Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
225 – How It Should Be

“Should we investigate?”

And just like that, their little adventure began.

The two scoured Camelot, visiting smithy after smithy, tracking down any lead they could find on the mysterious blade. Every forge, every craftsman they questioned, turned up empty. It seemed no one knew where it had come from.

Just as they were about to give up, an older blacksmith caught a glimpse of the sword as Burn adjusted it at his waist.

“Oh, that?” The man squinted. “That’s a blade the First Prince commissioned.”

Burn and Aroche exchanged looks, eyebrows raising simultaneously.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Aroche elbowed him in the ribs, grinning like an idiot. “Good news, right?”

Burn wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure at all.

“Too bad,” he muttered instead. “I don’t suit this sword length anymore.”

Aroche blinked. “What do you mean? It’s still a solid blade.”

Burn shrugged, sheathing the sword in a single, fluid motion before turning to leave. Aroche followed, watching him carefully.

And for the briefest moment—so quick it could have been imagined—Aroche thought he saw a hint of a smile tugging at the edges of the little guy’s lips.

Something warm curled in his chest. Before he could stop it, Aroche smiled too.

“Oi, does it make you that happy to get a sword from your brother?”

“...”

Aroche cackled. “Kek. I’ll commission the right length for you, you fucker.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Aww, look at you—acting all cool when you’re just a happy little bastard.”

“This little shit—”

It was the first time Clarent had ever given him anything.

But it was also the last.

In contrast, Aroche had gifted him a sword every single year. Without fail.

Burn had an idea why.

That year had been the first year Guinevere was no longer in the palace, leaving Clarent free to make his own decisions without her influence. It had also been the last year Burn had suffered from his illness.

Because the following year, he had consumed two sentient beings he had slain with his own hands. And from that moment on, his sickness no longer plagued him.

His ambition became unstoppable.

He claimed the title of Crown Prince immediately after.

And Clarent…

Well.

Their relationship had never recovered.

But Aroche was different.

The stronger Burn became, the closer Aroche stayed by his side. Not out of obligation. Not out of duty. But like a real friend. A best friend. A brother.

In hindsight, perhaps Aroche was the reason Burn never truly gave up on Clarent.

Subtly, in ways neither of them ever acknowledged, Aroche had always been the bridge between them. He never forced reconciliation, never spoke of it outright, but he tried—tried to keep them tethered, tried to mend what was broken between the half-brothers in his own way.

And in hindsight, maybe Burn felt guilty for the way Aroche and Clarent had drifted apart.

He might not have noticed it at the time, but the sight of Aroche being forced to choose between them—between his closest friend and his own blood—was never something he wanted.

Perhaps that was why, whenever Clarent was around, Burn instinctively kept his distance from Aroche. It was never intentional, never a conscious decision, but something purely subconscious. As if, in his own twisted way, he was trying to make things easier.

The sword Clarent had given him that day—Burn had recognized it immediately.

It was almost identical to the one he had once stolen from Clarent, years ago. A sword he had used as a reference when forging his own.

Back then, Clarent had claimed he no longer wanted it in disgust. A convenient excuse, Burn realized now, one meant to let him keep it without guilt.

But Guinevere had insisted on throwing it away.

Maybe that was why Clarent had looked so unsettled then.

Four years later, on the night of Burn’s birthday, Clarent had quietly placed a sword in his room.

A sword meant for him.

A sword that led him to wander through Camelot, searching for the one who had given it to him.

But if Aroche had never known about any of this—if he had never been there, never given Burn that sliver of belief—would Burn have still clung to the idea that the three of them could have been brothers, together?

Perhaps not.

And perhaps things wouldn’t have ended the way they did.

***

On the edge of the cliff, Isaiah had managed to erect a mana barrier, sealing the Demon Lord and the woman beside him. The sky grew heavy with darkness, the air thick with the scent of impending rain.

Aroche lay atop the shattered remains of stone and dust, his body—stitched together, charred, and pulsing with corrupted sludge—barely holding itself together. Around his neck hung Burn’s locket, filled with Morgan’s soul energy, keeping him alive just a little longer.

“I heard you… mention your wife,” Aroche rasped, his voice fragile, fading. “So you… finally settled?”

“Yeah.”

“Not with… my sister?”

“No.”

A pause. A slow, shallow breath.

“...Is she okay?”

“She’s safe.”

“So… she’s not okay?”

“Barely any of us are.”

A breathless, broken chuckle. “Ha… haha…”

Silence stretched between them. Only the distant rumble of thunder filled the space where words failed.

“Do you… have children… already?”

“Yeah. A boy and a girl.”

“Hmm… haha… hahaha… must be… lively…”

Another silence. Longer this time. The wind howled softly, carrying the scent of rain.

“Are you sure about this?” Burn asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aroche turned his head, meeting the gaze of his oldest friend—his brother in all but blood—who sat beside him, staring up at the sky.

“I’m still mad… you didn’t marry… my sister.”

Burn let out a quiet, broken laugh, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“Landie… she wanted… to become a knight… to be stronger… because you once said… you didn’t like weak… whiny girls… the first time… you met…”

“I know,” Burn murmured.

“So it was you… who didn’t like her…”

“She deserves better,” Burn said, voice firm yet weary.

“Like who… you little bastard? Who’s better… than you, huh?”

Burn exhaled slowly. “Someone like you. Someone like her brother.”

Aroche let out a weak, strained chuckle. “Piece… of… shit…”

Another silence. Longer. He barely had the strength to keep his eyes open.

“And who’s… the lucky girl?”

“My wife?”

“...Yeah.”

Burn’s lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The unluckiest woman this world has ever known.”

Aroche let out a wheezing breath, something between a scoff and a sigh. “...Fuck.”

The rain finally began to fall. Slow at first, then harder, soaking into the blood and dust around them.

“Do you love her?”

“I do.”

Aroche closed his eyes. “...I’m glad.”

The storm was coming. The horizon was already swallowed by rolling clouds, lightning flashing in the distance.

Aroche’s voice was barely more than a breath.

“Thank you, Burn.”

Burn’s fingers curled tightly around the hilt of his sword, his grip unwavering despite the tremor in his breath. The blade whispered as he drew it, its edge gleaming coldly under the dying light.

Aroche, lying broken amidst the rubble, did not flinch. He only watched, his fading eyes locked onto Burn’s with the same quiet understanding they had always shared. He had accepted this. He had made peace with it.

Burn, however, no one knew.

His throat clenched as he positioned the blade, his vision blurring against the rain and unshed tears. His own best friend. His brother. His most trusted companion.

And yet, Aroche smiled.

Burn clenched his teeth as he raised his sword—

BZZZZZZT!

—when the heavens split apart.

A streak of silver shot down from the sky, a metal griffin blazing through the storm like a falling star. Its wings spread wide, cutting through the rain, and with a deafening crash, it struck the earth behind them, sending waves of dust and wind spiraling outward.

Burn staggered back, his sword frozen mid-strike, his breath catching in his chest.

And then she descended.

A woman dismounted in a single, fluid motion, her golden hair whipping through the storm, her blue eyes burning with fury. The very storm seemed to hush in her presence, as if bowing to the sheer force of her wrath.

"Aroche Leodegrance—" she hissed, "how dare you force my husband to kill his own once more?"

***

The valley stretched wide beneath a sky caught between seasons, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and dying summer. Rain fell in lazy sheets, not a storm, not a drizzle—just enough to soak through clothes and settle into bones.

A man stood in the middle of the field, steady as the downpour, an umbrella tilted over his head. Beside him, a woman with hair like liquid gold, devastating in both beauty and presence. The matching rings on their fingers gleamed under the dim light.

Around them, men toiled, digging through the wet soil, their shovels carving into the unmarked mound with practiced efficiency. The rhythm of metal against earth was steady—until it wasn’t. A hollow thunk. Wood. The kind of sound that ended questions or started new ones.

The man with the umbrella gave a slow nod. “Open it.”

The lid creaked, the gathered rain sliding off like the coffin itself was exhaling. And inside?

Nothing.

The man's frown deepened, jaw tightening like a vise. Rain dripped from the edge of his umbrella, the world around him sinking into the scent of wet earth and something colder—emptiness.

This was his coffin. The one he'd personally consigned to the dirt, unmarked and unmourned. The final resting place of a man who had no right to rest at all.

Clarent.

The man who had slaughtered his own brothers. The man who had killed Duke Leodegrance and the Emperor’s covenant brothers. A traitor, a murderer, a ghost of a name that should have stayed buried.

And yet—

The coffin was empty.

Gone.

The man’s grip on the umbrella tightened until his knuckles blanched. The rain poured on, indifferent.

Of course. Because even in death, Clarent couldn’t stay where he was supposed to.

“Fucking bastard.”