Villain's Odyssey: Enslaving heroines, Conquering Villainesses

The Weight of Betrayal

"Argh... Ah... Ugh." As Asher woke up, all he felt was pain—so much pain radiating through every fiber of his body. He couldn't even move.

"Nice," he gasped, laughing bitterly through his agony.

What else could he do? Cry? He'd done that so much it felt meaningless now. Crying at unfair fate was... laughable.

"Argh..." he groaned. "They roughed me up pretty hard." The words came out as a pained mutter before he forced what he hoped resembled a smile.

Then came the sobs.

No, he was still one big, stupid softie.

He tried to hold it in, tried to be strong, tried to pretend he was above this. But he couldn't. The dam burst, and he cried. Oh, how he cried.

It hurt so much it felt like he'd swallowed a knife whole. The pain was so overwhelming he wished he could just erase himself—not just the physical agony, but everything.

Damn. Damn it all.

How had it come to this point? No one had listened to him. Would anyone even believe him now? Hell, he didn't even understand how it had happened himself.

It was as though the system had controlled him completely. All he remembered was seeing a sword—one he had no idea of its origin—piercing straight through Austin's gut. He'd been horrified, so terrified that he'd trembled with fear as he stumbled back from the deed.

His first instinct had been to escape. He'd begged the system, pleaded with the goddess to fulfill her promise. After all, he'd known this was his cannon event, his scripted end.

But all he'd met was silence.

"Haa sobs haha sobs" The broken, husky voice belonged to a boy now isolated and left alone to die.

Used. Again. Used once fucking again!

Was this all he amounted to? A pathetic end? Was this it?

In that moment, all those carefully stacked emotions poured out like water through a broken dam. He cried for an hour. Two hours. Three. He couldn't even tell when darkness fell. He just lay there, barely able to move, tears streaming down his battered face.

They say when a man cries, most times it isn't because of physical injury—it's because of how deeply, mentally hurt he is. Asher was living proof of that theory.

He was done.

He looked up at the sky. It was dark now.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

Rain. It was starting to rain, as if the heavens themselves were joining his pity party.

But he didn't move. He couldn't, so he didn't even bother trying. He just let it all fall on him, hoping foolishly that it might wash away the pain, the memories, the crushing weight of betrayal.

He had tried his best.

Even when the system repeatedly tried to cast him as the villain, he'd still helped those he'd called friends. Always in the background, always in shadows. He couldn't reveal his knowledge of this world, so he'd kept it all to himself—a lonely secret that had cost him everything.

He'd saved them too many times to count, even Isabella. He'd taken a sword or two for her without her knowledge, without her ever knowing. The only person who'd actually started suspecting him was Carmella. He'd saved her so many times, most often in disguise, that she'd begun piecing things together.

But he hadn't known that, of course. However, she had grown protective of him over time—a development completely outside his awareness. Only people who weren't as absent-minded as he constantly was had noticed. He'd always been on some mission from the system or a personal quest to save a 'friend.'

Now, lying there with no more tears left to shed, he could only wonder: Had it been worth it?

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

The downpour was heavy, but eventually it came to a stop. He gazed at the sky for a while, then stiffly shifted his weight. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony through his battered body.

All said and done, since he wasn't dead yet, he might as well do something with his pathetic life.

Revenge. The thought felt tempting, almost seductive in its simplicity. To make every single one of them feel what hopelessness really was.

But he didn't have such power. Revenge was a luxury for the strong—a luxury he'd been deprived of from the moment he'd awakened in this world, weak and unable to awaken proper abilities.

Scripted. This had been his destiny from the very beginning. He'd known it, but in the end, he'd done nothing to change it.

"Sigh." The sound escaped him after the painstaking effort of getting to his feet. He looked around, hand pressed to his left shoulder where the pain felt infinitely worse.

"Outside," he muttered, the realization hitting him like another blow. "They threw me out."

He was actually outside the academy gates, though by default this was still academy premises. The only way to truly be 'outside' would be going through the transport that led to Elflame, the city beyond the academy walls.

He looked once more at the towering academy structures. Roll call. All students would be in their dorms at this point, which explained the eerie quiet that surrounded him.

With one final glance at the place that had been both his salvation and his destruction, he began limping away. Every step was agony, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself forward.

After what felt like an eternity—probably an hour or so—he finally made it to the transport location. He surrendered the last thing signifying he was a student: his badge. The symbol of everything he'd lost.

With that sacrifice, he was given a one-time pass through the portal. He stepped through, and the next moment he opened his eyes to another scene entirely.

However, it was already nighttime in Elflame. The city lights twinkled like distant stars, mocking his misery.

He sighed deeply. He didn't even know where to go from here. But somehow, his feet kept moving. He limped forward with no destination, no plan—just the stubborn refusal to stop existing.

But then—

"Stop." A voice cut through the night air.

"Huh?" Asher frowned. He knew that voice. However, before he could turn around, something eclipsed his vision completely.

It was hot. It was red. It was fire—like another sun from his point of view, beautiful and terrifying in its intensity.

"Fuck," was his eloquent response to what was definitely not going to be a pleasant conversation.