Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
244 – Shorof’s Worst Day

Shorof was almost 55 years old today—just a baby by elf standards, but technically entering her “young adult” years. Which meant, according to tradition, she should be thinking about settling down, finding a mate, and gracefully stepping into her future as ruler of the Great Forest.

And in theory, she had the freedom to pick anyone she wanted. Any elf, from any tribe. Just like her mother, who went and picked some charming Moon Elf.

But of course, of course.

There, under the moonlight, stood three figures. One man, head bowed, and two others radiating so much majesty they might as well have been posing for a royal portrait.

The first time Shorof saw him was when he marched into the Great Assembly to defend himself against some serious accusations. And by "defend," she meant he fully admitted to everything and still walked out innocent. An impressive legal strategy, if not a concerning one.

Then came the real problem. The moment he grabbed her wrist, checked her condition, and gave her that look—the kind filled with deep, personal regret. Apparently, his father had the same affliction she did, and he failed to save him. So, naturally, he carried the burden of killing said father himself to spare him further suffering.

Romantic, right?

To make matters worse, he didn’t even bother blaming her sister for her incompetence, nor did he shake his fist at the heavens for all the fingers pointed his way. Nope. He even went out of his way to save said sister from a demon lord.

Honestly, how was she supposed to resist falling for that?

Emperor Burn of Soulnaught—the world’s official villain, a tyrant with a global unification plan that kicked off earlier this year.

Also, the man she admired.

Also, Her Holiness’ husband.

Oh dear, dear.

A man who was no longer just some distant tyrant emperor. A man who had touched her wrist, examined her condition, seen his own failures reflected in her suffering, and carried the weight of a decision no one should ever have to make.

It wasn’t just admiration—it was reluctant awe, a touch of… perhaps, tragic empathy, and just enough self-awareness to know she really should not be feeling this way.

But, well. Here we are.

First, an excuse.

She followed her mother here for yet another grand mythical assembly, knowing full well that one crisis had already been thwarted by his hand. And to be completely honest, she felt a little pathetic using this as an excuse to see him. The world was in chaos, and this was hardly the time to indulge in personal delusions.

But of course, she had to express her gratitude for saving her sister. That was just basic courtesy, right? Right.

So, fueled by everything she had seen—his strength, his burdens, his sacrifices—she took a step forward.

He was a man who, for her, didn’t just prove his innocence; he redefined what guilt and responsibility even meant. He didn’t fight the world’s accusations—he owned them. And somehow, that made him untouchable.

Untouchable… for her, too.

But that was fine.

Then she saw his expression harden.

Ah.

The man who had been lowering his head before him took his leave, stepping away and disappearing into the night, leaving only him and Her Holiness standing in the moonlit hallway.

Burn looked—how to put this?—increasingly not okay. His hand clenched at his side, his face darkened, and his eyes burned with barely contained hunger—for blood, for violence.

Shorof immediately felt something worse than fear. The very air grew heavy, suffocating, pressing down on her with the weight of something ancient and terrible.

And then—

A touch.

A gentle, featherlight brush against his cheek. A delicate porcelain hand, unafraid.

Her Holiness.

In an instant, all the anger, all the bloodlust, simply vanished.

The emperor became a man again. The touch of his empress—his salvation—purified the light of war in his eyes, smoothing the sharp edges, softening the harsh lines. He exhaled, tension melting away, his eyes slipping shut at the warmth of her fingertips.

Then he opened them again.

And where there had once been only rage, there was now only love. Only ease.

Just one touch.

That was the moment Shorof Reyrie, First Princess of the Elves, had her heart shattered into something quiet and irreparable.

What had she been thinking?

Compete with Her Holiness? Oh, that was rich.

And before that? That cold, gut-wrenching feeling in her bones—was it fear? Yes. Undeniably so. The kind of fear that stripped away delusion and left only raw, primal terror.

Shorof turned away.

She left, fast and quiet, sobered by the sheer absurdity of it all. Forget competing with Her Holiness—how could she even entertain the thought of admiring him, of understanding him, when just moments ago, she had nearly pissed herself at the mere glimpse of his wrath?

But…

"Sob."

Ah. That hurt. What even was this feeling? Heartbreak? Fear? Anger at herself for ever daring to feel this way?

She thought she understood him. She thought she wasn’t like the rest, that she wouldn’t fear him for what he was. That she could stand by him, stand for him, and his cause.

But dear God… for one fleeting second, she had seen death.

And that was when she tripped—

And fell.

“Ah!”

THUD.

“Owowowowow….”

Shorof blinked, dazed, realizing she had landed on something… soft?

A leg.

A bare leg.

A naked, unconscious man’s leg—

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

Wait. Hold on. Hold on.

Why was he so cold?

Oh no. Oh no no no—

“EXCUSE ME, PLEASE WAKE UP! DID I KILL YOU?!”

Did she just trip into a corpse? She fell onto a dead man?!

Scrambling off him like he was made of molten lava, she checked his pulse with trembling fingers. Alive. He was still alive.

Barely.

But why was he so cold? And—wait, wet? The ground around them too?

Then it hit her. He wasn’t breathing.

Panic took over. Instinct kicked in. Chest compressions. That’s what people did, right? Right?!

And then—

“COUGH!”

Shorof screamed.

The very much not dead man abruptly spat up a lungful of water like he had just lost a wrestling match with the ocean.

Which—ocean?

And now that she was actually thinking, the air smelled suspiciously salty.

Which made no sense.

Because this was Inkia.

A landlocked kingdom.

In the middle of the continent.

With no ocean in sight.

…What.

And just as her brain was still struggling to process the absurdity of a drowning victim in a landlocked kingdom—she saw it.

No.

Them.

Two of them.

Her entire world screeched to a halt.

Years of reading obscure cultural research texts and world encyclopedias had prepared her for many things. But not this. Yet, somewhere in the depths of her horrified mind, a very specific and completely unnecessary fun fact surfaced.

"Merfolk males, much like certain species of dragons, possess two peni—"

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”

“WAH?! WAH?!”

The formerly unconscious man, now very much awake, followed her gaze, realized exactly what she was looking at—

And panicked.

With the speed of a man whose dignity was very much on the line, he scrambled to cover himself, limbs flailing in full-blown existential crisis.

Aidyl Navarre, the Monarch of the Ocean, wished he could just drop dead.

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:v

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