The Villains Must Win
Chapter 207: No Second Chances 7

Chapter 207: No Second Chances 7

"No," I said, voice low and teeth clenched. "After you dragged me into that world and gave me a taste of that level of difficulty, there’s no way in hell I’m stepping down. I’ve got a bone to pick with that place."

The bunny groaned, flopping onto its back like I was giving it a migraine. "You’re obviously getting worked up for all the wrong reasons."

"I don’t care," I shot back. "Bring me back to that world."

"Nope," it said, fluffing its ears. "You’re not ready for A-rank. It’s not just hard—it’s unstable. There are no tutorials, no preloaded routes, no safety checkpoints. Even we don’t have full control or visibility. It’s an open-world nightmare where anyone could be the villain, and outcomes shift based on variables we can’t track."

It sat up, twitching its nose. "That’s why only hosts with a hundred stars or more are supposed to enter. You need items from the Magical Shop just to navigate basic events. And you? You walked in with nothing but attitude and a record."

I folded my arms and gave it a calm, deadly stare. "I’m sorry," I said, "do you see a single fuck on my face?"

The bunny stared at me like I was the most idiotic creature it had ever encountered.

And maybe I was.

I mean—logically—it was right. Everything about that world screamed red flag. A-rank worlds weren’t just challenging. They were unstable, unpredictable, sometimes even corrupted. You could die from saying the wrong word, or trusting the wrong smile.

What happened with Christian wasn’t even the worst-case scenario. It was probably just the beginning.

But that only made me want it more.

The thrill. The chaos. The high stakes.

I wasn’t some casual player who threw tantrums over difficulty spikes. I lived for that shit.

"The more unpredictable it is," I muttered, "the more I want it. The harder it is to win, the better it feels when I do."

The bunny squinted. "That’s not inspiring, that’s masochism."

"No," I said firmly. "That’s gaming."

I stepped closer, squaring my shoulders. "A true gamer doesn’t give up just because something’s hard. We persist because it’s hard. The greater the challenge, the sweeter the victory. And that world? That nightmare you dropped me into?" I smirked. "That’s my endgame now."

The bunny blinked. "You died. Like, medically."

"And now I’ve respawned." I tilted my head. "You gonna patch me back in, or do I find a workaround myself and tear a hole in your system?"

It muttered something under its breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Overachieving lunatic," before sighing. "I don’t have that kind of authority with me."

"Then let me talk to someone who does have the authority," I reasoned, crossing my arms.

"No, you’re only a—" The bunny stopped mid-sentence, ears twitching as if it suddenly heard something I couldn’t. Its eyes went wide for a second, then it blinked—once, twice—like buffering through a software update.

I narrowed my eyes. "Wait . . . did you just have a full conversation in your head or something?"

"Something like that," the bunny muttered with a forced little sigh, trying to act nonchalant—but its fur still looked slightly puffed in panic.

Suspicious.

Very suspicious.

"The system might still have your soul tethered to the last checkpoint. I could maybe plug you back in—"

My face lit up. "Really?"

"But it won’t be easy."

"I don’t care. Send me back," I said through gritted teeth. "I don’t care if I have to relive the trauma, or face Crazy Pillow Man again, or crawl through that godforsaken mess of a timeline. I am finishing that world and scrubbing this stain off my record."

The bunny sighed deeply and muttered something about "overachievers being worse than corrupted code."

But I didn’t care.

I had a death to avenge, a villain to unravel, and a leaderboard to protect.

The bunny sighed and twirled his little cane with theatrical flair.

Then—bam.

A solid punch to my gut.

"Not this again!" I choked, folding in half as my soul lurched forward like it had been dropkicked by the universe itself. "You seriously need to develop a better departure system!"

I didn’t even get to finish my rant before my body—or rather, my soul—was yanked into a spiral, launched out of the void like a broken ragdoll through dimensions.

Silence settled in the space that remained.

The bunny stood alone now, ears drooping slightly, the playful twinkle in his eyes dimmed. His usual antics gave way to an almost . . . human weariness.

He sighed, softly this time, as if speaking to someone not physically there. "Are you sure about this, Nebula? She might be good at gaming, but A-Rank worlds are different."

A voice answered, not with sound but with presence. It echoed in the space like wind through leaves, ancient and serene—neither male nor female, but something greater, something eternal.

"You worrying about a host? That’s new . . ."

The bunny didn’t reply at first. He just stared into the empty space where she’d vanished, ears twitching in thought.

"I just . . ." he muttered eventually, "I just don’t want to lose more of them. You know how it is. The hosts are thinning out—burning out. Too much trauma, too much pressure. Dying in those unstable worlds takes more than just lives—it breaks spirits."

The voice was quiet for a beat. Then:

"You think she’ll quit?"

". . ."

The silence was answer enough.

But the voice spoke again, gentler now. "There’s a fire in her . . . one I haven’t seen in a long time. Not just talent—hunger. She doesn’t want to survive the game. She wants to master it."

The bunny’s ears flicked. "Is that why you broke protocol? Let her return without proper gear? Without the hundred stars. Come to think of it . . . the glitch . . . its you . . ."

A low, amused chuckle rolled through the void like stardust dancing on air. "You sound like a protective hen. It’s been years since you’ve ever sounded like that. Even you can feel it, can’t you? That she’s different."

". . ."

"She doesn’t need hand-holding," the voice continued. "She needs challenge. Chaos. Pressure. That’s where hosts like her shine."

The bunny looked down, gripping his cane a little tighter.

"I just hope she doesn’t burn too bright . . . and too fast."

The voice softened. "Don’t worry. I believe in her. And you should too."

Then came a whisper, spoken more to fate than to anyone present.

"Perhaps . . . she’ll be the first to break through into an S-Rank world. And maybe, just maybe . . . she’ll be the one to make the villains truly win."

The bunny said nothing.

But for the first time in a long while—he hoped.