The Villains Must Win
Chapter 178: Lyander Wolfhart 28

Chapter 178: Lyander Wolfhart 28

Lyander launched forward with primal force, barreling into Kaius and driving him to the ground with a deafening slam.

Dust and grass exploded into the air as the two hit the earth, but when the haze cleared, it was Lyander who stood—chest heaving, battered but victorious—his paw pressed firmly on Kaius’s throat.

The field fell into silence.

Not a single wolf moved.

Not even the shamans.

And Liora? She kept her hands calmly resting on the soil. Her magic had already faded, withdrawn beneath the earth like it had never stirred.

No one noticed. No one could notice as they were into the fight. But her heart was pounding from the thrill, the risk . . . and the overwhelming relief.

Kaius coughed under Lyander’s paw.

"Finish it," he snarled, wheezing.

But Lyander didn’t move.

"I’m not here to rule you," Lyander said in a low, guttural voice. "I’m here to unite us. If your pride is more important than the survival of our kind, then by all means, keep challenging me. But next time—I won’t be so kind."

He stepped off Kaius, turned his back, and walked away.

A stunned silence trailed behind him, only broken when Liora finally stood, brushing the dirt from her skirt, face composed.

Inside, she was shaking.

She had just altered the outcome of a sacred challenge.

Risked everything.

But Lyander was alive.

And that was all that mattered.

The whispers from the Stonefang wolves faded into muffled echoes in Liora’s ears. She tried to smile, to stand tall, but her knees buckled under her. The world shifted—tilting, spinning, like the ground itself was breathing beneath her.

Her breath caught.

Something’s wrong.

Her vision blurred, colors bleeding into one another like melted paint. The clearing where Lyander stood triumphant now warped and twisted in her eyes, growing distant and strange.

The grass under her fingertips felt like water. Her body, once held steady by sheer will, now trembled uncontrollably.

And then—nothing.

Darkness.

Cold.

Stillness.

Liora’s consciousness slipped free, leaving her body behind like a discarded cloak.

She was drifting.

Through trees. Past roots and soil. Her soul, untethered and faintly glowing, spiraled through the forest like a wisp caught in the wind.

The magic she’d borrowed—no, forced—from the earth had drained her more than she realized. Her body, the fragile shell she’d crafted so carefully, was still intact—but only just. It had slumped in the corner of the Stonefang packhouse, still warm but empty, its faint pulse barely holding on.

Thank the Ancients, she whispered into the ether. It didn’t melt. Not yet.

Her true essence floated above the riverbank now, hidden deep in the sacred forest behind the Stonefang borders.

The water shimmered beneath moonlight, whispering through reeds and stones. It was here she had recharged. The river was always kind to her soul. It greeted her gently now, wrapping her in cold, silvery ribbons of mana, helping her replenish what she had lost.

She soaked in it, letting her original nymph body drink from the ancient flow, feeling strength slowly return.

But time was running short.

She could feel it.

Her vessel was weakening.

If it decayed, that would be one hell of explanation, and the truth would laid bare and she would be turned into potion ingredient.

She had to return before it broke apart and dissolved into the earth that birthed it.

Panic surged in her chest. No time to linger. She dove beneath the surface of the river, her soul flowing like quicksilver through the underground roots and tunnels.

Trees hummed around her, recognizing her energy, guiding her path. The stone and dirt above parted just enough for her to pass.

She reached the edge of the Stonefangs’ territory in moments, then burrowed upward, fast and desperate.

Her body lay inside the packhouse—pale, breath shallow, lips almost blue. No one had noticed yet, thank the stars. Lyander had drawn all the attention outside.

But the longer she stayed gone, the more fragile the body became. It was already beginning to stiffen, the illusion that held it together unraveling strand by strand.

Now.

Liora’s soul surged upward.

She passed through the stone foundation of the packhouse, slithered across the floor like a shadow, and with one last push, flung herself back into her body.

A gasp tore from her lips.

Her eyes flew open.

Air rushed into her lungs like fire.

The first thing she felt was pain—sharp, immediate, and nauseating. The second was relief.

She was back.

Her heart beat again. Her limbs obeyed her. She could feel the thin sweat on her skin, the ache behind her eyes, the dull throb in her temples where mana had burned too fast.

She lay still for a moment, letting the reality settle in. Her fingers twitched. The wood beneath her felt real again. Her magic was dangerously low—like a candle that had burned too close to the wick—but she had made it.

Barely.

And yet . . . she smiled.

Lyander was alive. The challenge was over. She had done what she needed to do.

She pushed herself to sit up, wincing as she steadied her breath. The candlelight flickered in the room, casting long shadows across the walls. Her cloak was still wrapped around her. No one had entered yet. No one had seen.

The body hadn’t melted. The soul hadn’t faded.

And if the Stonefangs ever knew what she truly was, they would’ve done worse than throw her out.

But for now, her secret was safe.

She touched her chest gently, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath it.

You’re not done yet, she told herself. Not even close.

"Liora!"

The urgent voice snapped her out of her haze. Her head jerked toward the doorway just as Lyander stormed in—bandaged, bruised, and covered in dried blood. He looked like he’d been through hell . . . and come back just to find her.

His sharp eyes zeroed in on her lying in bed, and the worry on his face made her heart stutter.

"What happened?" he demanded, voice ragged. "The shamans said you were dying. They said you might not make it to tomorrow. And now you’re awake!"