Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
232 – One-Sided Conquest

After days under siege—and even after the capital had fallen completely to Soulnaught—Rafaye Inkor remained holed up inside the palace, turtling behind layers of guards and his personal army. Slowly but surely, even the Angemoux Family’s forces began to withdraw, leaving him to stew in his own impending downfall.

It all started with the kidnapping of the first prince. The King and Queen, instead of fortifying their position, had stayed inside the palace, sending their people out in search of their missing son. 

But soon enough, the real danger revealed itself—not from outside, but within. Strange movements began surfacing both inside and beyond the kingdom, and before long, they found themselves forced to encircle their own palace with loyalists, bracing for the inevitable betrayal.

And when the betrayers stepped into the light, the entire court held its breath. Padparadscha—the man with the largest army among the neutrals. Mossflower—the Northern Marquis, commanding the bulk of the Prime Minister’s forces. And Wilderwood—the Inkian military family responsible for guarding the kingdom’s borders.

Formidable. Experienced. Ruthless.

There were others, of course. The Angemoux, the King himself, the other two dukes, a handful of marquises. But were any of them as dominant as Padparadscha? As relentless as Mossflower? As battle-hardened as Wilderwood?

Not even close.

Then, just to make things worse, the Great Forest decided it was time to apply some pressure. The Elven Princess had vanished alongside the missing prince, and the elves—never ones for subtlety—chose to express their displeasure by pushing against Inkia’s southwestern borders. Nothing quite like an enchanted army materializing from the trees to remind humanity that they were never truly alone.

And the dwarves? Well, they weren’t about to be left out of the fun. They descended from Storm Anvil, massive hammers in hand, enchanted catapults at the ready, fully prepared to smash their way through Inkia’s northwestern walls.

Oh, and let’s not forget the Great Jungle down in the southeast, filled to the brim with creatures that ranged from merely man-eating to outright eldritch.

Then there was Luminus. And, of course, Soulnaught.

For the first time in his life, Rafaye Inkor—the old, cunning fox—found himself at the receiving end of the same nightmare he had once orchestrated for Soulnaught in Burn’s previous loops.

His turn now. His kingdom’s turn.

When Emperor Burn dismounted his metal griffin, the troops instinctively parted. At the front of the siege, Percival bowed in greeting. Beside the old knight stood a man Burn had last seen at his coronation—Lazarus Lumine, King of Luminus.

Burn acknowledged him with nothing more than a nod before striding straight toward the heavily guarded palace doors.

“What is he doing?” Lazarus asked flatly. “Why is he not stopping?”

The question barely had time to settle before Burn raised a hand, pointing at the guards’ feet before sweeping his arm through the air.

The effect was immediate. Every single one of the heavily armored guards felt something scorching and solid sweep their legs out from under them. The metallic crash of armor rang out as they tumbled into one another—like a row of steel dominos. Even the Outsiders’ so-called upgraded armor crumpled alongside the rest.

Burn didn’t slow. He walked over the heap of fallen knights, stepping past the bodies of elite guards and commanders as if they were little more than uneven ground beneath his feet.

Siege? No, this wasn’t a siege. The breach had happened the moment he set foot on the battlefield.

“…This guy,” Lazarus muttered, completely floored. So the rumors were true. Burn had single-handedly annihilated the first wave of Outsiders.

And those men he just walked over? Their armor might have failed, but their strength hadn’t been for show. They were Four-Star Force Masters—supposedly elite. Supposedly.

“Secure them. Bind their arms and pull them aside. We need to finish the cleanup before His Majesty is done inside,” Percival ordered the Soulnaught Army behind him.

“Yes, Sir!”

Lazarus remained frozen, his jaw practically on the ground. Burn’s absurd display of power was shocking enough—but Percival’s utter nonchalance about it? That was just unfair.

“…Should we follow him inside?” he asked, more out of obligation than genuine curiosity.

“If you wish so, please, Sir,” Percival replied, bowing slightly and gesturing toward the now-unbarred path.

“Oh, no, I’m good,” Lazarus shuddered.

Crash!

Aaaaaaaah!

Bzzzzzt—BOOM!

At first, it was just the distant sounds of scuffling and shattering from deep inside the palace. Then came the screams. Then the explosion. Then—a man was flung straight through the roof.

“Oh,” Percival blinked, watching the man sail through the air before crashing onto the courtyard. “That boy’s got some strength. Five stars?”

Lazarus narrowed his eyes. “Possibly. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Duke Earnhart’s eldest son—the one who topped Saint Lucia’s academy two years ago. Became Inkia’s King’s Guard Commander last year. My youngest daughter has a crush on him.”

“Huh.” Percival watched as the man groaned and started pushing himself up. “He’s getting up. Sturdy kid. Maybe I should knock some sense into him.” He unsheathed his sword with a smooth motion.

“Yes, please,” Lazarus said, almost casually. “Just don’t mess up his face. My daughter likes his face. Also, my eldest—Saint Lucia’s Headmaster—probably wouldn’t appreciate you roughing up her prized student.”

“Got it. Be right back.”

“Careful.”

As the soldiers around them went about their tasks—dragging off the unconscious ones, beating down the particularly stubborn ones, and binding their arms and legs—Lazarus found himself watching the entire scene with an almost detached curiosity. It was, by all definitions, a battlefield. And yet, it felt oddly... idle. Efficient, methodical, almost routine.

He wondered, not for the first time, if this was what the path to world peace looked like—one side so overwhelmingly dominant that resistance became little more than a formality. A few stray punches, the clinking of chains, and a handful of half-hearted groans from those who still had the nerve to struggle. Hardly the chaos of war.

At this rate, all that was left was sweeping up the debris and waiting for the declaration of surrender. If only all conflicts could be settled this cleanly.

That was when all eyes turned to the figure emerging from the depths of the palace—the same man who had wordlessly stepped inside earlier. Now, he strode back into the sunlight, his silhouette stark against the glare, casting a long shadow over the battlefield.

And in his grasp, dangling like a broken puppet, was Rafaye Inkor—his once-proud frame now limp. Burn’s fingers dug into his scalp, gripping with effortless dominance just beneath the golden crown that had sat atop his head in unquestioned authority for years.

But now, the crown wobbled, dislodged by the sheer force of its owner's downfall.

As Burn stepped forward, the crown finally slipped free, tilting askew before plummeting down the palace steps. It struck the cold marble with a hollow clang, bouncing once, then twice, before rolling—its once-pristine gold now marred with scratches. 

The embedded gems cracked upon impact, fragments scattering like shattered illusions of power.

Silence followed, heavy and absolute, as the fallen crown came to a stop at the feet of the assembled warriors. It lay there, useless, discarded, while its former bearer remained suspended in Burn’s grasp—his fate no longer his own.

"By the decree of the Second Crusade, I, Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon—Paladin of the Original Saint and Emperor of Soulnaught—hereby sentence Rafaye Inkor to death for his alliance with the Second Demon Lord and his role in the assassination of world leaders."