As the sun dipped below the horizon, dappled light spilled through the window onto the floor tiles. Shel scraped the last drop of fish soup from his bowl with a piece of bread. He set down his half-finished coffee cup, picked up his cane, and rose from the table.

The silent woman in black behind him instinctively stood as well.

After Shel thanked the restaurant owner for the meal, the efficient woman pulled out several gleaming gold coins and handed them over. She then pushed open the half-hinged wooden door, allowing her master to step directly outside. Shel had long grown accustomed to her thoughtful service.

They strolled leisurely along the cobblestone streets of the small town. The girl—barely twenty—followed silently behind him like a shadow. Fruit vendors he knew waved greetings. The old man cleaning the fountain bowed respectfully. Even the constable at the crossroads smiled at him. In this quaint, Western-style town, everyone knew and revered him.

After all, he was a benevolent, carefree male baron—a reward for his adventures long past.

Yes, like every web novel protagonist, Shel had once been summoned to this world called Aran by a system after his transmigration: the "Female Villain Rehabilitation System." That chatty, careless system had tasked him with correcting young women destined to become calamitous villains—sometimes as their teacher, sometimes as a partner, sometimes as a contractor. Its goal was to subtly guide them toward redemption during their formative years.

*In theory.*

Because that "system" wasn’t a system at all—just a liar weaving false promises. "Saving them" was merely an excuse. He couldn’t save anyone.

In the end, everything he’d strived for had turned to chaos. Even walking away felt impossible.

But at least the debts were settled.

The riots, conflicts, and disasters that should have happened… all belonged to the past.

It was over.

Now he lived on a remote island at the world’s edge. Beside a peaceful coastal town stood a warm, comfortable castle where he resided as a baron. The girl beside him? She’d been rescued during his final mission—a stray act of mercy. Back then, she’d been weak and lost, her consciousness shattered by the battle Shel had triggered. He’d barely stabilized her mind and soul.

He should have left immediately. But unlike others he’d saved, this nameless girl clung to his sleeve, staring up at him with eyes that made his chest ache. One impulsive decision, and he’d brought her along.

Years had passed. Though she knew little of Shel’s past, she trained relentlessly to avoid burdening him—mastering household chores, never prying into his history. Exceptionally considerate.

Truthfully, she was strikingly beautiful. Not delicate or doll-like, but radiating vibrant, athletic grace. Tall and perfectly proportioned, she usually wore a crisp black uniform that commanded respect. Shel often saw her training in the castle gym after shedding that formal attire: a tight crop top clinging to her torso as she wrestled with equipment. Her arms and back flexed with defined muscles, twisting like snarling masks under exertion. Her narrow waist stayed taut, abs sharply etched. Powerful thighs flowed into sturdy calves capable of shattering walls with a single kick.

When fools tried to rob Shel, this ever-stoic bodyguard would step forward. After flashing a threatening smile, she’d unleash fists and feet until only fragments remained.

Her presence brought profound security.

Beyond protection, this quiet, capable woman managed the castle flawlessly—overseeing maids, balancing accounts, handling supplies. A perfect steward.

Shel had once offered to name her. She refused.

*"I was born nameless. I chose to follow you. A name might blur my purpose. Just call when needed—I’ll know you mean me."*

So he called her Nameless.

For years, they’d lived together on this island in tranquil routine.

The land sloped westward. The town nestled in the low eastern coast, where residents fished or traded with the mainland. Shel’s castle stood on the western cliffs, overlooking the sea. Leaving town, one could spot its square silhouette atop the highland—a weathered structure of moss-flecked gray stones. Thick walls and warding spells blocked the ocean’s chill and damp.

Shel cherished winter evenings in his bedroom: setting aside his teacup and book, watching flames dance in the hearth while wind howled outside. When he dozed off on the plush sofa, Nameless would silently drape a blanket over him, waiting until his breathing deepened.

This peace—something his lonely past life never offered—was precious to him.

The only flaw was solitude.

Nameless was a flawless steward and listener, but not a confidante. She’d watch him in silence when he spaced out. When asked her thoughts or dreams, she’d only lower her gaze. Eventually, Shel stopped pressing.

The townsfolk respected their generous baron but whispered behind his back—*refugee mage, noble bastard, exiled criminal*—their awe laced with fear. It unsettled him.

*Sigh.*

He wouldn’t return to Aran’s mainland. Better to grow old alone on this island. To accept the quiet.

Lost in thought, he reached the town’s edge.

"Sir Shel," Nameless asked, "shall we head home?"

"Hmm. Is there hot water? I’d like a bath."

"Understood. I’ll instruct the maids to prepare the tub. Please rest a moment."

"No need. You climb fast. I’ll take the path slowly—good exercise."

Nameless gave a slight nod. At the hill’s base, she inhaled sharply, planted her foot, and *launched*. Hand gripping a rock, legs coiling and thrusting—she rocketed up the near-vertical slope. With agility that would stun a martial arts master, she vanished over the crest and through the castle gates.

By the time Shel reached the summit, the bath would be ready, petals floating in steaming water.

He started up the rugged path, cane tapping the stones.

*Huh?*

Around a bend, a flash of crimson caught his eye.

A girl in deep red robes sat on the steps, staring at him silently.

His cane slipped from numb fingers, clattering toward the edge.

He retrieved it. Looked up.

She was gone.

*An illusion?*

Shel stood frozen for a long time before convincing himself it was nothing. He continued toward the castle on the peak.

Unseen in his blind spot, the girl watched him disappear inside.

At home, Nameless had changed from her black uniform into a light-colored house dress. She met him at the door, helping remove his mud-splattered coat. Maids guided him to the bath. After soaking, he wore a robe to the study, hair already dry.

Typically, this meant sweet wine or chilled fruit tea, a cake swirled with cream and tart berries, and a new book shipped from beyond the island. A perfect night.

Tonight was different.

No servant pushed a cart into the empty study. His favorite armchair faced *away* from the door. Books on the shelves were disordered—untouched by his meticulous system.

Most alarming: Nameless was missing.

A cold dread surged through him.

He stepped inside, approaching his usual chair—

The dread sharpened.

He didn’t stop. Peered over the backrest.

There lay Nameless. The warrior who could crush dozens now lay gasping on the floor. Thick black runes crawled from her left cheek down her neck—a high-tier curse.

Bad news: lethal within minutes.

Good news: Shel could break it.

Worse news: no time left.

"*Run…*" Her lips formed the word, breath ragged.

Too late.

An icy blade pressed against Shel’s throat from behind.

"Oh…" Shel chuckled bitterly. "So the girl on the hill wasn’t an illusion after all."

A voice, sweet as honey, whispered in his ear—like a lover’s tease:

"No illusion at all… Long time no see, *Teacher*. You haven’t changed a bit."

Slowly, Shel turned.

Met a pair of crimson eyes.