Happy Evil Heartbreaker [Modern LitRPG]

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Chapter 135: The Heartbreaking Past and Uncertain Future

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Dionysius froze.

Did Xanthia die in the future?

How could that be possible?

Dematero must be talking nonsense, likely from drinking too much.

What did he mean by “this is how you’re supposed to be a brother”? Wasn’t he already a good enough brother?

Just last October during the long holiday, Dionysius had turned into an ATM for his sister, spending money on her, keeping her company, and playing games together. She was so full of energy on the dancing machine, and equally powerful while practicing her singing in the KTV room.

Compared to her frail and sickly appearance from before, she was now a completely different person. Dionysius believed that after resolving her inner struggles, Xanthia’s mental and physical health had significantly improved.

At the school sports meet, her resilience in the 3000-meter race and her visibly better health reassured him even further.

So today, even when Xanthia went wild on the ice rink, Dionysius wasn’t too concerned.

As Xanthia had put it herself, her health would only continue to improve, and her stamina recovered remarkably fast, which was why she could enjoy herself without a care in the world—she was just too happy!

She’d said all of this with such sincerity that there wasn’t a trace of deception in her words.

Moreover, Xanthia's nonchalant attitude toward her minor injuries, coupled with her brilliant and radiant smile, as she softly and sweetly thanked Dionysius for taking her to such a fun place, could make anyone feel disoriented.

Naturally, Dionysius’s heart ached seeing the bruises on her snow-white arms. They looked terribly grim, almost as if she’d been assaulted by some brute, giving him an unsettling feeling.

Yet, Xanthia only needed to utter a few coaxing words and a half-hearted “Brother,” and he was instantly smitten, his attention easily diverted.

Later, they played the “truth or dare” game, which pulled him even deeper into the moment. All that mattered was that Xanthia had enjoyed herself, and he had done well by earning more goodwill from her, further gaining her trust.

The results of spending time, money, and energy to make her happy were, of course, immensely satisfying for Dionysius!

He had already started looking forward to his upcoming birthday party. After all, in the past, such gatherings never saw Xanthia’s presence, let alone any handmade gifts from her…

At that moment, Dionysius still maintained his composure. He simply didn’t believe Dematero’s wild talk and responded calmly, “There won’t be any accidents in Xanthia’s future. As long as I’m around, she’ll live a long, joyful life.”

Though his tone was serene, the firmness and unshakeable determination underlying his words made it clear that his resolve and confidence were unyielding.

Dematero often admired Dionysius’s sense of responsibility and leadership. It gave people a profound sense of security.

In fact, Dematero had latched onto Dionysius early in this life precisely to align himself with such power. By earning favor and establishing seniority now, he could become a “trusted old retainer” of the future heir to the Papadopoulos familia, ensuring his benefits down the line.

Though his own “reborn self” fell far short of expectations, leaving him to plagiarize from his future self’s knowledge, he was undeniably sharp when it came to betting on the right power figures in the familia business.

The young Dionysius, while not yet as mature and composed as he would be in the future, already possessed a mind far beyond his years. Perhaps due to the unfortunate events of his childhood and the many trials he had faced growing up, he had naturally matured early.

Dematero, seemingly affected by Dionysius’s calm aura, reined in his earlier agitation. Rubbing his temples, he continued, “I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. Let me prove my identity by revealing something that I’ve never told anyone.”

Dionysius smirked, amused. “Oh? And future me was so close to you that he told you this secret and no one else?”

He was becoming increasingly convinced that this "eccentric" genius writer, Dematero, was simply relying on his innate talent for spinning tales to get close to him, hoping for personal gain.

Still, he had to admit, Dematero seemed to be quite the intelligence gatherer. He was exceptionally attentive to details and even managed to grasp Xanthia’s true place in Dionysius’s heart—truly impressive insight.

Such a talent was worth developing, Dionysius thought. Yet, as for Dematero’s words, he would just treat them as an entertaining story to pass the time.

But then, something unexpected happened. Dematero shook his head and said, “No, our relationship only grew closer later on. You told me this because you wanted me to write Xanthia’s biography with greater accuracy. After all, only you knew about these details from her childhood.”

Dionysius gestured for Dematero to continue. He was curious to see what kind of outlandish story Dematero could concoct.

Without missing a beat, Dematero dropped a bombshell, “When you were a child—more specifically, the year your mother brought you into the Papadopoulos familia—Demeterios El Papadopoulos took your mother, you, and Xanthia to attend your grandfather’s birthday banquet at the luxurious, antique garden estate known as ‘Papadopoulos Manor.’

“You had a conflict with Andreas El Papadopoulos’ eldest son, Youssef, because he insulted your mother. The confrontation took place in your grandfather Nikos’s collection room, and during the scuffle, Youssef accidentally broke your grandfather’s prized ancient blue-and-white ceramic vase. But he tried to frame you for it…”

Dionysius’s expression shifted for the first time. This incident had indeed occurred, and he had never told anyone about it!

“At that time, your grandfather favored his eldest grandson, Youssef, considering him the primary heir to the Papadopoulos familia’s third generation. An heir could have no blemishes on his record, so even though you eloquently explained the situation, you were still forced to take the blame. Despite being innocent, you were silenced, left speechless with rage, and even your parents dared not defend you before your grandfather’s wrath…”

Dionysius threw back the remaining liquor in his glass and slammed the cup down on the table with a force that interrupted Dematero. “Enough! Don’t say another word—I believe you.”

Dematero’s face was already flushed from drinking, his eyes bloodshot with a frightening intensity. “No! I have to finish. Xanthia was the only one who stood up for you! Even though she disliked you at the time, she had witnessed everything and, risking your grandfather’s fury, stepped forward. Maybe it was because when Youssef insulted your mother, it reminded her of herself…”

Dionysius, now sweating profusely, poured himself another drink. His voice trembled as he pleaded, “Please, stop. I really believe you!”

But today, Dematero seemed determined to press Dionysius’s emotional limits.

“Xanthia’s intervention didn’t help at all. In fact, she got dragged into the mess herself. Your grandfather was a man of iron will, someone who brooked no dissent. Even if he knew you were innocent, he wouldn’t side with you because you were of no value to him at the time. So, your father, Demetrios, stepped forward, slapped Xanthia across the face, and forced her to admit that she was the one who broke the porcelain vase.”

Dionysius buried his face in his hands, unable to confront that agonizing memory. It was in that moment, filled with fury and helplessness, that he swore he would one day prove his worth and avenge his sister for the injustice she endured.

“Back then, you were too scared to say a word in her defense. You were always a strategist, someone who waited for the right moment to act. You vowed that you’d make it up to her, and that you’d get revenge on Youssef…”

At that moment, when Xanthia held her small face in her hands, trying to suppress her tears, she finally became utterly disillusioned with the entire Papadopoulos familia. Later on, Susan tried to comfort her, because she had once held a great deal of affection for Xanthia’s mother.

Dematero continued to recount the tale, his voice steady, for he had immersed himself in the Papadopoulos familia’s history to write his biographical account. He knew more than most; Dionysius, having ascended to a prominent position within the familia, had shared many familia secrets with him. These hidden truths were gold mines for any writer, and Dematero made sure to collect every detail.

“If we're talking about stubbornness,” Dematero mused, “Susan, the daughter of Maria La Papadopoulos, is far more obstinate than you, Dionysius. But alas, as her cousin, she was powerless to change Xanthia's fate. By the time Xanthia had grown disillusioned with the Papadopoulos familia, no amount of kindness from Susan could sway her. Xanthia’s rejection was final, and Susan, proud and aloof as she was, wasn’t the sort to repeatedly offer warmth to a cold shoulder. Even though she still harbored a flicker of sympathy for Xanthia, after that rejection, the next time they met, she would greet her with nothing but cold indifference. Once Xanthia turned away from her, Susan was the type never to offer a second chance.”

Dionysius’s mind was now in disarray. He recalled that painful memory from his childhood—the one that resurfaced every time he thought of it, making him want to claw his nails into his own flesh. He had kept his head down, too ashamed to meet Xanthia’s eyes after watching her get slapped by his father.

What pained him most was that Xanthia took the fall for something she never should have been blamed for. In truth, the one who should have borne the punishment was Youssef. But what could anyone do? He was the first in line to inherit the familia fortune, the undisputed eldest son of the third generation—a rightful heir, in the eyes of the familia, comparable to an ancient crown prince.

And Xanthia? She was a nobody—a mere orphan whose mother had died, abandoned by a father who cast her aside the moment things got tough, leaving her as a sacrificial pawn.

After that familia banquet, Xanthia never attended another Papadopoulos familia gathering. In her fragile, young heart, these so-called familia meetings had never once brought her any happiness.

When they returned from that banquet, she received no compensation from her father, no comforting words, no right to even whimper. If she threw a tantrum, no one would care. Worse, if she angered her father, he would beat her savagely, mercilessly.

Dionysius had tried, in his own way, to make it up to her—but it was far too late by then. Her heart had closed off to the world. All she had left was her mother's songs, which she would listen to alone. And as she listened, tears would stream down her face.

Then her mental state began to deteriorate. Her appetite vanished, and her once-healthy body grew frail with each passing day. Her sole desire was to distance herself from the Papadopoulos familia, to sever every last tie.

“You've seen the psychological report, haven’t you?” Dematero asked. “The familia therapist's diagnosis of Xanthia—she was utterly consumed by depression. In order to reduce her suffering, her mind had begun to block out certain memories entirely.”

Dematero paused, taking another swig from the bottle, tears beginning to well in his eyes. “Her personality grew increasingly unstable, shifting constantly—like a person trapped between two worlds. At times, she was as innocent as a child; the next day, she might retreat into isolation, gripped by depression. And by the following day, she would be bursting with joy, laughing as though all was well...”

“But one thing about her never changed,” he said softly. “Her innate gentleness and kindness. She truly wanted to be good to the world, but who in this world ever truly showed her any kindness?”

Dematero’s voice cracked as he drank deeply, his heart wracked with sorrow. Long-buried memories clawed their way to the surface, tearing him apart. Yet, sharing Xanthia’s tragic story with Dionysius felt like a weight being lifted from his soul. The burden lightened, even if only slightly.

The truth, however, was far more brutal. All that Dematero had learned about Xanthia’s past had come from a future version of Dionysius, one who had witnessed Xanthia’s death. Those dark secrets haunted him, making him wish he could travel back in time and rewrite her tragedy from the very beginning.

Even now, having lived through a second chance—reborn into a different time—Dematero still felt as though it was too late. The moment Xanthia’s mother had married Demetrios, her fate had been sealed.

Dionysius, having listened in silence for so long, finally abandoned any pretence of restraint, joining Dematero in drinking heavily. How could he not? Dematero had stripped him bare, exposing his soul. His deep, lifelong guilt toward Xanthia had driven every thought and action—making his supposed obsession with his sister nothing more than a coping mechanism.

The bitter truth was that the only real warmth, the only true sense of familial love that Dionysius had ever known, had come from Xanthia. Yet she had been tormented so cruelly by the suffocating environment around her that she could no longer open her heart to anyone.

Dematero’s words had struck a chord. Dionysius could no longer ignore the truth. Xanthia may have seemed carefree, smiling and laughing, but how could anyone know what truly lay beneath that cheerful facade?

Perhaps her heart remained tightly shut. The happier she appeared, the more agonizing her inner pain must have been. The stronger her mask, the deeper the wounds. Back then, her isolation had been genuine, but now her sudden transformation into a social butterfly seemed disturbingly unnatural. Wasn’t that odd?

Dionysius hadn’t questioned her sudden change in demeanor, naively assuming that time had healed her. He thought Xanthia had finally found peace, resolved her inner turmoil, and chosen to face life with renewed positivity.

But now, Dematero’s words made him doubt everything. Could it be that Xanthia’s happiness was nothing more than a facade? Was she still consumed by an urge to self-destruct, a byproduct of her tragic past?

Dionysius’s mind raced, recalling her behavior on the ice rink earlier that day. She had skated with reckless abandon, throwing herself into every fall with abandon. The harder she fell, the more she laughed. That wild, untamed energy—he hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming it was just her way of showing optimism.

But what if, from another perspective, it was really an act of self-harm? Her thought process might have been: No one cares whether I live or die, so why should I? The more he considered it, the more Dionysius’s body broke out in a cold sweat. He had been far too careless. How had he failed to see through her? How had he missed the scars beneath her smile?

His heart ached as he downed another glass of beer, speaking to Dematero in a voice full of anguish, as though marching toward his own execution. “Dematero... I’m starting to believe you really are a reincarnated soul. Everything you’ve said about Xanthia—the familia secrets, the mental health reports—none of it should have ever left the familia.”

“Of course,” Dionysius continued, “if those reports ever came to light, the Papadopoulos familia would be shamed beyond repair. Many familias have skeletons in their closets, but Grandfather—he’s a man of pride. He believes the Papadopoulos familia is different, that with a man like him at the helm, our legacy will shine forever.”

Dematero’s face contorted with pain, his drunkenness doing little to dull the torment he felt inside. “If you want to know about Xanthia’s future, I’ll tell you everything. I won’t hold back any longer. Bearing this alone has been a torture I can no longer endure.”

Dionysius wiped at his eyes, already struggling to keep his composure after hearing about Xanthia’s past. Now, preparing to hear of her tragic future, he clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, bracing himself for the inevitable heartache.

The pain... it hurts so much...

 

Xanthia, who was currently engrossed in playing a pvp game on her Nightmare phone, was completely confused when she heard a notification from the system.

Huh? Why did Dionysius, my dear little brother, suddenly generate so much pain points? Wasn't he pretty happy during the day?

Where did this kid sneak off to tonight? Did he get his butt kicked or something?