Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
240 – The Forest Didn’t Consent to This

Past the grand halls and towering walls, there was a so-called forest that was a charming little lie—a neatly arranged cluster of trees, standing in obedient rows as if nature had politely asked permission before growing.

It existed less for wild beauty and more for practical utility, its sole purpose to cool the air before it dared reach the estate walls of Wilderwood Mansion.

A low picket fence separated it from the grand domain beyond, as if that flimsy boundary could convince anyone that this was anything more than a glorified backyard with aspirations.

Well, no one liked seeing straight walls after all—there was something undeniably dull about uninterrupted stone stretching endlessly, you know? So, in a way, the trees had been arranged just enough to soften the severity of the towering walls.

And in such a place, where nature conspired to make walls feel less like walls…

“N-nine… mmmhh… ngh… t-ten…! Ahh…”

With all the grace of a fallen, enchantingly beautiful sack of potatoes, Morgan collapsed onto the ground, gasping like she’d just conquered a mountain rather than—let’s be honest here—completing a grand total of ten push-ups.

Yes, you heard that right. A whole ten! Let’s take a moment. Let’s process this feat of athleticism! Now, let’s all give her a standing ovation. Loud cheers! Confetti, if you have any!

“I… did it!” she declared triumphantly, rolling onto her back and thrusting a victorious fist into the sky—only for her gloriously overworked arm to give out immediately, flopping to the ground like it, too, had given up on life.

“Good job!” Burn said, clapping with the unshakable enthusiasm of a man who had just witnessed a world record—because, in a way, he had. Ten whole push-ups! For Morgan, this wasn’t just a workout; it was a battle against destiny itself.

So, go on, follow his lead. Clap! Applaud this miracle! Here stands the model husband, genuinely thrilled, because unlike the rest of us skeptics, he actually remembers the days when she couldn’t even manage one without dying as a cosmically gorgeous floor ornament.

Progress is progress, and if surviving ten push-ups isn’t worthy of celebration, then what is? Clap, men!

"Now kiss?" Morgan blinked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence and shameless begging. And, well—who was he to deny her? A kiss she got, his Force energy flowing into her.

Instantly, the exhaustion in her arms vanished. If she wanted to, she could drop down and bang out another set of push-ups with the enthusiasm of a soldier fresh out of boot camp. The thing was, she absolutely did not want to. Not right now.

Pulling away from the kiss, she leaned against his lap, finger tapping lightly against his chest as she blinked at him again—slower this time, flirtier, fully weaponized. "Come to think of it, we’ve never done it outside."

Burn, in his infinite composure, managed to hold back the startled smile twitching at his lips. He glanced away, pretending he hadn’t just been ambushed, his face heating against his will. 

The man—who had faced horrors beyond mortal comprehension—hid from the sheer force of her relentless blinking and fluttering eyelashes. His body, however, betrayed him, already prepped for battle.

"Don’t try escaping from training," he shot back, barely recovering, attempting to regain control of this battlefield. "Do the second movement again."

"Okay," she replied—way too quickly. That suspiciously compliant smile made him hesitate. Did she actually want him, or was she just playing with him?

Yes. This was his life now. This was his life now, goddammit.

With an air of serene mischief, she rose to her feet, a wooden sword now in hand—because, somehow, this was still training.

But, shockingly, she actually followed instructions.

Morgan Le Fay had an impeccable memory—annoyingly so. It was baffling that no one had ever bothered to teach her Force Art before.

Maybe they took one look at her fragile constitution and collectively decided it wasn’t worth it. Understandable. But watching her move sometimes, Burn couldn’t fathom the logic. She clearly knew how to control her body when she wanted to. Ahem.

Not just in those moments—though, let’s be honest, they were an excellent example—but in everything she did. The way she walked, the way she gestured, even the way she so casually tilted her head to the side—it was all deliberate, precise, effortlessly graceful.

Maybe it was etiquette drilled into her from her past lives, but making it look so natural? That was talent.

She was unhurried, yet never sluggish or restrained. Graceful, yet never overreaching. Every movement said exactly what she wanted it to say. A talent for mobility, plain and simple.

Like now, for example—the way she shifted her weight, turning a sharp, snappy movement into something slow and controlled. It was a kind of deceptive elegance, the kind that made people forget there was danger lurking behind it.

…Nice ass.

Yes, her center of gravity was different from his, which meant his movements wouldn’t translate to her body the same way. Her wider hips, the extra weight on her chest—they changed the rhythm and flow of her motion compared to his.

Those thighs.

Her lower body carried more weight, which made her steps feel stronger, more grounded. That was probably why her movements looked heavier. She should focus on her legs more.

It’s bouncing so much.

Hmm. Yes. Support. She needed better support. He should remind her to invest in sturdier bras. Or, better yet, he should find a seamstress to handle it for her. That would be responsible. Practical. Smart.

Bounce. Hmm. Gulp.

Anyway. Moving on.

Her grip on the sword was light. Too light. Maybe that was her preferred style? A light-sword technique would actually suit her quite—

Grasp!

Burn groaned, barely had time to register what happened before his brain short-circuited. Her fingers tightened around the sword’s hilt with sudden, confident pressure—right before a thrust.

A vein popped. His vision blurred. Drip.

…Right. He needed to control his body movements too.

“Caliburn? Why are you bleeding? Are you hurt?” Morgan’s sword hit the ground with a clank as she rushed over, kneeling in front of him like a concerned wife who just found her husband dramatically coughing up blood in a romance novel.

Hands on his neck, she tilted his face down, scanning him for injuries with the sharp precision of someone very familiar with his track record of nearly dying in the most extreme ways possible.

Burn wiped his nose, and just like that—the bleeding stopped. Because of course it did. “Are you worried about my soul again?” he asked, sounding far too smug for someone who just had a spontaneous nosebleed in the middle of training.

Morgan, completely unaffected by his act, nodded. No hesitation. No sarcasm. Just pure, undiluted concern staring straight into his very much intact soul. Because, well, last time he got too emotional in a fight, he almost accidentally destroyed the world with a single slash using his Vision.

Small things like that tended to stay on a person’s mind. And given his history with Soulnaught Syndrome, she had every reason to be suspicious.

Burn, however, tugged at the lace of his tunic with a slow, deliberate pull. “Well, how about you find out?” His voice practically purred with amusement. “You know how to feel my Soul the best way. And hey—we’ve never done it outside, right?”

It bites back.

Her words.

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