Chapter 1

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Prologue - The Glass Slipper Breaks
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Act 1

The First Fragment

I’d rather be hated for who
I am than be loved for who
I’m not.

Rather than be loved for
being someone else,
it is better to be hated
for who I am.

The wind blew, sending my hair fluttering. Untended for a long time, it was not just coarse, but dry and brittle.

The forearm that came into view was as gaunt as a tree branch in the dead of winter.
My calves would be no different. A leg, glimpsed through the fluttering hem of my skirt, had the faded, withered skin of an old woman.

The dark bruises scattered here and there looked like liver spots. It was even more so under the reflection of the bluish moon.
Perhaps if someone saw me, they would think a skinny doll was walking precariously along the terrace railing.

I had never seen a night so brightly lit by the moon.
Was that why? A sentiment I would not normally feel began to well up inside me.

It was a strange feeling, a mixture of emptiness and sorrow. It was like resignation. A lethargy so profound I felt I could collapse at any moment.

How wonderful it would have been if music had started playing from somewhere?
I would have danced like a marionette with its strings cut.
And at the same time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I would have reminisced about the past.

Here lies a dull fairytale. The story of a stepsister and stepmother who were jealous of their beautiful and gentle younger sister. The private tale of villains who tried to take everything from her, but ultimately failed.

As in all old tales, the kind-hearted stepsister marries the crown prince and lives happily ever after, while the evil stepmother and stepsister who tormented her live out the rest of their days in misery, forgotten by all. This predictable story was no different in reality.

“But no one ever asks, ‘Why did they torment her?’ Isn’t that right, Roena?”

Standing before me now is that beautiful and kind stepsister from the fairytale. She must have run here without a care for her composure, for all that came from her lips were ragged breaths that seemed to rise from the very depths of her throat.

The look of horror on her face as she saw her stepsister standing precariously on the terrace railing was an expression she would never normally wear.

“What are you thinking? Come down. Come down and talk to me. Just come down and say anything, anything at all!!!!”

So how could I not laugh?
At this absurd situation.

People said she and I were polar opposites.
Yes, I admit it. We were water and oil. A relationship that could never mix, no matter how hard we tried. A dreadful, ill-fated connection that should never have been made.

But we—no, you and I—who would have felt a deep loathing for each other even if we had met as strangers, were bound by fate to become ‘family.’
In the world of nobility, where the lines of birth are so clearly drawn.

The union of Count Vischwartz, who had a fifteen-year-old daughter, and a commoner with a sixteen-year-old daughter of her own, was ill-favored from the start. He could have chosen a young, cultured, and pure maiden with no children to be his second wife.

But the Count chose my mother, who was living in poverty, and some gossips chattered as if it were the romance of the century, a beautiful union.

However, most people, with few exceptions, were not so generous toward the second wife and her daughter. Anything prefixed with the word ‘step’ was bound to evoke caution, unfamiliarity, and an inexplicable sense of rejection.

This was all the more true when what they already possessed was so superior that the new addition couldn't possibly compare.

In truth, love is an emotion that fades in time, and its end is always inevitable. My stepfather’s affection for my mother was no different, even if, for the moment, everything revolved around her and me.

So we were prepared. We knew that one day, our stepfather would suddenly face reality with a cold gaze and favor his true bloodline. We resolved to enjoy this affection to the fullest now and humbly accept the future that would come.

But other people could not bear it. They cornered my mother and me, their words sharp, as if the world might turn upside down at any moment.

I was a particular thorn in their side. This was because of my stepsister, Roena, who was close to me in age.

The people of the house feared I would use my stepfather’s favor to threaten the position of Roena, the Count’s heir. They trembled at the thought that the Count, blinded by love, would be swayed by my mother’s words and hand everything over to me.

So they sought to emphasize that I was wholly undeserving of such things, a pathetic girl who could not even compare to my stepsister.

It was a simple enough task. With the perfect Roena as a benchmark, all they had to do was constantly compare us and crush my spirit.

They did this by gently stoking the pride of a girl who was running wild like a branded foal, completely captivated by this new world. After all, there was no way a wench who used to run around the marketplace could ever win against a girl who was a lady from birth.

Their predictions were spot on. My stepsister's talents were astonishing; if I learned one thing, she learned ten. Things I could only manage by sacrificing sleep, Roena could replicate effortlessly after a single demonstration. No matter how hard I worked to keep up, the gap never closed.

Like a great, insurmountable ‘wall.’ Because she was so exceptional, my efforts were often belittled.

In truth, I, who was starting from scratch, and she, who was merely reviewing what she already knew, should have been evaluated differently. That would have been only right.

But in the world of nobles, a lady like Roena was the absolute standard, so I was always branded an underachiever.

The despairing thing was that no one ever taught me ‘properly’ so that I could compete with her fairly. Even my own maid, assigned to serve me, turned her back on me, so what more is there to say?

All the maids in the mansion did was cunningly hide the unfair starting line and constantly compare her and me, plaguing me with an inferiority complex. They did it to make me frustrated, again and again, until I would hide away in my room.

But they did not know. They overlooked the fact that while I might suffer from frustration and inferiority, I was not the type to lock myself in my room and burst into tears.

The spiteful foal, far from retreating to a corner, instead came to despise and hate her stepsister, determined to steal everything that was hers. So when my stepfather died at sea, caught in a storm during a trade voyage, I pushed my mother forward and seized control of the county.

And then, as if to unleash all my pent-up resentment, I began to torment Roena and her followers, shoving them into the damp cellar. I abused the noble lady of the house, working her like a maid. I was vicious, as if I couldn't bear it otherwise.

But as with all fairytales, the happy ending always belongs to the protagonist. I had overlooked the fact that, just as everyone said, the true master of the house was ‘Roena,’ and that she was the protagonist of this story.

Only my mother and I were unaware of the decisive moment everyone had been patiently waiting for. Unaware that so many people had been wishing for the day Roena would rise again in splendor and smile happily.

Now, what more is there to say?

That Roena, who had suffered under a wicked stepmother and stepsister, attended the imperial ‘ball’ with the help of those who pitied her, caught the eye of the crown prince, heir to the throne, and instantly rose in status?

That she saved us, who should have been thrown in prison for abusing and tormenting the lady of the house?

Roena called it a new opportunity. A chance to start over. That was why she had freed my mother and me, she whispered softly.

But for everyone else, it was nothing less than a chance to repay us for their past suffering. In the end, it was just a repetition of misery.

So I would rather end it all. This ill-fated connection with her, who pretended not to know, and with everyone who trampled on me to protect Roena. And an end to my own life, where I foolishly fell for their schemes and rampaged like an idiot.

So, behold. This dramatic stage. Long, loose hair, a plain white dress with no adornments. A lone woman standing precariously on the terrace railing. A single audience member, who came running in a panic after my summons. It is truly the perfect staging for the end of this absurd comedy. It was just a shame I couldn't laugh out loud.

Instead, I quietly asked Roena, who was gesturing for me to hurry down.

“Let me ask you one thing. …Did you really not know anything?”

“What are you talking about? Please, just come down.”

“Answer me. You knew, didn’t you? From a certain point, you knew something was wrong! But you just hid behind everyone, peeking out.”

I had always wondered. Everyone in the Count’s household was moving in concert, so how could Roena, the one at the center of it all, not have known?

Sometimes the comparisons were so blatant they were impossible to miss, yet Roena would just look at me with a perfectly composed expression. The meaning in her eyes was probably, ‘Why can’t you do something so simple?’

“Yes. But I thought everyone did things the way I did. It came so naturally that I couldn't understand how you felt, sister.”

“Yes, everyone knew. I wasn’t wrong.”

“But that’s in the past. We can start over. If only you’ll come down from there. So please, come down. Oh, please.”

No, we are already fractured. By the names of malice and inferiority. A perfect chasm that can never be mended lies between us. That is why my resentment toward her became hatred, which in turn transformed into a murderous intent, driving us to the worst possible outcome.

And yet, I could smile because I could picture myself as the ultimate victor.

‘And they lived happily ever after with the crown prince’ is the end of the fairytale? No, this is the true ending of this story.

“Roena.”

I called her name in a gentle voice. And as Roena flinched in response to my call, I said, as if muttering to myself.

“I hate you.”

I want you to be tormented by the memory of my death for the rest of your life. I want a ‘wall’ called ‘me’ to exist in the happy life that unfolds before you, so you will taste despair again and again. At the same time, I hope the image of me falling before your very eyes will always haunt you.

And so, with her scream as my companion, I could fall with joy.
Down from the moonlit terrace, like a fallen bird.
Accepting the immense pain that filled my entire body as if it were a wicked pleasure.

But why am I alive and moving now?
Why is a younger Roena, younger than in my last memory, standing before my eyes?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Roena. I suppose we’re to be family now?”

Why is my stepfather alive?

Am I dreaming right now? Or is this some cruel joke by God, telling me to taste that agony all over again?

What is certain is that I have returned from death, and I am fated to repeat the terrible reality I once endured.

To my utter despair.