Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
246 – I Got Carried Away

Three rounds in, and the universe had made one thing abundantly clear—Morgan was cursed.

First, she lost with 12 cards. Then 20. And by the last round? A truly tragic 40 cards out of 108, every single one a useless number card. No skips, no reverses, not even a pity wild card. Just pure, unfiltered suffering.

The first round’s penalty was a dare for the last four players still clutching their ill-fated decks: an insult to the person on their right. Naturally, Morgan was among the doomed, alongside Isaiah, Landevale, and Tashr.

Landevale went first, turning to Bella with the air of someone walking into their own execution. “Miss Bella, you look plain for a vampire. Aren’t your kind supposed to be enchantingly beautiful?”

A gasp. A scandalized chuckle. A delighted “Hohoho! Nice insult!” from Bella herself.

Then, immediate regret. “I—I’m sorry… you’re actually so cute!” Landevale blurted out, backpedaling at lightning speed.

Bella, ever the menace, merely shook her head. “Tut, tut. You just wasted your insult. Try again.”

“Please spare me…” Landevale whimpered.

Isaiah cleared his throat, silently questioning every life choice that had led him to insulting his dead best friend’s wife over a ridiculous dare. “Miss Tasha, I hath heard from Akram that thy taste in music is… most grievously foul.”

Tashr gasped, clutching her chest as if struck by lightning. “How… could he…”

“Wait, so it’s true, Tasha?” Morgan asked, her curiosity piqued.

Tashr turned to her with the betrayal of a thousand lifetimes. “Your Holiness…”

Morgan was unfazed. “Alright, your turn, Tasha. Insult me.”

“I… I darest not, Thy Holiness. I shall instead quaff another tankard of ale…”

“Nu-uh. Where’s my insult?”

Tashr let out a long-suffering sigh, her mind scrambling for something remotely insulting. Then, inspiration struck. She took a deep breath and declared:

“Your Holiness, if ever thou sold thy bath water, verily the global economy would collapse.”

Morgan—the most breathtaking woman to ever grace the world—blinked. “Eh?”

Sensing her window of opportunity, Tashr went all in. “Thou art as a gilded chandelier in a haunted hall! A masterpiece painting, left to wither in a dungeon! A vision of beauty most radiant, yet so utterly misplaced!”

She inhaled sharply before rapid-firing more ‘insults’: “Thine eyes gleam as sapphires steeped in poison! Thou art a supernova cast into the void! A broomstick encrusted with diamonds! A glass slipper trampled upon the field of battle! A teapot of sweetest chocolate, yet stirred into a witch’s cursed brew! A lighthouse, shining fruitlessly in a barren desert!”

Silence.

Morgan stared at her, utterly baffled. “…How are those insults?!”

“Yeah,” Burn chimed in, deadpan. “Also, you look like your farts would have a hint of cherry and vanilla. And your vomit is definitely liquid gold and glitter.”

Morgan puffed her cheeks in frustration. “I was supposed to insult you, not the other way around!”

Burn smirked. “Go on then, Your Holiness. Hit me with your best shot.”

Morgan hesitated. Then, with the determination of someone about to make history, she stammered: “I… I wish your manhood looked prettier.”

Dead silence.

Burn’s face drained of all color.

“BWAHWHAASHWASHWHEHAHHHASH—SNORT!” Aroche ascended to the afterlife. Again.

Galahad tumbled off his chair. Landevale, Tashr, and Bella all gasped so loudly they nearly collapsed to the floor. Isaiah, wheezing, slammed the table for dear life.

“What, pray tell, is not pretty about my dick, Madam?!” Burn demanded, affronted.

Morgan, already red as a beet, flailed. “I—I just wish it didn’t look so… angry! And veiny… and… scary big…”

A deadly silence.

Then—

“BWAHAHAHHAHHAHHAHHAH—”

Aroche flatlined on the spot. Again.

The second round she lost was truth instead of dare.

This time, Aroche, Burn, Isaiah, and Morgan were the unlucky ones, sentenced to spill their darkest secrets.

Bella, ever the inquisitor, wasted no time. She cleared her throat and asked, “What’s your type?”

The four glanced at one another, then Aroche took charge. “Alright, folks, let’s say it on three. One, two…”

“Cuckold.” / “Another man’s wife.” / “Caliburn.” / “Milf—Morgan.”

Dead. Silence.

“I DIDN’T MEAN THAT KIND OF TYPE!” Bella shrieked, realizing too late the depths of depravity she had unleashed.

Meanwhile, Morgan had fully collapsed into a quivering heap of blonde, wheezing like a dying tea kettle and shrieking between gasps.

Aroche, Mr. NTR, and Isaiah, Mr. Hitozuma, solemnly stood and reached across the table for a firm, understanding bro handshake. “Men of culture,” they said in reverence, nodding in mutual respect.

“M-Milf…” Morgan sobbed between breathless laughter, wiping at her tear-streaked face. “My husband… My husband loves Milfs…”

Burn buried his face in both hands, grieving his own tongue’s betrayal. Aroche and Isaiah clapped him on the shoulder in quiet solidarity. “Milfs are an esteemed part of culture,” they reassured him sagely.

“Shut up, both of you!”

By the third round of Morgan’s losing streak—this time with a whopping forty cards in her hand—Burn had also fallen again, just barely. But, unwilling to suffer alone, he dragged Aroche down with him AGAIN, alongside Isaiah.

The moment their defeat was declared, the table erupted into near-fatal laughter, knowing full well that another legendary disaster was about to unfold.

This time, it was a dare.

“The four of you must only speak in animal sounds for the next round,” Tashr declared with delight. “Let’s draw lots to decide which animals.”

She quickly prepared slips of paper with different animal names, and one by one, the condemned drew their fates.

Isaiah—goose sounds. Aroche—pig sounds. Morgan—fox sounds. Burn—cat sounds.

As the fourth round commenced, the realization set in.

This was going to be pure, unfiltered chaos.

“Ee,” Morgan exhaled in perfect fox dialect as she plopped down a yellow two atop the starting yellow six.

Burn, maintaining an air of quiet dignity, placed a blue two in response.

Then came Aroche. With the soul of a nuisance and the vocal cords of a swine, he groaned in pig and slapped down a wild card.

“What color?” Galahad asked.

Rather than answer like a civilized person, Aroche opted for an obnoxiously long, theatrical squeal, just because he could. Burn, who had been tolerating this nonsense all night, gave him a gentle yet firm slap. And thus, the pig and the cat began to argue.

“OINK! SNORT—SQUEEE!” Duke Aroche Leodegrance, resurrected third Cardinal of the Original Saint, gestured dramatically, shaking his fist.

Burn, Emperor Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon, in his deepest, most threatening voice, responded, “Meow.”

Only God knew what they were actually saying. Even more horrifying was the possibility that they might actually understand each other.

Meanwhile, Galahad, exhausted and spiritually drained, begged, “Your Grace, just tell me the color!”

Aroche snorted and pointed at the red section of his wild card. He didn’t understand why both Galahad and Landevale looked on the verge of tears. Well, he didn’t know what happened to his body after he died, after all.

At last, Galahad played a red nine.

Landevale, seizing the moment, immediately slammed down another red nine, setting herself up to follow with a red eight.

Bella, idly placing a green eight, smirked. “Aww, you two are really in sync.”

That single comment set Aroche off like a firecracker. His furious oinks rattled the table.

“Honk,” Isaiah interrupted, slapping down a green skip card. Tashr sighed heavily, utterly resigned, only for the great dragon-goose hybrid beside her to honk apologetically.

“Ee,” Morgan chimed in, laying down a green zero.

Collective groans filled the air.

Counterclockwise rotation. Hand-swapping. Chaos incarnate.

Burn, now staring down at Morgan’s beautifully atrocious stack of uniform-colored yet entirely number-based deck, felt a sinking sense of dread.

He was absolutely losing this round. Again.

“Snort-snort-snort-snort-snort—” Aroche cackled in full pig mode.

But Burn wasn’t Emperor Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon if he let something as trivial as bad luck defeat him. After several turns of suffering, he finally drew a +4 wild card and slammed it onto the table with all the righteous fury of a man on the brink—

“MEOW MEOW MEOWTHERFLUFFER!”

“OI–NK!” Aroche screeched, his southern accent slipping into his pig noises.

Yep. No surprises there. They lost. Again. Alongside Morgan, of course. And this time, Tashr got dragged down with them.

As the losers processed their shame, Tashr muttered, “We still have Sir Tristan’s and Dame Yvolt’s love potions… but are they really safe?”

Morgan picked up a bottle, swirling the liquid inside as she used her magic to analyze its contents. “There’s nothing inherently dangerous in the potion. Their magical properties are just designed to make the drinker resonate more easily with the person they consume it with. I think?”

Four bottles. Two pairs.

For ‘safety’ reasons, Morgan and Burn took one pair. As for the other…

“Sir Leodegrance, I do not think you are required to drink this with me merely because of a dare,” Tashr, the strikingly beautiful elven queen, said in her broken common tongue.

Aroche, ever the nonchalant bastard, simply shrugged. “I don’t mind. But if you’re uncomfortable, Your Majesty, I won’t drink it.”

“The effect might not necessarily make you two switch places like Tristan and Yvolt. That could’ve been unique to them,” Morgan mused, turning to Burn with an air of curiosity. “I wonder what it’ll do to us, Caliburn.”

Then, right before her eyes, after drinking the dose, Burn’s gaze shifted—his pupils transforming into shimmering pink hearts.

Morgan gasped. Her face burned bright red.

Burn smirked. Mischievously.

“Galahad, drink it for Her Majesty,” Aroche suddenly commanded.

Galahad, resigned to his fate, exhaled heavily. “Yes… Your Grace…”

“Wait,” Isaiah interrupted, intrigued. “Nay, let me drink of it. Mine own curiosity doth compel me.”

Bella cackled, practically vibrating with amusement. “You four again? Oh, this is gonna be gold.” She then added, “Honestly, I was about to volunteer myself—I kinda wanna see what happens too!”

Aroche and Isaiah both shuddered as the eerie pink hearts shimmered in Morgan’s and Burn’s eyes. Nope. Absolutely not. Whatever magic was at work there, they wanted no part of it.

With a shared sigh, they exchanged a look—if they were going to drink a love potion, it was going to be with a woman, thank you very much.

"Alright, Your Majesty," Aroche said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's settle this the proper way—rock-paper-scissors. If I lose, I'll drink it with Miss Bella. If you lose, you'll drink it with Lord Isaiah. That way, they still have a fair shot at suffering their curiosity alongside us, even though they didn't technically lose."

Tashr nodded solemnly. "Agreed, Sir Leodegrance."

"Alright then—rock, paper, scissors!"

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

------------------------------------

All I had to say for this chapter has already been said in the chapter title.