Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
229 – Resurrection is a Scam

"Aroche Leodegrance—"

"How dare you force my husband to kill his own once more?"

Blink.

Chirp…! Chirp chirp…

Rustle…

When Aroche opened his eyes, it was a very bright morning.

He found himself in a guest room—neatly arranged, unremarkable. Just another noble’s estate, furnished with the same impersonal luxury as any other.

Lifting his hands, he studied them. Ordinary. His own. No inky corruption seeping through his skin, no sickly scent clinging to his fingers, no unnatural twitch in his joints. Just hands. Normal, human hands.

He swallowed, waiting for the usual bitter, metallic aftertaste. Nothing.

When he swung his legs over the bed and stood, there was no dizziness, no nausea twisting his stomach. Just balance.

And in the mirror, his reflection stared back.

Just him.

Just his body.

Once again, the morning was too bright, too crisp, too unbearably ordinary.

Aroche stepped into the corridor, tunic loose over his shoulders, bare feet meeting the cool marble floor. The mansion stretched around him in stillness, its silence almost reverent. No hurried footsteps, no distant murmurs of servants. Just the hollow quiet of a place not quite awake.

Through a grand window, the sky was a soft, indifferent blue, streaked with lazy wisps of cloud. The air smelled of dew and something floral—expensive, cultivated.

Outside, a bird chirped, oblivious to the absurdity of his existence. Somewhere in the distance, a tree rustled, leaves shifting with the kind of ease he had forgotten.

He exhaled.

No weight pressed on his chest, no phantom whispers gnawed at his ears, no unnatural tremor curled in his fingers. Just breath. Just being.

He was alive.

What a strange, unfamiliar thing.

He opened his eyes as an abomination, yet the concept of time had not abandoned him. It passed—not in days or hours, but in a slow, creeping awareness that festered at the edges of his mind. 

He did not sleep. He did not dream. But he felt time, stretching and bending, pulling him along like a cruel tide that never let him sink, never let him rest.

His existence as a severed head was not a void, not an absence of thought. He remembered—though not in clear, linear moments, but in strange, disjointed impressions.

The weightless sensation of being carried, the cold touch of metal against skin, the dry rasp of air slipping past lips that did not need to breathe.

He remembered the murmurs of voices, distant and distorted, speaking words that were not meant for him. He remembered the sickening pulse of something—something wrong—lingering beneath what should have been dead flesh.

His body had been taken from him, but his mind had refused to follow. It had clung to existence like a parasite, trapped in a prison of its own consciousness. He had been aware, always aware, even when he wished he wasn’t.

But now, it was heaven in comparison.

No more weightless limbo, no more sickening awareness of existing as a severed thing. His body was his again—solid, whole, familiar. No phantom sensations of decay, no unnatural stillness pressing against his thoughts. He could move, breathe, feel the warmth of his own skin.

Everything was back to normal. To him.

The dull hum of a living body, the stretch of muscle, the quiet rhythm of a heartbeat that was his—not an echo of something stolen or repurposed. He wasn’t a thing anymore. He wasn’t just a mind clinging to the edges of existence. He was here.

Clatter.

Aroche heard a noise. A small, unremarkable sound, yet in the stillness of the morning, it rang out like a bell.

He moved toward a certain solarium, drawn not by curiosity but by an instinct so ingrained in his bones that it felt inevitable. Through the glass door, past the delicate reflections of morning light, he saw a silhouette—one he would recognize even in the depths of hell.

A man.

Young but sturdy, moving with that unbothered, almost lazy gait, the kind that came with years of effortless confidence. He carried a cup of something steaming, the faint tendrils of warmth curling into the air like lazy specters.

His signature house robe—luxurious, 100% cotton satin, embroidered along the edges—draped over his shoulders, shifting with each step. His white hair, still a tangled mess from sleep, made no attempt at respectability.

Yawning—a deep, satisfying yawn that seemed to stretch through his whole body—he scratched his stomach with an absentminded ease and plopped onto the velvet sofa.

The morning sun streamed through the tall glass panes, casting long golden slants across the polished floor, dust motes swirling like tiny, weightless dancers in the quiet warmth.

His eyes, still sticky with sleep, squinted slightly as he unfolded a newspaper, flicking it open with a practiced, familiar motion.

Tap tap tap.

“Caliburn, my ribs hurt…”

A soft, sleepy voice drifted in.

From another door, a woman entered. The woman. Cosmically beautiful, in the way that made poets weep and artists despair at their own inadequacy.

A cascade of golden hair, tousled and wavy from sleep, framed her delicate features, strands sticking to her cheek where they had pressed against a pillow.

She wore a sundress—light, flowing, barely held up by fragile ribbon straps that threatened to slip with every unguarded movement. The fabric swayed around her ankles as she padded barefoot across the room, blinking blearily against the morning light.

The man, still barely looking up from his paper, grunted, “Come here,” and stretched out an arm toward her. Without hesitation, she obeyed, draping herself across his lap with the natural ease of someone who had done so a thousand times before.

He set the newspaper aside, one large hand sliding under her dress—not indecently, just enough to find her ribs, rubbing slow, practiced circles into her skin.

The kind of touch that spoke of years spent knowing exactly where she ached, exactly how to soothe her. She melted against him, her arms folding over his shoulder, her breath a quiet sigh of relief against his neck.

And then—

Drap-drap-drap-drap-drap!

Footsteps. Fast, eager, full of the boundless energy of youth.

Two children burst into the room.

The first, a teenage boy in a crisp school uniform, blonde hair neatly combed, exuding that practiced, nonchalant air of someone who had long since accepted the privilege of wealth. In his hand, a cheque book, held out expectantly.

The second—a little girl, small and fierce, a whirlwind of untamed blonde curls. She moved like a force of nature, a cannonball of restless energy, her tiny feet pattering across the polished floor as she hurtled toward the sofa with single-minded determination.

The boy, utterly unfazed, extended the cheque book. “Today’s allowance.”

The man glanced up, still rubbing slow circles against the woman’s ribs, and took the pen offered. “Oh? School resumes today?” His voice was warm, low, utterly relaxed.

“Yeah,” the boy answered as the signature was scrawled across the blank cheque without hesitation. “Headmaster said everything’s normal enough now.”

Meanwhile, the little girl had successfully climbed onto the sofa, a look of triumphant glee on her cherubic face. From the depths of her tiny pocket, she fished out a single, slightly crumpled flower.

“Pa! Papa! Pa! Pa! Maaaaaa!” she chirped, her small fingers working with clumsy determination as she tucked the flower behind her Papa’s ear. She sat back, beaming at her masterpiece, satisfied with her handiwork.

The picture before Aroche was perfect.

Idyllic.

Peaceful.

Beautiful.

A loving husband. A breathtaking wife. Two children, happy, healthy, adored. A home bathed in the golden light of morning, a scene so untouched by pain that it seemed like something out of a dream.

It was unbearable.

There was a very strong, overwhelming sexual attraction between Aroche’s neck and the nearest rope.

SLAM!

“SO YOU WERE HAPPY WITHOUT ME, YOU BASTARD!”

Aroche burst into tears.