Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
251 – The Reckoning

The so-called Gentlemen’s Club was a melting pot of power, influence, and—let’s be honest—thinly veiled corruption. Its members hailed from every corner of society, bound not by morals or ethics, but by wealth and connections. A fine mix of self-interest and opportunism.

Among them were the esteemed director of the Loneborn Merchant Group, the leader of the Democratic Teachers, who, ironically, wasn’t particularly democratic in his dealings, and, of course, some high-ranking nobles of Inkia, because no secret society is complete without aristocrats pretending to be above the mess they create.

But why stop at politicians and businessmen? The roster boasted a veritable who's-who of society’s finest names: the legendary Mercenary King who sold his sword to the highest bidder, the Adventurer Guild’s top brass because regulating adventurers is just another way to profit off them, and even a few artsy types—

Painters, performers, poets, the kind who could make corruption look romantic if given the right incentive.

Then came the specialists—artisans, builders, technicians, engineers, translators, bards, and scholars—well, even shadowy organizations need infrastructure, maintenance, and a few elegant words to dress up their sins.

Connections stretched so wide that if one thread was pulled, the entire kingdom would probably unravel.

And, naturally, there were religious leaders.

The grand holy men. The paragons of virtue—on paper, at least. Cardinals, high priests, and miracle-workers who could channel holy energy but somehow always managed to channel even more wealth into their own pockets. Why settle for serving God when you can serve yourself?

Were some of them innocent? Maybe.

But Burn and the others weren’t in the business of playing guessing games. When your name showed up on Yvain’s and Finn’s carefully curated list—the product of weeks of meticulous investigation—you were going down.

After all, who told them to join a club owned by the Demon Lord?

Oh, sure, maybe some of them were genuinely clueless. Maybe they truly had no idea what they had signed up for. Maybe their shocked expressions and frantic denials were sincere. Maybe. But who really knows what someone knows?

Vlad did.

With his conveniently useful mind-reading ability, a few well-placed questions, and the right amount of psychological nudging and stimulating, their thoughts practically offered themselves up for confession. And in this business, that was as good as a signed confession on royal parchment.

Not everyone in the club was privy to the big secret—that their little social circle was run by none other than the Demon Lord himself.

That knowledge was reserved for an elite few, like the leader of the Democratic Teachers, a truly inspiring educator, no doubt, and the director of the Loneborn Merchant Group.

But the rest? Oh, they weren’t completely in the dark. They all knew something was off about Lance Inkor, their charming, well-connected host.

At the very least, they were aware of his… peculiar hobby.

Lance had a well-documented tendency to collect children of remarkable talent—some barely old enough to walk. For what purpose? No one really knew. No one really wanted to know. But when someone hoards infants like rare gemstones, it’s usually not for bedtime stories and warm milk.

Of course, everyone was also aware that Lance Inkor had an insatiable appetite for cheap, disposable labor. Slaves fueled his factories, crafting his dazzling corruption filled jewels and luxury accessories, while desperate souls lined up, lured in by false promises of opportunity—only to find themselves trapped in a different kind of hell.

So no, maybe not all of them knew the full extent of their club’s demonic ties. But they certainly knew enough. And that was enough for Burn and the others.

Today, in the grand Mythical Assembly, every last one of them was dragged in for sentencing—an outcome none of them had ever foreseen. Not like this.

Oh sure, they had brushed shoulders with power before, but this? A courtroom filled with beings straight out of legend? That wasn’t on anyone’s five-year plan.

But really, who did they have to blame but themselves? When you spend your days sweeping small inconveniences like disappearances, assassinations, child trafficking, financial fraud, and a laundry list of other atrocities under the rug, you shouldn’t be surprised when the rug is eventually ripped away.

Even if they hadn’t personally committed these crimes, their silence was its own kind of guilt. When something felt wrong, did they act? No. Did they speak up? Of course not. Instead, they helped cover it up—many even lending a hand here and there, or far more than that.

So now, here they were—standing trial before myths given flesh, legends made real, and an audience they never wanted.

As they stepped into the hall, one man—Serpent Bo, the so-called Mercenary King—felt a rare sensation creeping up his spine. Recognition.

Not of all the celestial, divine, and eldritch figures surrounding him—no, those were beyond his pay grade—but of one man, seated at the absolute center of it all. A man he had only ever seen from far away and heard of in hushed, uneasy whispers.

Caliburn Pendragon.

The infamous warlord. The warmongering tyrant. The man whose name alone could send entire kingdoms into a frenzy of paranoia. And he was leading the assembly?

Right beside him, a woman of devastating beauty radiated power so intense it almost distorted reality itself. The Original Saint. It had to be her. Who else could it be? The woman who had single-handedly strong-armed the Holy Kingdom Luminus and the entire Mythical Community into pressuring Inkia, ultimately forcing its surrender to Soulnaught.

One glance was all it took to confirm. That was her. No doubt about it.

But the real question, the one gnawing at Serpent Bo’s already fraying nerves, was:

Why was he—the Tyrant—the one in charge? And not her?

"Slaves. All of you will become slaves."

The words were delivered without ceremony, without grandeur—just cold, absolute finality. No formal introduction, no grand announcement to usher in their sentencing. Straight to the point.

Heh. He was just like the rumors said.

Burn continued, his tone as steady as a judge pronouncing an obvious, inevitable verdict. "Your fingers, toes, and tongue will be cut—not to the base, but half their length. One of your eyes will be plucked out. Any odd-numbered teeth will be gone. We’ll leave you the rest."

He didn’t pause, didn’t soften the blow. "Your forehead will bear the mark of a slave. Your body will be branded. Your reproductive organs will be sterilized. Your Vision will be sealed with Morgan Le Fay’s enchantment, etched directly into your brain. And your Force will be personally crippled—by me."

A beat of silence followed, just long enough for them to process, to let the weight of their fate settle in their bones. And then Burn added, with a slight tilt of his head, "You are also not allowed to die."

Let that sink in.

"If you'd like to continue enjoying the luxury of one solid meal a day and clean, purified water, all you have to do is sign a magical contract—binding you to servitude until the day you naturally expire. Of course, if you refuse, you will still be subjected to binding spells. But you know how slave-binding spells work." A pause, almost thoughtful.

"We will force you to ingest an enchanted poison. From then on, you’ll require a daily dose of the antidote. Miss a single day, and you’ll suffer excruciating pain until you beg for death. That’s the deal."

Then, almost as an afterthought—except it wasn’t—he added, "Oh, and if you’d like the privilege of wearing clothes, do us all a favor and cooperate with the investigation. If not, well," He gestured vaguely with a flick of his hand, as if their dignity was nothing more than a loose thread to be pulled away.

"Strip them all bare."

Men and women who once wielded power over nations, economies, and lives, had turned silent. Not the silence of dignity, but the kind that choked, thick with dread. Burn’s words, each syllable a slow execution, stripping away everything they had ever been.

Serpent Bo, the once-feared Mercenary King, stood rigid. His hands twitched at his sides, reaching for weapons that were no longer there.

The weight of his sentence, everything, pressed down on him—not death, not even a warrior’s punishment, but something far worse. Mutilation. Slavery. A life where he could never fight again.

His breath came sharp and uneven, but no sound left his lips. He would rather die than be reduced to a thing. And yet, there was no choice to be made.

The Director of Loneborn Merchant Group staggered where he stood, his fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to grasp something—gold, influence, escape. There was none.

For a man who had built his empire on wealth, clinging on the Demon Lord’s hem and on deals whispered behind closed doors, the finality of Burn’s words was unbearable. He opened his mouth, the instinct to bargain rising like bile, but nothing came. There was nothing left to trade.

The Leader of the Democratic Teachers trembled. He had spent a lifetime bending words to his will, shaping ideas, controlling narratives. But what was a man of rhetoric without a tongue? What use was influence when one could no longer speak? He swayed where he stood, his face filled with quiet horror.

Among the high nobles, panic spread like a plague. Some crumpled to their knees, others clutched at their faces as if waking from a nightmare they couldn’t escape. One whimpered. Another let out a strangled sob. The acrid stench of urine filled the air.

Burn simply watched. “Begin with the magic pact.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

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

In ancient China, (idk fiction or non-fiction) I heard there was this punishment called "human swine". Basically, they'd cut off all four limbs, blind you, pour molten copper into your ears to deafen you, and destroy your vocal cords so you couldn’t even scream. Brutal, yeah? But honestly, I think that’s still not as satisfying as just taking half of everything they value and making sure they can't escape it.

Making someone's life infuriating is so much better than making it hopeless, right?

And come on, losing just one eye? That’s barely a handicap. You still have a perfectly good one! Burn is being generous today. He’s in a merciful mood. :'v

That said, real talk—there are people in this world who’ve lost limbs, sight, hearing, voice, or more, and still live with grace, honor, and pure badass strength. So shout out to my dignified warriors out there who didn’t choose their disabilities but rise above them anyway. You’re stronger than most. Respect.

Search the lightnovelworld.cc website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.