Into the Apocalypse: Saving My Favorite Villain-Chapter 111: Regret

Cassel — POV

I knew Rosalia was struggling to breathe, yet I didn’t let her go.

I didn’t pull away from her lips.

I didn’t loosen my hold on her trembling body.

I didn’t stop the kiss.

Her breath hitched against mine, uneven and fragile, like a flame flickering on the edge of being extinguished.

I felt it—every shudder, every stifled gasp—as if her lungs were pressed directly against my own chest.

Her warmth seeped into me, soaked into my bones, and I clung to it desperately.

Because only—only—by touching her body, by feeling her breath and her warmth beneath my palms, could I be certain that she was still here.

That she had not disappeared.

That she had not shattered like so many other things in my life.

I was afraid.

Afraid that if I let go, even for a second, she would vanish—fade away like mist at dawn, leaving nothing behind but regret and the echo of her name.

And yet—

I regretted it.

I regretted it bitterly. Deeply.

I regretted forcing her to speak.

I regretted cornering her with my suspicions.

I regretted dragging her wounds into the light simply because I wanted answers.

I had played the role of the victim so well that even I almost believed it.

I twisted her emotions, pressed on her pain, made her cry in fear and humiliation—all for the sake of satisfying my doubts.

All to force her to confess her past, to reveal who she truly was beneath the gentle smiles and quiet devotion.

I knew better than anyone how much she loved me.

I knew how fiercely she stood on my side, how impossible it was for her to ever align herself with those people.

And yet I still said those cruel words.

Words meant to provoke her.

Words meant to hurt her.

I wanted to anger her.

I wanted to break her silence.

I never imagined that what she would finally say—what she would reveal—would tear my heart apart so thoroughly that it would bleed in ways I never thought possible.

My heart, which I believed had long since turned to ice.

Not when my mother died did it hurt like this.

Not when I was sacrificed and thrown into a sea of zombies, screaming and clawing as they tore into my flesh.

Not even when my body was ripped apart, blown into fragments, my consciousness dissolving into darkness.

I had thought I understood pain.

I was wrong.

This—this was something else entirely.

Listening to her story...

Listening to her trembling voice, to the way her words broke and caught in her throat...

It felt as though invisible hands were tearing my soul apart, ripping it into jagged fragments and scattering them across the floor.

Every sentence she spoke was a blade.

Every pause was salt rubbed into an open wound.

What a despicable bastard I am.

How could I allow myself to hurt her like this?

How could I force her to relive the memories she had spent her entire life trying to bury?

To drag her back into her worst nightmares—her darkest, loneliest days—just because I was afraid of losing her?

"I’m sorry," I murmured at last, my lips finally leaving hers.

Her lips were soft, damp with tears and broken breaths.

When I pulled away, it felt as though something vital was being torn out of my chest.

"I’m sorry... I’m so sorry."

The words sounded pitiful.

Insufficient.

Utterly worthless compared to the pain I had caused.

Even though, just moments ago, I had learned the truth of this world.

The truth that the world I had lived in—my entire existence, every choice I thought I made—was nothing more than a cheap web novel.

A collection of words written by someone else, someone who decided my suffering was entertaining enough to publish.

A truth so absurd, so grotesque, that it should have shattered my sanity.

How could anyone accept that their fate, their life, their very existence, was nothing but ink on a screen?

That every joy and every tragedy had been predetermined by a stranger’s imagination?

But I didn’t care.

Or rather—I no longer had the strength to care.

Because when I listened to Rosalia’s story, there was room in my heart for only one thought.

If only I had been there.

If only I had existed in her world.

If only I had stood by her side.

I imagined her as a small child, looking up with hopeful eyes, longing desperately for a family’s warmth—reaching out with trembling hands only to be slapped away by cruelty and indifference.

A child who learned far too early that love was conditional.

That affection had to be earned, begged for, endured.

I imagined her as a teenage girl, alone in a narrow, dimly lit room, the glow of her phone illuminating her face as she smiled foolishly at the novels she read.

Stories filled with love, devotion, and happy endings.

Only to curl up in a corner once she finished reading—hugging her knees, biting her lip to keep from sobbing—because it was her birthday.

And no one remembered.

No one celebrated her existence.

No one told her she mattered.

I imagined her as a grown woman, working multiple jobs, her body worn down by exhaustion and illness.

Coming home late at night, soaked in rain or sweat, only to be greeted not with concern—but with scolding.

With hatred.

From her own mother.

The word "home" felt like a cruel joke.

And then—

I imagined the moment when the gentle girl standing before me had tried to end her own life.

The thought nearly stopped my heart.

What must she have been thinking then?

How unbearably lonely must she have felt?

How helpless, how confused, how utterly broken must her heart have been?

And then she said she died.

She died the day after she learned of my death.

That—

That was when my hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

Of all people, I am the one qualified to speak of death.

Death is not peaceful.

It is not gentle.

It is a sensation beyond words—its cruelty, its terror, the way it rips a soul from its body and leaves behind only despair.

I have died once.

I have crossed that boundary and returned.

And knowing that Rosalia had died in her original world—

That she had endured that pain alone—

My entire body shook.

Yes, I was trembling.

Trembling with fear.

Trembling with grief.

Trembling with a rage so violent it made my vision blur.

If I had been there, I would never have allowed anyone to hurt her.

If I had been there, I would have torn her away from that place that dared to call itself a family.

I would have killed them.

Every single one of them.

I would have stolen her away, raised her myself, protected her with my own hands.

I would have kept her within my sight at all times, cherished her existence, and never allowed anyone to wound her—not even with a careless word.

If only I had been there.

But such thoughts were meaningless.

There is no "If".

No turning back in time.

No rewriting the past.

And yet—

Buried deep within my chest, beneath the guilt and fury, there was something else.

A feeling I did not want to acknowledge.

Relief.

Relief that with a family like that, Rosalia would never want to return to that world.

Relief that no one was waiting for her there.

Relief that there was nothing strong enough to pull her away from me.

I know I am selfish.

I know I am despicable.

But I cannot erase this feeling.

From the moment I accidentally learned that Rosalia did not belong to this world, fear had taken root in my heart.

Fear that one day she would search for a way back—to her original world, to the people she loved, to the life she once had.

But now—

Knowing what she endured there...

I cupped her face gently.

"Rosalia," I said softly, my voice trembling despite my effort to steady it.

"I will love you. I will protect you. I will carry you in my heart for as long as I live."

She lifted her face and wiped her tears clumsily.

Her eyes were red and swollen, her lashes trembling violently.

A single tear slipped free and fell onto my fingers, burning my skin like molten iron.

I leaned down, resting my forehead against hers, our noses brushing gently—but I didn’t kiss her.

Instead, I looked straight into her eyes.

Serious.

Unwavering.

"Rosalia, no matter who you are, no matter where you came from, no matter what your past holds—I love you."

"I love you. I love you madly."

"I love you so much that I refuse to let you stand on the same ground as others."

"I love you so much that jealousy and sorrow burn inside me whenever I see you care for another man."

"I love you so much that I constantly imagine locking you in a cage with no door—a cage where there is only you and me, and no one else."

"I Cassel," I continued hoarsely. "I love you, and I have no one but you in this world."

"As long as I live, I will make sure no harm ever comes to you. I will make sure you are happy."

"I will never make you sad again—or I will punish with the harshest punishment, let the gods witness my promise and my oath, and if I ever break this oath let me die A miserable death—"

A warm hand suddenly covered my mouth.

Rosalia stared at me, her eyes blazing with anger and agitation.

Even now—after everything—my little princess couldn’t bear to hear me curse myself.

Even though I had bullied her.

Even though I had made her cry.

How could I not lose my mind for someone like her?

I smiled softly, took her hand, and pressed a gentle kiss to her palm.

And for the first time—

I swore, silently and irrevocably—

I would never let her cry alone again.