After Papa's totally unnecessary joke about taking me to war, he left with a smirk on his face. A smirk. Seriously?
Sometimes I really wonder: Is this man really my papa?
I mean—first, he took me to an execution ground when I was just three months old! Three! Then he casually kills people in front of me like he's just flicking lint off his clothes. Now he's out here cracking jokes like, "What if I took you to war?" Sir, please, with your straight face, how is anyone supposed to tell whether you're joking or actually preparing me to become the youngest general in history?
I honestly wonder what kind of parenting guidebook he's been reading. "How to Raise a Villainess Baby 101"? "Murder, Mayhem, and Milk Bottles"?
And just like that, my life with Papa kept moving.
Time passed, just as fast and confusing as ever, and now—drumroll, please—I am three years old.
"Wahhh… I can't believe I'm growing so fast," I said, standing in front of the mirror and turning this way and that.
