lazy, carrying a teasing revenge: “You will be my mistress.”

Kyle did not reply, silently bowing his head.

Golden eyes half lidded, staring at him unblinking, flashing with mischievous light.

Yet he saw Kyle’s eyelids lower, the shadow of his lashes casting deep lines on his cheeks, his shoulders and back taut as if suppressing some emotion. His breathing briefly stalled, then he exhaled extremely lightly, the corner of his lips tightening slightly. In that instant, it seemed some emotion flashed by, whether humiliation or anger.

In the end, he bowed his head obediently, his voice low and suppressed, yet so calm it was almost flat: “As you wish.”

Milo watched, his heart skipping a beat for no clear reason. That quiet steadiness was like some unspoken provocation, yet at this moment it was so soul stirringly captivating that the young master was utterly enchanted.

His golden eyes narrowed into slits, pretending to be carefree, his fingertips tapping lightly at his ear, unable to suppress the surging excitement.

From that day on, Kyle was ordered to attend to him night after night.