I, The Villainess, Will Seduce All The Heroines Instead
Chapter 157: The Trial (16)

Chapter 157: The Trial (16)

The door to Trial Three groaned open like the yawning mouth of some ancient beast. Cold air whooshed out from within, carrying the scent of metal, ink, and something unsettlingly sweet—like rotting fruit drenched in perfume.

Vivienne clutched Verena’s sleeve. "Um... this feels cursed."

"That’s because it probably is," Verena replied, her voice as dry as ever. "Trial Three. The ’Inner Archive.’ If I remember the lore dump correctly, this is where contestants are tested by the echoes of the past. Basically, trauma with a budget."

"Sounds fun," Isolde muttered. "Lead the way, oh queen of emotional baggage."

"Gladly," Verena deadpanned, stepping inside.

The moment the three crossed the threshold, the world twisted.

The floor became paper, the walls shelves stacked to infinity. Inky constellations hovered midair like spinning thought bubbles, and between every aisle wandered spectral figures—students, warriors, monsters—all half-formed memories repeating loops like broken puppets.

"Welcome to the Archive," a voice crooned.

A librarian with ink-black robes and no face emerged from a column of smoke. Her voice was smooth, musical, and entirely too cheerful for someone who clearly fed on trauma.

"You have each brought your memories. Here, they will be catalogued, curated... and judged."

"Okay, can we skip the spooky monologue?" Verena asked. "We get it. Face our past, confront our fears, collect a shiny thing at the end."

The librarian giggled. "Ah, a repeat visitor."

Verena blinked. "Wait, what?"

But before she could press further, the room split—quite literally—into three corridors.

Each corridor glowed with a hue that corresponded to their individual constellations: Verena’s a burning crimson, Isolde’s a cold white-blue, and Vivienne’s an iridescent pink. They had no choice but to part.

Verena sighed. "Of course."

"Good luck," Vivienne whispered, squeezing her hand.

Isolde just gave her a knowing look. "If you get stuck in another emotional breakdown mirror, I’m not pulling you out again."

With a dramatic roll of her eyes, Verena stepped into her corridor.

At first, all she heard was silence. But then came the voices.

"You’re a placeholder."

"You only exist to push the real heroines forward."

"She died because of you."

The walls of the archive came alive with scrawled memories—scenes from her past, some from the original novel, others from her own fractured timeline. She watched herself as a background character, ignored in meetings, overlooked in plot twists, blamed for things that were never hers to carry.

Her knees wobbled for a second.

But then came another sound—Vivienne’s laugh. Isolde’s dry wit. The sound of someone calling her name like she mattered.

That was enough.

She reached the center of her archive, where a glowing book hovered midair. The title on the cover read: "Verena Aurelian: The Forgotten Extra."

She snorted. "Well, that’s rude."

She opened the book—and the pages flipped wildly on their own, a storm of words and moments flooding her mind.

There was power here, she realized. Not from the story she was given, but from the story she was writing herself.

"I’m not an extra," she muttered, voice steady. "I’m a problem the plot can’t delete."

As she spoke, the crimson glow flared. The room around her warped and solidified into a smooth hallway lined with gold-framed mirrors, all reflecting different versions of herself—some weak, some angry, some laughing, some crying.

She walked past each one without flinching.

At the end stood a doorway inscribed with her constellation’s sigil. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She stepped through it without hesitation.

Back in the center of the Archive, Vivienne and Isolde arrived moments later, each looking like they’d been through their own strange nightmares. Vivienne was tear-streaked but glowing, while Isolde looked oddly quiet—haunted, even.

Then Verena appeared, striding through the glowing crimson gate like she’d just finished doing paperwork.

"Well," she said, brushing imaginary dust off her coat. "We still alive?"

Isolde blinked. "Huh. You’re... smug."

Vivienne nodded. "She looks smug. That means she did something emotional and wants to pretend she didn’t cry about it."

"Correct," Verena said proudly.

The librarian reappeared, clapping slowly. "Very good. You’ve passed Trial Three."

The archive trembled, then collapsed in on itself—books, memories, shadows all folding inward until the three stood in a blank, white chamber with only one thing ahead:

A spiral staircase of starlight, leading upward.

"Three trials down," Verena murmured. "How many more to go?"

Vivienne smiled nervously. "The next one’s supposed to be... about identity, right?"

Isolde groaned. "Ugh. More feelings."

Verena cracked her knuckles. "Time to get existential."

And with that, they began to climb.

As the girls stepped forward, the cracked glass floor beneath them suddenly dissolved into mist, vanishing beneath their feet. In its place appeared a lake—serene, vast, and impossibly still. It mirrored the sky above, where constellations swirled like ink in water, forming and breaking apart in dreamlike sequences.

And there, in the center of the lake, stood a solitary platform of pale stone.

Without warning, Verena was pulled forward by a force unseen. Her boots skimmed the lake’s surface, ripples fanning out like silk threads. Isolde reached out, but her hand slipped through Verena like mist.

"Verena!" Isolde barked, frustrated. "The hell is this, a magical teleportation tax?!"

Vivienne let out a soft gasp. "It’s isolating her for the reflection phase..."

Verena landed gently on the platform. For a moment, everything went still. Then, slowly, something stirred from the lake’s depths.

A shadow rose—tall, fluid, feminine. It wore her face. Her hair. Her smirk. But the eyes... the eyes were void.

Her reflection.

"You again," Verena muttered, fists clenching. "I should’ve known."

The double tilted its head. "Oh? You seem disappointed. I thought you liked being me."

"Not really into self-loathing monologues today, thanks."

"But I am." The reflection stepped closer. "Let’s talk about how hard you try to act like you’re in control. About how scared you are of losing it all. About how deep down, you think you’re faking everything."

Verena didn’t move.

"You fight, you lead, you babysit half-wit heroines—" the shadow gestured vaguely, "—but every time you go to sleep, you wonder: was I ever meant to exist in this story?"

Verena’s fingers twitched. "Shut up."

"You think if you just keep going, if you keep fixing everyone else, the world won’t notice you’re breaking."

"Shut. Up."

"You’re not a villain. You’re not a hero. You’re not even a side character." Her reflection leaned in, voice like poison-coated silk. "You’re just filler. And the story moves on, with or without you."

A sharp crack echoed as Verena’s fist met her reflection’s face.

The shadow reeled back, laughing. "There it is."

"You wanna play psychological warfare?" Verena snapped, energy crackling around her. "Fine. But you forgot one thing."

Her reflection grinned. "Oh?"

"I’ve met worse than you. I’ve fought beasts, wrangled morons, and listened to Vivienne’s emotional monologues without stabbing myself. You’re nothing but my past in a tacky costume."

A flash of pale blue light bloomed behind her—Vivienne, shimmering at the edge of the platform, her eyes wide with effort as she forced her Dreamtide Affinity to bridge the trial’s separation. Illusory threads of empathy flowed from her hands, latching onto Verena’s back like a tether of warmth.

"You’re not alone!" she cried out.

Isolde’s voice rang out too, sharp and clear. "You better kick your own ass, Verena, or I’m coming in there to do it myself!"

Verena let out a breathless laugh.

Her shadow lunged—but this time, Verena didn’t retreat. She danced with the reflection, strike for strike, memory for memory. For every whisper of doubt, she responded with a memory of survival. For every accusation, a retort laced in sarcasm and stubbornness.

She didn’t defeat her shadow by destroying it—but by absorbing it.

With one final pulse of light, the reflection dissolved into smoke, seeping back into her chest like ink being reabsorbed by parchment.

The lake solidified beneath her feet, transforming back into glass. The platform shattered into petals of light, lifting her gently back to the others.

Verena landed, dazed but upright.

Isolde gave her a once-over. "No new mental breakdowns?"

Verena shrugged. "Same baggage, lighter carry-on."

Vivienne beamed at her, eyes glassy. "You looked cool."

"I know," Verena said, trying not to smile. "Let’s just keep moving before I get sentimental."

Behind them, the door to Trial Three creaked open.

Three trials down, many more to go.

But for the first time, Verena wasn’t just dragging herself forward.

She was moving with people—flawed, chaotic, sincere people—who were stubborn enough to walk the story with her.

As they ascended the spiral staircase of starlight, the air grew warmer, almost gentle—like stepping into a dream you didn’t want to wake from. Vivienne held onto the rail with one hand and Verena’s coat with the other, while Isolde simply floated up with arms crossed, unimpressed. "So what now?" she grumbled. "A test where we have to cry in front of a mirror again?" Verena rolled her eyes. "Hopefully with better lighting this time." But deep down, her heart beat louder. Whatever came next—it felt personal. Like the trial ahead wasn’t just about identity... but the truth they’d buried.

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