Surviving As The Villainess's Attendant-Chapter 51: Faceless [2]

For a moment, no one spoke.

The soldiers stood stiff, uncertain whether to draw their swords or run.

Gareth’s hand slowly moved toward his own blade, eyes locked on the imposter—on himself.

The fake just smiled, casual, like he hadn’t just strolled out of the most secure vault in the region wearing the heir’s skin.

"What sort of trick is this?" Gareth asked, voice low, sharp with restrained fury. "Who are you?"

The fake tilted his head, pretending to think. "Well... depends who you ask. You see ’Gareth.’ She saw someone else. And the vault?" He let out a short breath, amused. "It didn’t see anyone at all."

Gareth’s face twisted. "You bastard."

His mana surged, crackling faintly around his shoulders.

But Vox raised an arm in front of him. "Wait!" he barked, stepping between the real Gareth and the fake.

Vox didn’t know what he was doing—only that charging in now would get them all killed.

That glamour... it wasn’t magic from this region. It was deeper. Older.

And beneath it, that face. That momentary flash—it wasn’t anyone they knew. But it felt real. Like the illusion was the lie, and the stranger beneath it was the only truth.

Vox’s instincts flared again.

"Who are you working for?" Vox demanded, voice stern. "You couldn’t have gotten past the Snow Spirit on your own. Not unless..."

The fake grinned wider. "Oh, she let me in. Sweet thing. Bit too trusting."

He turned, flicking invisible dust off his sleeve again, like he hadn’t just dropped a revelation. "But I get it. You think this is all above your pay grade, right?"

He gestured loosely to Vox. "Vault guard. Probably used to locking doors and kicking drunk nobles out of forbidden halls."

Vox’s eyes narrowed.

He was shaking. But not with fear—with cold, tightly-wound anger.

"You mock me, thief," he said, stepping forward. "But if you’d really won, you wouldn’t still be wearing that face."

"Vox—" Gareth warned.

"No." Vox didn’t take his eyes off the fake. "This man... thing... whatever he is, he’s not untouchable."

The imposter chuckled. "See, I like you. You’ve got backbone."

He turned away, casually walking down the hall past them like he owned the place. Vox’s hand twitched toward his blade. One order, one word, and he’d lunge—damn the consequences.

But Gareth stayed his hand.

His voice was tight. "What did you take?"

The fake paused, just for a moment. Then smiled over his shoulder.

"Oh? You want to know? Well then I shall show you. At least I should do that right?"

The imposter turned fully now, smile widening—not out of joy, but pure theatrical mockery.

Then, with a slight flourish, he reached into his coat and slowly pulled something from the folds.

A soft glow emanated from his gloved hand.

Vox’s breath hitched. Gareth’s eyes widened.

It was an orb—no, the orb.

A swirling sphere of liquid light encased in translucent crystal, pulsing gently with layered runes—the Enhancement Orb. The relic Gareth had been preparing to wield in the martial arts tournament. A royal heirloom. A legacy. A game-changer in battle.

It now sat in the palm of an imposter like it was no more than a bauble stolen from a street stall.

"You—" Gareth stepped forward, voice trembling with fury. "You have no idea what that is."

"Oh, but I do," the fake replied, spinning the orb once in his fingers with elegant ease. "It’s precious. It’s powerful. It’s also very... disappointing."

He shrugged. "Thought it would put up more of a fight. At least the Snow Spirit asked me a riddle."

Vox could barely keep himself from shaking. "Put it down," he growled, stepping in front of Gareth. "Return the orb, and we’ll let the tribunal decide your fate. That’s the only mercy you’ll get."

The fake sighed dramatically. "Mercy. How noble. How boring."

The orb flared suddenly in his hand. Just once. A flash. Then it dimmed again, subdued.

"You’re lucky," the fake said, voice quieter now, more serious. "I’m not the worst person who wants this thing. But..."

He slipped the orb back into his coat. "I am the one who got it first."

"You Basterd! Who the fuck are you?!! Put my face away and, Show me your real FACE!!!

Gareth shouted top of his lungs. His voice echo through the whole basment.

Vox, and Gareth’s knight flinched at the anger behind his voice.

But not fake. He was still smiling with Gareth’s face, which infuriated him further.

"I don’t have any face."

"What?"

Gareth couldn’t believe what he heard.

"Yup, you heard right. I don’t have any face. I’m faceless. Nothing but an imposter who lives on other faces."

Gareth stared.

His breath caught in his throat.

For all his training, for all his composure as heir of the Valstein line—he couldn’t make sense of those words.

"I’m faceless."

The fake smiled wider, too wide, like Gareth’s own lips weren’t meant to stretch that far.

Then the glamour shimmered again.

Once.

A flicker.

And in that flicker—his features dissolved. Not changed. Dissolved.

NO EYES.

NO NOSE.

NO MOUTH.

Just smooth, blank skin like wet paper stretched across a skull.

Then, just as quickly, Gareth’s face snapped back into place.

"I borrow faces," the fake said gently, tapping his own cheek with one gloved finger. "Some are useful. Some are fun. Yours?" He gave a mock shrug. "Convenient."

Vox took a shaky step back, hands tightening around his hilt.

"That’s not magic," he muttered. "That’s something else entirely."

The soldiers behind him whispered among themselves, voices tight with unease. Some made signs of warding. One retched quietly.

"Stop playing games!" Gareth roared, stepping forward again. His mana surged around him, gold and white, wreathing his shoulders like a lion’s mane. "You think I’ll let you leave with that orb? With my face?"

"Young—" Vox warned, but too late.

The real heir lunged.

In a flash, his blade gleamed under the torchlight, aimed right for the imposter’s throat.

But the fake didn’t even blink.

His form shimmered—again, not moving, just warping.

Gareth’s blade sliced clean through air.

Like stabbing a reflection.

The imposter was now behind him.

"Too slow," he said softly, placing a hand on Gareth’s shoulder. "Don’t worry. I’ll return your face when I’m done with it. Maybe."

With a flick of mana, he launched Gareth forward. Not hard—but with unnatural precision. The heir skidded across the stone floor, crashing into a pillar.

Vox snapped.

"Form ranks!" he barked to the soldiers. "Protect the heir!"

Swords were drawn. Shields locked. But no one moved forward.

How could they?

The imposter had stolen not just a relic, but dignity.

Even now, surrounded by blades and righteous fury, he stood like a man alone in a garden, utterly unimpressed.

"You really want to fight?" he asked Vox. "All of you against me? Over a glowing trinket and a borrowed name?"

The tension crackled like lightning between them.

Vox’s hands trembled on his sword. But he did not step down.

"Give it back," he said.

The fake tilted his head. "Or what?"

"I’ll carve you open and see what’s under that glamour."

A long pause.

Then, for the first time, the fake’s smile faltered. Just a little.

He looked at Vox... not like a bug. Not like a fool.

Like a mirror.

"...Interesting," he murmured. "You’ve seen something, haven’t you?"

Then the smile returned, cold and mocking. "Too bad. Not tonight."

He stepped backward—and vanished into shadow.

No flare. No flash.

Just absence.

Gone.

The vault fell silent. The air no longer smelled like gemstones or frost. Just dust and fear.

Gareth sat against the pillar, blood trailing from his lip, eyes burning.

"Faceless..." he whispered. "What the hell was that?"

Vox didn’t answer.

He just stared at the empty space where the imposter had stood.

And for the first time in years... he prayed.

Not for victory.

But that they’d never see that man again.

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