Villain Throne:I Build An Empire On Bones

The Devil Tree stood tall in the dim woods, no longer dead and brittle but alive with a twisted kind of beauty. Its black branches spread wide, covered in lush green leaves and strange flowers that glowed with unnatural colors—reds and purples too bright for the gloomy forest. A low, eerie sound came from its bark, like a human whimper, growing louder as Zairen stepped closer. His black cloak swayed in the cold wind, and his red eyes narrowed, watching the tree carefully. The bandit raid was two days away, a bloody fight that could end him. He needed power, and the Devil Tree was his chance.

"You're looking strong," the tree whispered, its voice like wood cracking in a fire.

Zairen's lips twitched, not quite a smile. He reached out, his rough hand brushing the bark. It felt warm, almost alive, pulsing under his touch. "Here's your food," he said, tossing a bag of stale bread and a water canteen into the dark hollow at the tree's base. He'd heard the stories—kindness to the Devil Tree brought rewards, but destruction brought greater ones. Zairen wasn't here to play nice.

The tree shook hard, a deep groan echoing through the woods. "Krrkrrr…" Cracks spread across its trunk like breaking bones, sharp and loud. Zairen jumped back as the bark split with a thunderous crack, the trunk tearing open. Dust and faint smoke swirled, revealing a new tree inside—young, vibrant, its leaves shining green and its flowers dripping with bright, sickly colors.

Through the haze, a ghostly figure appeared—a young man's spirit, faint and flickering. His eyes glowed with a haunted light, like he'd seen too much pain. "Thank you… my benefactor," he said, his voice like dry leaves scraping together. "Your kindness has broken my curse."

Zairen's heart raced, but not with pity. His hand rested on his bracer, the hidden blade ready. He'd planned this—pretend to help, take the gifts, then destroy. The stories were clear: the tree's true treasures came from breaking it, not saving it. He kept his face calm, hiding his cunning.

From the tree's roots, where the trunk had split, two scrolls unrolled themselves. Their parchment glowed with strange runes—one marked as a Lesser Class B offensive spell, the other a Prime Class B destructive spell. Zairen's breath caught.Lesser Class B spells could burn through armor, while Prime Class B ones could level a house. Beside the scrolls, a metal amulet floated, cold and heavy, its surface etched with runes. A Class Class B relic, said to boost a mage's mana reserves far beyond normal limits.

And beneath it, two luminous mana stones, deep blue in color, pulsed faintly with stored arcane power.

Each stone could elevate a magus by two full tiers.With these artifacts in hand, Zairen could ascend to the rank of a First-Class Magi Master

The spirit reached out, offering the gifts. "These are yours, for your mercy."

Zairen moved fast, tucking the scrolls into his cloak and slipping the amulet around his neck. It felt cold, like ice against his skin, but it hummed with power, promising to stretch his mana reserves—now at four percent of a Three Star Magi's capacity—to new heights. He could feel it, like a well of magic waiting to be tapped.

The spirit opened its mouth, ready to tell a sad story of its curse. Zairen didn't care. He raised his hand, and a blast of fire shot out, flames licking the air. The spirit screamed, a horrible sound like tearing cloth. "What are you doing?" it cried, its ghostly form twisting in pain.

Zairen didn't answer. He unleashed another spell—ice shards that flew like daggers, piercing the spirit's flickering body. Blood-like sap oozed from the tree, dark and thick, pooling on the ground. The spirit's screams grew louder, echoing through the woods as its form burned and broke. The Devil Tree shook, its branches snapping, flowers wilting into ash. Zairen's spells kept coming—fire that charred the spirit's ghostly flesh, ice that shattered its fading limbs. The air smelled of burnt sap and death.

"Why?" the spirit wailed, its voice cracking like a broken bell. "I suffered for centuries, and you destroy me!"

Zairen's smile was cold, his eyes glinting with cruel purpose. "I don't help anyone. I take what I need."

The spirit's last breath was a curse, sharp and bitter: "May your death be as bloody as the pain you've caused."

Zairen laughed softly. "You're not the first to curse me."

The spirit vanished, leaving the tree in ruins—splintered bark, dripping sap, and a heavy silence. Zairen stepped forward, his boots sinking into the sticky mess. Something caught his eye—a faint glow among the roots, twisted like dead veins. He knelt, brushing away dirt, and found a ring. Not just any ring—a Class A Storage Ring, its metal etched with runes that pulsed faintly.

How did Zairen know its secret? Tales had long whispered of those who came seeking the Devil Tree's favor, feigning kindness to gain its gifts. Most, mere Class Two magi, lacked the strength to claim its rewards and left empty-handed or cursed. In frustration, one shattered the tree, only to be granted this ring — a cruel prize born of destruction, a token of the tree's wrath and twisted generosity.

The truth was clear: kindness might yield blessings, but destruction — brutal, merciless destruction — bore its own reward.

Zairen pressed his mana into the ring, binding it to him. It hummed, alive with power. He stored the scrolls inside, feeling their weight vanish into the ring's depths. His plan had worked—pretend to be kind, take the gifts, then destroy the tree for its true reward. Mercy was for fools; cunning was for survivors.

He turned, leaving the wrecked tree behind, and headed back to the manor. The woods were quiet now, the air heavy with the smell of sap and ash. His steps were steady, his mind sharp. The bandit raid was coming, and with these new tools, he'd be ready.

Back at the manor, Zairen ate a small meal—bread and dried meat—his thoughts cold and focused. He sat in his dim chamber, testing the amulet's power. His mana reserves, once a trickle, now felt like a deep pool, ready to fuel his spells.Power was a tool, not a goal.he thought and he became closer toward his purpose

Days passed in quiet routine — sleep, training with the sword, meditation on his mana's flow. Then, a summons shattered the stillness

One morning, a servant knocked. "Viscount Draven wants you. Great hall. Now."

Zairen pulled on his cloak, hiding the amulet and ring. The great hall was cold, its stone walls covered with House Draven's serpent banners. Viscount Draven stood tall, his face hard, his eyes like steel. Seressia stood behind him, her violet eyes watching Zairen. They were sharp with anger, but soft for a moment, like when she'd asked about his sister.

"The mercenary guild arrived tomorrow " the Viscount said, his voice heavy. "They're joining the raid against the bandits. Get ready. Your sword and armor are in your room."

Zairen nodded, voice low. "Yes, my lord."

The Viscount's eyes narrowed. "Those bandits are killers, not just thieves. They're cunning, brutal. Don't die easily, Zairen. Make them bleed."

Zairen's lips curled, hiding his thoughts. I'll make them scream. He bowed and left, feeling Seressia's gaze on his back.

In his room, he found Haxton's work: the sword, its sigils pulsing, and the armor, light but strong, built to keep him alive. He strapped it on, the dragonbone scales whispering against his skin. The storage ring sat on his finger, the scrolls' power waiting. The amulet hung heavy, its mana ready to burn.

He looked in a cracked mirror, his gray eyes cold. The bandits were waiting, hiding in the woods with their tricks, like Haxton warned. Zairen didn't care. He'd outsmart them, like he'd outsmarted the tree. His sword would cut through flesh, blood would spill, and he'd walk away.

The fog waited outside. So did the woods. So did the raid.

Zairen stepped out, heart pounding with hunger—for victory, for power, for survival.

What waited in the woods? Would Zairen's cunning be enough?