My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

Two female physicians approached Ulrich before Commander Marx Lambert could reach him.

They had been waiting near the edge of the ballroom with their leather medical bags held close, clearly uncertain whether they were permitted to interrupt Count Rubenhart while the Queen, royal knights, and half the court watched him.

At last, one of them gathered her courage.

"My lord," she said, bowing quickly. "We must examine your injuries."

The other physician stood beside her, younger by several years and even more visibly nervous. She held a narrow wooden case filled with small glass vials, rolls of clean linen, salves, needles, and strips of pale healing cloth marked with medicinal runes.

They had not brought simple healing potions.

Potions could close a wound quickly, but they were not always the best treatment. A careless dose could leave a wound poorly sealed beneath the skin, conceal inflammation, or exhaust the body’s natural recovery. For injuries such as Ulrich’s, cuts from demonic blades, torn flesh, and possible mana contamination, the physicians needed to clean the wounds first, inspect their depth, apply ointments, and use controlled healing magic only where it was necessary.

Ulrich looked at them.

The first physician swallowed.

"Your arm, my lord," she continued. "And the wounds along your shoulder and side. We need to ensure none of the blades carried poison or demonic corruption."

Ulrich gave a brief nod.

"Do what you must."

The relief on both physicians’ faces was immediate.

They led him a short distance from the dead demons, toward an open section of the ballroom near one of the remaining pillars. A knight moved closer to provide light, holding a small orb of white mana over them. Its glow fell across Ulrich’s torn shirt, revealing just how much blood had soaked through the fabric.

Esther stayed close behind him.

Hermione stood beside her, still anxious, while Louise and Airam watched without speaking. Kaliantha remained in her chair with Camellia holding her arm, but her mismatched eyes followed Ulrich as the physicians began their examination.

The first woman opened her bag.

"My lord," she said, attempting to keep her voice steady, "please extend your right arm."

Ulrich did.

The physician carefully took his wrist and lifted his arm toward the light. Her fingers were cool and professional, though the small tremor in them betrayed her nerves. She inspected the bloodied sleeve, then glanced toward her colleague.

"Multiple cuts along the forearm," she said aloud. "Several appear shallow. There is one deeper wound near the upper arm."

The second physician leaned closer.

"Yes," she nodded. "The bleeding is still active, though not severe. No blackening around the edges."

"No sign of immediate corruption," the first physician agreed.

Ulrich watched them quietly.

The women tried not to look startled by the quantity of blood. They had seen wounded knights, hunting accidents, battlefield injuries, and the aftermath of magical incidents within the capital. Still, it was one thing to treat a soldier brought into an infirmary and another to stand in the royal ballroom examining Count Rubenhart while nobles stared from the far side of the hall.

"Please bend your arm, my lord," the younger physician said.

Ulrich obeyed.

"Does that hurt?"

"No."

She pressed more carefully around the wound.

"And that?"

"No."

The physician’s brows drew together.

"My lord, you should tell us if it hurts."

"It does not."

The first physician glanced at the injury again.

"It should."

Ulrich said nothing.

Airam, who stood with her arms crossed beside Hermione, looked toward the physicians with a faintly unimpressed expression.

"He does that," she said.

Ulrich turned his eyes toward her.

Airam did not explain.

The physicians continued.

"Please turn slightly, my lord," the older woman said.

Ulrich shifted his body.

The light revealed a long tear across the shoulder of his shirt, where a dagger had sliced through the fabric during the fight. Blood had dried at the edge of the wound, though fresh red still seeped beneath it whenever he moved his arm. Another cut ran along his side, mostly hidden by the damaged folds of his waistcoat.

The second physician crouched slightly to examine it.

"My lord," she said, then paused.

Ulrich looked down at her.

The physician immediately blushed.

His stare was not harsh. It was merely direct, waiting for her to finish what she meant to say. Yet she seemed to lose the next words in her throat.

"The wound at your side," she managed. "It is deeper than the others. It requires treatment."

Ulrich’s gaze shifted toward the cut.

Then he reached for his neck.

The room seemed to become quieter.

His fingers loosened the white scarf tied beneath his collar. The fabric had been arranged neatly earlier in the evening, part of the formal attire he had worn for Camellia’s celebration. Now blood had marked one edge of it where it brushed against his cheek.

Ulrich untied it.

The scarf slipped free from his neck.

He handed it wordlessly to the nearest physician.

Then he began undoing the buttons of his shirt.

"W—Wha—What are you doing?!" Hermione immediately screamed out.

Ulrich looked at her briefly.

"The physicians need to treat the wound."

"T—That does not mean you need to—"

He unbuttoned another fastening.

Hermione’s face turned bright red.

She raised both hands and covered her face at once, fingers spread only slightly apart.

"Y—You cannot just take your clothes off in the middle of the ballroom!" She cried.

Yet, despite the force of her objection, one of her eyes remained pointed through the narrow gap between her fingers.

"T—This...!" Esther, meanwhile, was also quite subjugated, not knowing what to do between admiring Ulrich’s toned body and worrying about the cuts, though she seemed more worried.

Hermione quickly covered Esther’s eyes, unfortunately hiding her sight.

"D—Do not look! This is not a sight for us!"

"B—But you are looking, big sister..." Esther replied.

"I am making sure he is not doing something even more shameless!"

Ulrich ignored them.

The physicians, meanwhile, had gone entirely still.

The younger woman’s face had become red enough to match the blood on Ulrich’s sleeve. The older physician tried to maintain the composure expected of her profession, but her attention visibly faltered as Ulrich pulled the opened shirt from his shoulders.

The fabric slid down his arms.

Ulrich removed it without ceremony.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

His upper body was revealed beneath the hard white light of the knight’s spell. The cuts from the demons stood out immediately: a shallow slash along his cheek, the deeper wound high on his arm, another deep one on his back, blood across his shoulder, and the long slice at his side. But beneath the injuries, the strength of his frame was impossible to overlook.

His body carried none of the softness expected from a nobleman who spent his time at court.

His shoulders were broad. His chest and arms held the dense, trained muscle of someone who had fought with weapons for years, while old scars crossed his skin in faint, pale lines. Some were thin and clean, likely from blades. Others were rougher, remnants of injuries that had healed long before this night. There were too many to belong to a man who had only trained for appearances.

The ballroom noticed.

Several noblewomen waiting beneath the knights’ inspection gasped despite themselves.

A few turned their faces away a second too late.

Others did not turn away at all and openly admired, gasping, chatting, blushing as if five demons didn’t lie dead just a dozen feet away.

The older physician recovered first.

"My lord," she said, her voice slightly strained, "please remain still."

Ulrich did.

She stepped closer, holding a clean cloth soaked in a clear medicinal liquid. The scent of sharp herbs rose through the ballroom: crushed wintermint, bitterroot, and something smoky used to neutralize demonic residue.

"This will sting," she warned.

Ulrich did not respond.

The cloth touched the wound at his side.

The younger physician flinched harder than Ulrich did.

He did not move.

The older physician cleaned the cut slowly, wiping away blood until its full depth became clear. It was not deep enough to threaten his life, but it had opened the flesh along his ribs and would have worsened if he had continued fighting for much longer.

"The blade passed close to the ribs," she said. "Fortunately, it did not reach them."

"Can you close it?" Ulrich asked.

"Yes, my lord. We will need to stitch the deeper portion first, then apply healing ointment. The seal will be used afterward."

"Do it."

The younger physician opened another vial.

Her hands still trembled, but she worked carefully. She poured a pale silver ointment into a small dish, then mixed it with crushed blue leaves from a packet in her bag. The mixture gave off a cool glow.

"This will reduce infection and slow any remaining demonic influence," she explained. "The spell will only encourage the body to heal naturally. It will not force the wound shut."

Ulrich nodded briefly.

"I do not know what happened inside that barrier," Louise said as she approached him, "but you just dodged death, Ulrich."

Ulrich glanced toward her.

Louise had waited while the physicians cleaned the blood from his wounds and examined the deeper cut along his side. Now she stood close enough to see the narrow slash beneath his eye clearly. Blood had dried along his cheek and near his jaw, dark against his skin.

Without asking, she took a clean cloth from one of the physicians’ open bags.

Then she reached up and carefully wiped the blood away.

The cloth touched his cheek with more gentleness than Ulrich expected.

"You should not be standing so close," he said.

Louise ignored him.

She wiped another streak from beneath his eye, then folded the cloth over and pressed the clean side against the cut.

"How reckless can you be?" She muttered.

Her voice was quiet enough that only Ulrich and the women treating him could hear it.

She did not continue.

She did not ask why he had done it. She had already begun to understand. Ulrich had asked Kaliantha for a dance when Antonias was removed from the ballroom. He had kept the Queen close to him. He had watched the room instead of watching her. Then, when darkness came, he had been ready.

He had wanted to stay near Kaliantha.

To protect her.

Louise understood that much.

What she did not understand was why he had taken such a risk for the Queen. Ulrich did not involve himself in danger without a reason. He did not throw himself between blades because a situation demanded heroism from him. He was too calculating, too careful, too difficult to read.

Yet he had stood inside that barrier with Kaliantha and fought five demons while holding her against him.

He had been cut for her.

The thought sat strangely in Louise’s chest.

"My lady," the younger physician said nervously, "please do not touch him for now."

Louise paused.

Ulrich turned slightly.

Airam stood behind him.

He had not noticed her approach.

Her small, pale hand rested against the center of his back. Instead of using healing witchcraft again, Airam ran the tips of her fingers slowly over the fresh cuts, following a thin line near his shoulder blade.

"Something is strange," she said.

Ulrich frowned.

"What?"

Airam did not answer immediately.

Her fingers paused near one of the shallow wounds across his back. The cut had looked harmless compared to the gash at his side or the bleeding injury on his arm. It had barely drawn any attention when the physicians first inspected him.

But Airam’s gaze remained fixed on it.

"There is something in you," she said.

Ulrich’s brow drew together.

Before he could ask what she meant, pain struck him.

It began beneath his ribs.

A sharp burn moved through his body, too sudden and too deep to be the ordinary sting of a wound. It spread upward through his chest and into his throat, turning hot enough that Ulrich’s breath stopped for a brief second.

His hand went to his forehead.

The ballroom tilted.

The white light of the knights’ spells blurred at the edges. Faces became indistinct shapes. The voices around him grew distant, as though he had been pushed underwater.

Ulrich swayed forward.

"Ulrich?"

Louise caught him before he could lose his balance completely.

One hand came against his chest while the other supported his arm. She looked up at him, alarmed by the sudden heat in his skin.

His face had flushed.

The pale steadiness he had held through stitches, blood loss, and blades had vanished beneath a feverish red tinge across his cheeks.

"Ulrich!" Louise shouted again, panicked.

He tried to straighten.

The pain worsened.

It pulsed through his veins with each beat of his heart, spreading from the wound on his back into his arms and legs. His fingers tightened against his forehead. The dagger wounds had not hurt like this. Even the cut in his side had been a clean, simple pain compared to the burning now spreading beneath his skin.

Louise stared at him.

Her eyes moved toward the bloodied cuts along his body.

"P—Poison?"