I Became the Villain's Caretaker

I transmigrated into a political intrigue novel and became the most inconspicuous disposable extra to die in the entire book.

The male lead was a righteous young general, and the villain was a murderous, unhinged minister. They fought for three whole volumes, until the male lead ran him through the heart with a sword. The villain fell into a pool of blood, a smile still on his lips. The author’s verdict: Born evil, he deserved to die. All the readers cheered.

The character I transmigrated into was described in just two sentences: the illegitimate daughter of the Chancellor’s household, who abused the young villain and was tortured to death by the grown villain four months later. The original story never said why she abused him, what happened in between, or what kind of person she was. In short, she wasn’t even important enough to be a background character. She existed only to die.

The day I arrived, I was kneeling in a woodshed with a bloodstained whip in my hand. A six-year-old boy was curled up in the corner, an iron chain shackled to his ankle as he licked spoiled porridge off the floor. He looked up at me. His eyes were cold and dark, not like a child’s, but like those of a cornered wolf cub.

The System’s warning blared in my head: The villain’s corruption level is at 89%. Your survival countdown has begun.

I stared into those eyes for a long time. Then I threw away the whip and went to the kitchen to fetch a bowl of braised pork.

What happened afterward was never written in the original story. All I know is that I raised a wolf cub. And the look in his eyes changed from hatred into something else.