Ascension Of The Villain

The clash of light swords echoed through the Grand Hall like crystalline thunder.

Althea's blade met Easton's again and again, silver sparks blooming midair as luminous trails followed their every strike. Their magic seemed like they danced with each blow. Arcs of radiant energy flared between them in bursts of white and gold, like twin comets locked in a collision.

The air shimmered around them with the sheer beauty of their light magic. Threads of light particles unraveled and reweaved with every step.

But there was no fire behind Easton's eyes.

Althea moved swiftly, parrying a blow that came down in perfect rhythm. Another clash, another exchange. Her blade trembled for a moment under the weight of his. But it wasn't his strength that unsettled her. It was the hollowness.

This… isn't how it was supposed to be, she thought bitterly. I always knew we would fight one day. That we would clash, spill out everything we kept locked inside in our hearts—our fury, our grief, our betrayal. But not like this.

Not like this cold imitation of a fight.

Easton's strikes were the same as always, but lifeless—executed like drills etched into his muscles. There was no rage in them, no spite, not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Just obedience. Blind, numbing obedience. As though he were nothing more than a sword being wielded by someone else.

"Sienna," she spat under her breath. That name alone made her grip tighten.

With a cry of frustration, Althea ducked under a sweeping blow and pushed him back with a radiant burst from her palm. The light coiled like a sunlit whip, burning into the air.

But Easton merely absorbed it with a flick of his own magic, the golden flare dimming uselessly against his skin.

She skidded to a stop and stared at him. Her chest heaved, not just from exertion, but from something far more disturbing. She couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Are you seriously letting that pathetic witch control you?" she shouted, voice cracking through the silence between strikes. "Is that how low you have stooped, Easton? Do you not have any pride left?!"

The words hung in the air like a desperate plea. But he didn't flinch. Didn't react. Not even a twitch of his lips or a flicker in his brow.

He just kept coming.

Like a mindless doll.

Her heart thundered in her ears with rage. And then something caught her eye.

From the corner of her vision, she saw Clyde. He had Sienna suspended by the neck, fury carved into every line of his body.

Until suddenly, it all stopped.

His body stiffened, frozen mid-motion. The rage drained from him like water from a cracked vessel.

Althea's breath hitched. She couldn't see his face—his back was turned to her—but she didn't need to. Something in her blood screamed. Something deep and instinctive. The way her stomach twisted told her more than sight ever could.

He was in pain.

So much pain.

And then, nothing.

The raw anguish that had radiated from him a moment ago simply… vanished.

And that terrified her more than anything else. It was the numbness that followed the agony. The kind of stillness that came after something shattered so completely, it couldn't even ache anymore.

Clyde had lost all his colors.

The fury that had lit him like wildfire was… gone.

What happened?

That one moment of distraction was all it took.

Althea turned too late.

Easton's blade came down at her at that exact moment, knocking hers clean out of her hand.

It spun from her grip, landing with a metallic clang as his next slash cut through the space where her defense should have been.

A breathless gasp escaped her as light bit into her side—a searing pain followed by the flash of white-hot magic splitting through her skin and muscle.

Blood poured down her waist in rivulets of red, staining her imperial clothes, seeping into the marble floor like spilled ink on a paper.

She gasped, staggered. But she didn't fall. Because that's not what an empress did.

Her fingers clenched mid-air, and in a blinding flash, a shield of light erupted around her. Its edges shimmered like fractured glass, radiant and divine, casting golden reflections across Easton's impassive face as he raised his sword for another strike. This one aimed straight for her heart.

But the blade struck the shield instead with a resonant clang. The sound echoed like a bell tolling doom.

And in that exact moment, Althea's eyes hardened.

A narrow slit spiraled open in the center of the shield, so seamless it could've been part of its design. Before Easton could register the shift, a new sword, glowing with the same celestial radiance, pierced clean through the gap.

Straight into his stomach.

The pain left him in a strangled gasp, and blood spilled out in a sickening splash.

Althea's eyes stung, but not from her own pain. That's my little brother, something in her whispered, aching. That's the boy whom I hugged tightly when he cried.

She looked at her brother, standing wounded in front of her—his eyes still dull, his face still void of feeling, even as his blood soaked into her blade. Her heart throbbed painfully at the sight. It hurt—far more than she wanted to admit. She hadn't wanted this. Not truly.

But it was war.

And in war, there was no room for mercy. Not when your enemy had already cast it aside.

Without hesitating, she closed the distance, spinning behind him in one swift motion. Her hands gripped his shoulders and, with a sharp twist, she snapped his neck just enough to knock him unconscious.

He dropped like a puppet whose strings had been sharply cut, blood still leaking from his wound.

Althea stared down at him, breath shallow, heart pounding in a rhythm of conflict.

It shouldn't be fatal, she thought numbly, her gaze settling on the spot where her blade had gone in. Not deep enough to kill. Just enough to stop him.

She knelt beside him, brushing her fingers across his brow for a moment—just a second of stillness—before placing a hand over her own injury. Her magic flowed into the wound, threads of gold knitting skin and tissue back together, though the pain still burned like fire. Her teeth gritted against the pain.

There was no time to rest.

Her attention snapped to Clyde and Sienna.

The last time she had looked, he still had held Sienna mid-air by the neck. But now… Clyde was lowering her gently, almost tenderly, letting her feet touch the ground as if in slow motion. His arms, once taut with fury, were now relaxed.

What…?

Without warning, Clyde spun around, and the very air around him changed.

The wind screamed.

A massive funnel of air burst forth from nothing, howling and ravenous. It twisted upward, then curved in on itself.

A tornado—conjured from the sheer force of Clyde's magic. It spiraled violently toward where Vyan stood with terrifying speed.

Althea's eyes widened in horror. "Vyan!"

But she couldn't warn him in time.

Then again, even if she had, it wouldn't have changed anything.

Vyan wouldn't have been able to stop it.

Not when it was Clyde.

His teacher.

The man who had taught him how to harness his mana, who had shaped him into the invincible mage he was.

The only person who could ever defeat Vyan in a fair fight.

Because Clyde knew him too well. Every strength. Every weakness. Every move he had up his sleeves… and exactly how to counter it.

The tornado swallowed Vyan whole.

From within the roaring vortex, flames erupted—defiant and desperate. They shot out in every direction, lashing against the air in protest, but the wind was too chaotic, too violent to be tamed.

Fire met air, and the clash turned catastrophic.

The fanned flames caught hold of the silk-draped columns, the velvet banners, the golden curtains lining the banquet hall.

One by one, they ignited. Flashes of orange and gold spread like a fever. Heat rolled through the chamber, warping the very air as smoke curled toward the high ceilings. The Grand Hall, once majestic and ancient, began to burn.

The whirlwind didn't stop.

It tore through everything. Throne damaged. Statues crumbled. Glass windows shattered under the pressure of colliding elements. Even Jade's slicing dark vines couldn't pierce through it.

And then, slam.

The tornado, like a wrathful beast, hurled Vyan downward with catastrophic force.

The impact thundered through the hall, splintering the marble floor. Dust and shards of stone erupted into the air. The very earth beneath him cracked like it was protesting the violence.

When the whirlwind finally died down, Vyan lay motionless on the shattered floor.

And then, cough.

A weak, wet sound broke the silence. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, vivid against the dust coating his face. His chest rose, just barely, in a ragged breath.

Althea's breath caught, eyes wide in horror. Her heart pounded like war drums in her ears. She didn't even want to look at Iyana at that moment.

Before Clyde could strike again, Althea darted forward and grabbed his shoulder with a desperate grip.

"What the hell are you doing?!" she shouted. "Why would you attack Vyan? He is your—"

The words died in her throat.

Clyde slowly turned to her, and the moment their eyes met, a chill ran down her spine.

His gaze… it's empty.

Lifeless.

That same blank, soulless void she had seen in Easton's eyes.

"No…" she breathed, a tremble lacing her voice. "No, no… this can't be happening. Not you too…"

Her grip on him loosened as horror spread through her like poison.