Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
223 – How It Was

CLACK—CRACK!

“Oh my,” Percival blinked in mild surprise. “Your Highness, your sword broke…”

Burn exhaled, unimpressed. “You don’t say,” he muttered, casting a cold glance at the shattered remains of the sword that had faithfully served him for the past four years. “What a shame.”

Without much ceremony, the ten-year-old prince handed the broken blade to his knight and turned away.

“Shall I order another of the same make for you, sir?” Percival asked.

“Get something longer. The balance is off for my height now,” Burn replied.

“Yes, sir.”

COUGH.

Percival had just turned to leave when Burn suddenly doubled over, coughing into his hand. A dark stain bloomed against his palm. The knight stiffened.

“Your Highness—”

Burn waved him off before he could get any closer. “I’m fine,” he said curtly, rubbing his chest. “Good work sparring today. I’m going to rest.”

With that, he walked away, leaving Percival frowning after him.

After the Queen’s little affair with Sir Lancelot became public knowledge, the world naturally began asking an uncomfortable question: was Clarent actually Arthur’s son?

Guinevere swore up and down that he was. Arthur, ever the composed king, acknowledged him without hesitation. But the people? They weren’t satisfied with just words. They wanted a Vision Master to confirm their blood relation with magic—undeniable, irrefutable proof.

The irony wasn’t lost on Burn.

Funny, really. No one had ever backed him into a corner demanding proof of legitimacy, despite being a bastard. No one ever insisted on a Vision Master performing a blood relation spell on him. Why? Because he was Nimuë’s son. That alone had been enough.

That, and the rather inconvenient fact that he had Soulnaught Syndrome—the same illness that had plagued the founder king of Soulnaught.

Meanwhile, Clarent, once the undisputed legitimate heir, now found himself needing to prove his claim—all because his mother had decided to move on before formally cutting ties with her husband. What a mess.

Not that it mattered to Burn. As long as he had this illness, no matter how strong he became, he would never be considered for the throne.

Even being a Five Star Force Master meant nothing if he couldn’t survive this damned condition. King? First, he needed to figure out how to stay alive.

Burn stared at the blood in his palm and took a slow, measured breath.

That night, Burn collapsed into a fever that felt like drowning in molten iron, his body burning while his soul froze over. 

Soulnaught Syndrome was never kind. It never softened, never relented. It dug its claws in deep, festering in his very core, and no amount of strength or mastery could fight off pain that came from the soul itself.

For the record, yes, Clarent was proved Arthur’s son. And no, the Queen did not remain Queen. She was stripped of her title, divorced, and promptly shipped back to Leodegrance in disgrace.

Did that stop her from ruining Burn’s life? No. If anything, it only made her more determined to make it worse.

With nothing left to lose, she made it her mission to sabotage him at every turn, forcing him into a world where his only option was to fight, claw, and bully his way to success. And now? His reputation was set in stone—a monster, a ruthless child psychopath, the kind of terrifying prodigy whispered about behind closed doors.

How? Well, just because she was no longer Queen didn’t mean she had lost her influence. She was still Clarent’s mother.

And Clarent’s fate was not much kinder.

Burn’s existence alone was enough to overshadow everything he did. After all, who could compare to a boy who had reached Five Star Force Mastery at ten? Not just gifted—unprecedented. The kind of genius that left even the Founder King in the dust.

And Clarent, the boy who should have been the undeniable crown prince, found his position suddenly uncertain. His mother’s infidelity had turned him from the nation’s rightful heir into an object of doubt. The irony was suffocating—the real bastard was now seen as more legitimate than the legitimate son.

And worse still, he wasn’t strong enough to fight it.

The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, casting a muted glow across the grand yet sparsely decorated bedroom. 

Burn slowly opened his eyes, exhaustion still weighing on his limbs, but the unbearable fever from the night before had finally loosened its grip. His throat was raw, his body ached, but at least he could move without feeling like he was about to shatter.

He pushed himself up with a tired sigh, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. And then—his gaze landed on something that shouldn’t be there.

A sword.

Resting neatly on the stand beside his bed, as if it had always belonged there.

It was almost identical to the one that had broken yesterday—same balance, same weight, same craftsmanship. But this wasn’t his sword. His sword was in pieces, its shattered remains handed off to Percival.

Frowning, Burn reached for it, running his fingers along the hilt. It felt… familiar. Too familiar.

“Percival,” he called, voice hoarse from the night’s suffering.

The door opened almost immediately. The knight stepped in, sharp-eyed as ever. “Your Highness.”

“This sword.” Burn lifted it slightly. “Did you put it here?”

Percival’s brows furrowed. “No, sir. I just arrived thirty minutes ago.”

Burn exhaled through his nose, staring at the blade. Strange. He could still feel the ghost of last night’s pain, yet here was this sword, waiting for him, as if nothing had changed.

Well. He didn’t have time for mysteries this morning. With a quiet scoff, he set it aside and stood. “Never mind. Help me dress.”

Percival nodded and moved to assist. “His Majesty has summoned you, Your Highness.”

Burn sighed. “Of course he did.”

Burn stood still as Percival fastened the final clasp on his coat, his fingers lingering just slightly too long as if to wordlessly ask if the prince was truly well enough to be out of bed.

Burn ignored it. His body was sore, but he had endured worse. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing out any lingering signs of his fever before stepping forward.

The halls of the palace were cold this morning, the air crisp with the scent of polished marble and burning incense. Servants and knights bowed as he passed, whispering behind his back, their eyes flickering between admiration and unease. A monster. A genius. A prince. His titles varied depending on who you asked.

The throne room doors were already open when he arrived. A subtle message—he wasn’t expected to delay.

Arthur stood at the center, not seated, but standing in his usual composed manner, his presence heavy and commanding.

His ex-wife, the once-Queen Guinevere, stood beside him, all dignified grace and thinly veiled arrogance. Clarent was at her side, his usual troubled expression barely concealed beneath a carefully schooled mask.

Aroche, ever silent, stood slightly apart, his arms crossed. There was a faint smile on the boy’s face.

But it was the last figure that caught Burn’s attention.

A little girl.

Fiery red hair, too striking to be mistaken for anyone else’s lineage. She stood primly in a dress too fine for an ordinary noble, her grey eyes sharp, observant. Not scared, not meek—but stubborn.

Burn narrowed his eyes, already weary.

Arthur’s voice broke the silence.

“Say hello, son. This is Landevale Leodegrance.”

Burn arched a brow.

“Your future wife.”

…Ah. So that’s how his morning was going to be.