Ascension Of The Villain

Jade was slipping.

Her breath was coming faster now, ragged and shallow, her mana fraying like threadbare cloth. The nose-high arrogance in her stance had collapsed. Her skeleton beasts were nothing but ash at Vyan's feet. The weak vines cracked and withered in the heat of his flames. She had nowhere left to run.

Just a few more hits.

Vyan advanced, fire trailing in his wake.

He didn't want her dead. No. That would be too merciful. He wanted her ruined. Crushed. Stripped of every ounce of pride she wore like armor.

She had to be captured. Paraded in chains through the city. Be stoned at. Watched by the masses as the guillotine fell—just like his parents had been. And that would be justice. At least for him.

It would soothe the clawing pain in his chest that never quite fully disappeared. Because how could he let the embers of his revenge die? The ache always ignited whenever he passed by the pictures of his once-happy family in the hallway.

Benedict had once asked him if he wanted those photos to be removed. Vyan had simply said no. Because he wanted those pictures to serve as a reminder, for him to stay focused. He promised himself that he would let himself rest—only once he fulfilled his duty towards his loved ones.

And that day of resting was so, so close. Just a little bit further. He would reach his goal.

Another blast. Another flame. Jade stumbled.

And then—

There was a shift in the air.

Subtle at first, like the exhale before a scream. Then it came. Faster than instinct could name it. Like a harbinger it tore through. The hair on his skin stood. The pressure in the atmosphere changed. The mana floating around shifted.

A twisting cyclone roared across the Grand Hall—a violent spiral of wind slicing through every object. It came from behind him, and Vyan caught it just barely at the edge of his vision. But he didn't need to see the caster to recognize it.

Vyan knew. Without a sliver of doubt, it was Clyde.

It wasn't an enemy spell. It wasn't Jade.

It was his own best friend.

Vyan's body reacted before his mind could.

There was no time to ask why. No space for betrayal or reason or even grief—none of them found footing. Just survival.

He spun his own wind magic on instinct—opposite direction, full force. He tried to counter it. Redirect it. Anything.

But it was like trying to dam a tidal wave with a teacup.

Clyde's wind magic wasn't learned. It was inborn, honed into something untouchable. Vyan's wind, no matter how polished, was just a borrowed language next to Clyde's native tongue.

So the next thing he knew, the tornado had swallowed Vyan whole. It all happened too fast. One moment he was winning and now…

His breath was ripped from his lungs.

The world blurred into chaos. There was no up or down anymore. Only spirals. Cuts. Blades of air slashing at him, over and over. His limbs thrashed, trying to ground himself, trying to grab onto anything—something—but there was nothing but wind and the burning sting of pain.

His equilibrium shattered. His stomach lurched. His head pounded.

It felt like drowning in a storm of knives.

Still, he didn't give up. He couldn't. Not yet. Not without a fight.

Vyan clenched his fists and called forth his fire. If wind wouldn't yield, then he'd burn his way out of it.

But even his flames betrayed him.

The vortex scattered his flames into chaos, flinging them in every direction. He couldn't see—couldn't tell whether the walls, the ceiling, the floor had caught fire. But he could feel the heat bouncing back at him.

Everything was unraveling.

But Vyan couldn't stop trying. He had somewhere he had to be. He had dreams still left to be fulfilled. Most importantly, he had someone waiting for him.

Even as the air turned razor-sharp and breathing felt like inhaling glass, he pushed forward.

His head throbbed violently. The world spun around him in nauseating circles, but he refused to let go of his focus.

The speed of the wind was slicing into his skin, carving through flesh like thousands of needles. His blood was mixing with the whirlpool, turning the cyclone into a storm of crimson and flame. He was choking on it—on the wind, the dust, the pain—and his body was buckling under the force. He couldn't think of anything anymore.

He only hissed through the agony, bracing himself for the pain.

And yet, nothing could have prepared him for the unbearable pain that came next.

A slam. Bloody and painful slam.

His body hit marble like a vase shattering on the floor.

The crack echoed in his skull. It felt like the bones inside him shattered all at once. A sharp, white-hot pain exploded through his ribs, his spine, his shoulder. His limbs went limp. Numb.

He stared at the ceiling. Dazed, bleeding, ears ringing.

For a moment, everything went quiet. Or more like, it was that he couldn't hear anything. Everything had gone still for him.

He couldn't move. Couldn't think. It even hurt to fucking breathe.

As if to make matters worse, something warm filled his mouth. Thick. Metallic.

Blood.

He turned his head to the side to cough it out weakly, but even that took effort he didn't have. The blood kept spilling out of his mouth as if his insides had turned into a whole mush.

Well, with the way he was feeling right now, his external and internal bleeding had to be on par.

He felt like he was sinking. Not through the ground, but through himself. Drowning in his own body. His own blood. His own weakness.

He was… weak. So weak.

Everything hurt. Every inch of him pulsed with agony.

His eyes slowly blinked open and closed, the ceiling above swimming in and out of focus, the flames that had engulfed the chandelier nothing more than orange blurs against a golden background.

His lips parted.

"Ah… a-ah…" He couldn't even curse.

It hurt too much to form words.

It hurts. It hurts… Someone… help… Iyana…

Just then, as if it wasn't painful enough to leave him bleeding out there, he sensed something hurling towards him.

Sharp mana cut through the air like a whip. His instincts howled at him to get up. To fight. To burn. He felt the air split apart as Jade's vines came flying toward him, cruel and merciless. This was the opening she had been looking for.

But he couldn't summon a single flicker of flame.

His limbs were numb. His chest ached with every shallow breath. His body was a battlefield of pain, his mana scattered and unresponsive. Everything hurt too much.

So he closed his eyes.

And he braced for it.

There was no panic anymore. Just… a quiet acceptance.

So this is it, he thought. This is how it ends.

His mind was hazy, his thoughts thick with regret. He wasn't scared of dying. Not really. But the weight in his chest wasn't from broken bones—it was from the words he hadn't said.

He couldn't feel the silver chain around his neck anymore—the necklace with his name engraved in it, the one Iyana had gifted him, the one he hated for so long until he embraced it again. It must have broken during all the chaos. He felt so sorry about it. At least, it should've been with him at this moment. As a representation of Iyana.

Iyana… Iyana, my love.

I'm sorry.

I tried. Hah. I really did. I fought so hard today—I was winning. I wanted everything to go perfectly. I wanted to come back safely to you. But I failed. I couldn't keep my promise.

He swallowed back the taste of blood in his throat. He couldn't see Iyana anywhere near. He had seen that she had moved further down the Grand Hall while fighting Wyatt. So she must not have sensed this happening. It was such a shame that he couldn't see her for the last time.

I don't know why Clyde did this to me. I want to believe it wasn't intentional. Maybe he's being controlled. Mind-control, possession, maybe even Sienna—I don't know how she slithered her way into this mess, but it wouldn't be the first time she ruined everything.

Still… that doesn't change the outcome. I'm sorry. I failed you, Iyana.

If only I could be saved at this point… But sadly, it can't happen. It's too late.

He waited.

He counted the heartbeats in his chest.

One… two… three…

Why am I not dead yet?

His eyes cracked open. Just a sliver at first, and then wide.

Wait… seriously! Why am I not dead yet? What's taking so long?

But before the thought could fully register—

Shhlick.

A violent, ruthless sound split the air. Steel against flesh. Followed by a wet, gurgled scream. Then… the sickening splatter of blood hitting stone.

His body jolted.

Internally, panic flared.

What just happened? Who screamed? Did someone else get hurt? Is everyone ok—

But his thoughts screeched to a halt.

Because the burning chandelier that had been in his vision was blocked by a silhouette emerging. Heels clicked through blood and marble dust.

Once again. Like earlier. Platinum hair caught the light in front of his eyes.

His vision was blurry, but he would've known her even blindfolded.

She stopped just above him. And when he finally looked up, really looked—

She was smiling.

Not kindly.

Not cruelly.

But with that same look she always gave him in the quiet after a storm. Soft. Certain. Reassuring.

"Iyana…" he whispered, barely audible.

She didn't say a word.

But her presence answered everything—answered his desperate prayer.