Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
221 – The Bastard of Soulnaught

"What in heaven’s name hath but now transpired…?" Isaiah’s voice cracked as he staggered backward.

Aroche wasn’t any better. His mouth hung open, staring at the scene with the disbelief of a man who had just witnessed reality itself mock the laws of nature. “Burn…?”

And the sky—oh, the damn sky—had the audacity to split itself in two, as if heralding the arrival of something divine, only to casually stitch itself back together like nothing had happened. If either of them attempted to put into words what had just unfolded, they’d be forced to admit: they had just witnessed the ascension of a god.

But divinity was never without interruption.

“No!”

A woman’s scream shattered the air, raw and desperate.

From the churning, grotesque bed of thick, black corruption floating above, a figure flailed forward. She reached out, not for salvation, but for something far more human—desperation.

“Don’t kill my Lance!”

And then, as if fate had decided that the day wasn’t chaotic enough, the black sludge coating her face began to melt, sliding off in thick, slow globs. What it revealed beneath sent a jolt through every nerve in Burn’s body.

Not just Burn.

Aroche, barely clinging to the tatters of his consciousness, also found himself drowning in disbelief. He may have been battered, mind flickering between clarity and corruption, but he recognized her. He could never forget her.

His breath hitched. Burn’s face drained of color.

“That woman…”

Then, a single word fell from Burn’s lips;

“Mother.”

It was far more personal... than he thought.

Aroche’s entire being recoiled at the revelation. His corrupted, misshapen hand lurched to his head as if trying to claw out the truth itself.

“UGH!” he groaned, voice laced with agony and something far worse—remembrance.

“This… memory…”

The past had returned.

***

"Mother."

SLAP!

Aroche watched as the boy bowed before his aunt, the ever-radiant Guinevere—only to be rewarded with a sharp slap across the face.

“Did you steal my son’s favorite sword, you little bastard?!” The woman, whose public image was all grace, virtue, and benevolence, now looked like something dragged straight from the depths of twisted malice. “How dare you…”

Unfazed, the boy returned the sword, his small hands gripping a weapon nearly as tall as he was. His voice remained eerily calm. “I didn’t steal it, Mother. I was just borrowing it.” Then, with the kind of blunt honesty that only made things worse, he added, “And… I don’t think it’s Clarent’s favorite. He never used this sword.”

A scoff came from behind Guinevere. The older boy standing there—Clarent—curled his lips into a sneer. “I never used it because I cherished it, you little shit.”

Aroche, silently observing from the side, didn’t know whether the sword was actually Clarent’s favorite or not. But one thing was certain—it had never been used. Not even once.

“I’m sorry, Clarent,” the little boy said, pushing the sword toward him like a peace offering. “I won’t take anything that’s yours anymore.”

But Clarent didn’t even bother pretending to accept the apology. With a look of pure disgust, he slapped the sword away.

“I don’t want it anymore,” he spat. “You ruined my favorite sword. It’s no longer my favorite.”

Guinevere’s glare could have burned the boy where he stood. “Throw it in the trash,” she hissed, and a flicker of surprise flashed on Clarent’s eyes. “Even though Claire doesn’t want it anymore, I won’t let you touch anything that was once his. Now get out of my sight, you eyesore—”

With that, mother and son turned on their heels, leaving as if the boy were nothing more than an inconvenience, an unfortunate stain on their otherwise perfect world.

Aroche lingered.

He was young too, after all. And for whatever reason, after seeing Clarent’s complicated expression, he turned back. His gaze landed on the boy still standing there, now alone.

Aroche watched as the boy picked up the sword from the floor, dusted it off without a hint of emotion, and then handed it off to a nearby servant.

“Mother wants it gone,” the boy said, his voice quiet but calm. “Melt the iron and throw it away.”

The servant bowed. “Yes, Prince Caliburn.”

It was then that their eyes met.

And in that fleeting moment, Aroche realized—this was the first time he had ever seen Caliburn.

A month later, Aroche found Burn holding a sword that looked all too familiar. Naturally, he approached and asked about it.

“It’s a different sword. The one you’re thinking of was melted down,” the little boy replied flatly.

“Yeah, I figured. But it feels the same,” Aroche said, eyeing the weapon.

“That’s because it is the same—same smithy, same material, same balance, same length, same purpose,” Burn answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Aroche’s mouth parted slightly.

“Why did you think I borrowed his sword in the first place?” Burn asked, tone casual.

“Because you were jealous?” Aroche guessed, because that seemed like the most logical answer when dealing with family drama.

“No,” Burn denied, completely unbothered. “It was simply the best sword among his collection. Well, the best for me, in terms of composition.”

“…So you borrowed it as a sample to make a new one?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Hm.”

A pause. An awkward one.

So that was it? No petty revenge? No righteous indignation? He wasn’t even mad at his dear stepmother and half brother? Just… got himself a better sword and moved on?

Anyway, Aroche had a hunch that the sword in question wasn’t even Clarent’s favorite to begin with. Knowing him, or his aunt, they probably just made it up to stir up trouble for Burn.

“You’re Aroche Leodegrance, right?”

Aroche blinked.

“Yeah. Why?”

Burn tilted his head. “Why are you so curious about me?”

Aroche scoffed, narrowing his eyes in distaste.

“Pfft. Curious about you? Who?” He looked down at the boy—not in a condescending way, but in the who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are or wow, this brat is full of himself kind of way.

Burn sneered. “Leave before people start gossiping that you hang around the bastard.”

Aroche’s eyes narrowed further. This guy…

Burn’s birth mother had only passed a year ago, hadn’t she?

Saint Viviane—better known as Nimuë of the Lake.

Yes, this little brat had been quickly acknowledged as the King’s second son, and not because Arthur was particularly sentimental. No, it was because his mother happened to be the Lady of the Lake.

Sure, Nimuë of the Lake might not have been as legendary as Morgan of the Fairy, but she was still one of the most widely recognized mages out there—an Eight-Circled Vision Master, no less. A woman of influence, power, and status.

And yet, she died young, leaving behind a child who only then got the honor of being acknowledged by his father, King Arthur.

To be fair, Arthur had his doubts at first. But, well… there were only so many coincidences a man could deny. The kid had Soulnaught Syndrome, the same rare condition the kingdom’s founder had—the very same name the kingdom bore.

He had the white hair, the golden eyes, the features of a direct Pendragon bloodline. And frankly, if Nimuë of the Lake said the kid was his, why argue? She wasn’t exactly known for lying.

After all, she was no ordinary mage. She had been called ‘Little Morgan’ for a reason, had saved countless lives, and had spent her years solving crises far beyond the petty squabbles of nobles. So if she really wanted to manipulate the throne, she could’ve done better than presenting a bastard.

But bastard he was, nonetheless. No marriage. No love story. Just a king, a powerful mage, and a child caught in the mess between them.

Today, Burn was six. His mother had died a year ago. And his father had only bothered to acknowledge him mere months before that—a process that, for the record, had started when he was two or three. Because even with her influence, recognizing an illegitimate prince still took some time.

And yet, something had always been… off.

Nimuë of the Lake had shown little interest in her son. No, not just indifference—actual loathing. And Arthur? He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge Burn either. He did it because Nimuë made him.

Was it the Soulnaught Syndrome? Maybe. Maybe not.

Still.

Something changed after her death.

Or maybe it was just a five-year-old learning how to survive in the palace.

Whatever the case, Burn started showing talent. Ridiculous, undeniable talent—more than even Clarent and Aroche, both famous child prodigies of Soulnaught.

And at just six, he had already broken through the Third Star Force Mastery.

Because of course he did.

But everything changed when a royal scandal emerged.

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Betrayal is always the name of the game.

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