I Am The Game's Villain

The world around Alvara faded into nothingness.

The clash of steel weapons, crashing waves, the distant cries of sea birds, the murmurs of the wind—all of it vanished. Only one sound remained, echoing through the wooden deck.

Bryelle's blood.

Her little sister's blood.

Bryelle's once-bright eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, her lips parted as if she had something to say—but the words never came. They never would.

Lykhor yanked his sword from her chest, the slick steel sliding free with a squelch. Bryelle collapsed, her fragile body crumpling into the growing pool of blood beneath her. The warmth in her gaze faded, swallowed by darkness.

Alvara didn't hear the sword leave its sheath. She didn't hear the ragged breath Lykhor took. But she saw his eyes—those dark eyes that pinned her in place.

Blame.

He didn't need to say it. She could feel it.

This was her fault.

Lykhor had never intended to kill Bryelle. Not at first. He had endured rejection after rejection, humiliation after humiliation—losing his tongue and his pride. And then, there was Amael's gaze when he took his tongue, that single look that shattered whatever remained of his fragile mind.

He would never recover from it. So, he unleashed his wrath upon the only thing left to hurt.

Bryelle.

And if Alvara still refused him after this, then he would break her in another way. Her mother was still alive. He could still use her.

A dull thud echoed as Alvara's knees buckled beneath her.

Tears streamed down her face, yet her expression remained eerily blank, as her mind refused to process the reality before her.

She couldn't move. She couldn't speak.

Her gaze remained locked on Bryelle, her delicate body lying on the cold, blood-soaked deck.

All strength drained from Alvara's limbs. Her lips trembled, but no words came. No screams. No sobs. Just silence.

Bryelle had been everything.

After losing her father and Leena. After losing her family. After enduring the torment of that despicable man. Bryelle had been her anchor, the light that pulled her from the depths of despair.
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Just seeing her smile, hearing her soft voice call out, 'Elder sister'—it had been enough.

It had been everything.

Bryelle had thought she was the one being protected, the fragile one Alvara shielded within the castle walls. But the truth had always been the opposite.

It was Bryelle who had kept Alvara standing.

It was Bryelle who had given her a reason to hold on.

And now—

That reason was gone.

Meanwhile Annabelle continue to fight, through the waves of Utopian Knights swarming around her. She was alone now, holding them back as they pressed toward Alvara.

Her expression was conflicted.

She had seen Amael's memories—seen Bryelle for who she truly was. A kind-hearted girl, one undeserving of such cruel death.

A girl who should have lived.

-BOOM!

A powerful gust of wind blew through the boat's deck as Lykhor swung his sword, a glowing mana circle materializing in its wake. The violent gust erupted from the arc, sending Annabelle's puppets flying like broken dolls, scattering them in every direction.

The path to Alvara was wide open.

Annabelle shielded her face against the howling winds, forcing her gaze toward another battle unfolding nearby.

James Raven.

He was locked in fight against Durathiel, their blades clashing against each other. But something was wrong.

Durathiel's sword gleamed with an unnatural silver light, and James—he was struggling. His movements were slower, his counters weaker. His mana felt like it was slipping from his grasp, draining away with every passing second.

-BAM!

Durathiel's foot slammed into James' chest, sending him hurtling.

-SPLASH!

James crashed into the sea, the impact sending a pain through his back. He barely had time to recover before a wind blade sliced toward him.

-BOOM!

The water where he had just been erupted, splitting apart in a violent geyser as Durathiel's slash carved through it. Droplets of seawater rained down around.

James sighed, trying to steady his breathing.

Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. His body was weakening, his mana slipping through his fingers like sand. He didn't understand why. But one thing was certain—he needed to end this fight quickly.

He tightened his grip on his sword.

"Raven Arts," he muttered.

Flames erupted along the blade's edge, blood swirling around him like a protective veil.

Durathiel looked at him coldly. "James Raven. Leave now, and I will spare you."

James scoffed. Behind him, a crimson seven-layered mana circle appeared in the air.

"Alvara Teraquin is one of my precious students. I won't let you take her."

"We have no intention of harming the Teraquin Princess," Durathiel said. "We simply need her to nurture the Seed of Eden."

James' grip on his sword tightened. His gaze darkened.

"You don't have the Seed of Eden…"

Durathiel's lips curled into the faintest smirk.

"I know that Alicia Raven is in possession of it."

"…!"

"Leora Bloodspire entrusted her family's artifact—the one she received after leaving Edenis Raphiel—to her daughter."

James' eyes narrowed dangerously. "If you lay a finger on her—"

"Sin of Sloth."

Durathiel's voice interrupted as he raised his sword, and suddenly, the air around him shifted.

Shimmering silver particles rose from his blade. The moment James saw them, an unnatural chill crept down his spine.

The air felt heavier.

Without hesitation, James unleashed his mana circle. A surge of rush and fire erupted from it, twisting and swirling violently around Durathiel. The crimson blood coiled in the air, rising above Durathiel before rapidly enclosing him in a growing sphere.

Durathiel tilted his head up, his eyes narrowing as he watched the blood spiral tighter, sealing him in like a prison. He remained still, seemingly unfazed, even as the thick liquid began to harden into a pulsing cocoon.

James leveled his sword at the blood sphere.

"Burn."

A deafening explosion followed.

-BOOM!

Flames burst forth, consuming the sphere in a ferocious blaze. The blood, instead of being reduced to ashes, acted as fuel, turning the entire mass into a sphere of fire. The inferno roared hungrily, its heat distorting the air around it.

James narrowed his eyes. The attack had landed, but something felt...off. He could sense it. There was no scream, no struggle. Only the crackling of fire.

Then, his gaze caught something—small silver particles escaping through the gaps in the flames, drifting like scattered dust.

Before he could react, a blinding silver light slashed through the burning sphere from above. The entire fiery prison split apart, cleaved open as Durathiel emerged, completely unscathed. His entire body was coated in a gleaming silver substance, shimmering unnaturally against the backdrop of fire and smoke.

James took an involuntary step back, his grip tightening around his sword. "What the hell…?" He muttered in shock.

Durathiel, floating there, raised his sword.

"Sin of Sloth."

James immediately heightened all his senses, pushing his concentration to the absolute limit. Every muscle in his body tensed. He couldn't afford to take any chances. Whatever Durathiel was about to do, dodging would be his only option. He wasn't sure if he could even block it.

But then—Durathiel stopped.

Mid-motion, he froze. A strange silence settled between them. His gaze, previously locked onto James, shifted abruptly toward the sea, toward a distant boat cutting through the waves.

Alvara's boat.

James followed his line of sight and cursed under his breath. That boat was already heading straight toward the Utopian Capital, taken over by Durathiel's men.

Durathiel's expression changed. Something within him stirred. The Sin of Sloth pulsed in response, resonating with something—or someone—on that boat. His grip on his sword loosened slightly.

And then, without another word, he moved.

In an instant, he kicked off the air and shot forward, streaking across the sea at great speed, heading straight for Alvara's boat.

James' eyes widened.

"Wait—!"

He barely had time to react before an overwhelming sense of danger crashed into him. Instinct screamed at him to move, and he barely managed to raise his sword in time.

-BOOM!

A massive, armored knight appeared before him, swinging down a sword with the force of a bull. James gritted his teeth as he blocked, but the sheer impact sent him flying backward. He crashed onto the surface of the sea, skidding across the water before regaining control and landing on the deck of a nearby vessel—one of the Utopian ships.

As soon as his feet touched the wood, he was surrounded. Dozens of Utopian Knights closed in, weapons drawn.

"Great," he groaned, his gaze flickering back toward Alvara's direction. His teeth clenched. He had no time for this.

Then, he felt it.

A presence.

Familiar.

A slow smirk crept onto James's lips as he sensed the arrival of an ally. He sighed, his grip on his sword loosening ever so slightly.

"I'll leave it to you."

***

Annabelle's face had gone deathly pale. She was exhausting every last drop of her mana, forcing herself to keep going despite the growing weakness in her limbs. She had already sent a message to Edward but stalling for time was becoming harder by the second.

Her hand trembled as she kept her spell active, but the strain was too much. With a gasp, she finally let her arm drop. The last of her puppets crumbled, their lifeless forms collapsing onto the bloodstained deck. The Utopian Knights, though victorious, weren't unscathed—many had fallen, their bodies sprawled across the wooden planks, gasping for breath. Yet, despite their exhaustion, the battle had clearly turned in their favor.

But one figure remained untouched.

Lykhor.

He hadn't moved from his spot, nor had he taken his eyes off Alvara for even a second. His gaze bore into her, unreadable yet filled with something dark, something hungry.

Alvara, unsteady on her feet, pushed herself up. Her legs wobbled, her movements awkward and sluggish, but she forced herself forward, stumbling toward Bryelle.

Even with Lykhor standing right there, she kept moving.

"W–Wait…!" Annabelle panicked, trying to reach out, to stop her.

But her strength was gone. She could do nothing but watch helplessly.

Lykhor smirked as he watched Alvara approach. He waited patiently. Then, just as she came within arm's reach, he moved.

His hand extended toward her.

-Spurt!

A sharp, wet sound cut through the air suddenly.

Lykhor's eyes widened in shock. For a brief moment, he didn't register what had just happened. His outstretched arm—no, the stump where his arm had been—began to spurt blood.

His severed limb landed with a thud on the deck.

Annabelle's breath caught in her throat. Then, slowly, a wide smile crept onto her lips.

She lifted her gaze toward the cabin's rooftop.

There, standing against the backdrop of the stormy sky, was Amael. His white hair was swept back by the wind, revealing the sharp angles of his face—and the scar cutting across his jaw. His expression was cold, his eyes filled with nothing but spite.