Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
254 – Maggots in the Crown

Celia Angemoux had, of course, heard of the Emperor.

At this point, who hadn’t? Ever since the start of the year, the term Emperor had conveniently stopped meaning Wintersin’s ruler and now exclusively referred to The Absolute Tyrant himself—Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon, Emperor of Soulnaught, the man, the myth, the headache.

By now, going over his entire terrifying résumé again would be an exercise in redundancy. Everyone knew the drill: unmatched power, unshakable rule, and a name that sent entire nations scrambling for political cover.

Instead of wasting her breath stating the obvious, Celia opted for her usual survival strategy—raising her chin, keeping her composure, and pretending that maintaining her dignity wasn’t a full-time job in his presence.

She knew what Rafaye had been through. Every move he made, every decision he took—it wasn’t a choice so much as an inevitability. Fate had him in a chokehold, and he did what he had to do. For survival, for his life, for her, for the nation.

Honestly, who in their right mind could outmaneuver the Demon Lord’s manipulation and control?

But none of that prepared her for what she saw when she stormed—gracefully barged—into the assembly hall.

“**** m**** fa**** ***** ***”

The words came from the most breathtakingly beautiful woman she had ever laid eyes on, casually seated beside the helm of power like she belonged there. She was a celestial vision, radiating an almost unfair level of elegance, poise, and divine beauty.

And, as if to add insult to injury, her voice—smooth, lilting, and utterly enchanting—was currently engaged in what could only be described as eloquent profanity.

Somehow, escaping her lips, even the filthiest curses sounded like love poetry.

The assembly hall had fallen into an abyssal silence. The Original Saint sat like the personification of wrath, her fingers curling and uncurling against the armrest as though resisting the urge to claw through solid wood.

Every word dripped from her lips like venom-laced daggers, slicing through the air and embedding themselves deep into the quivering, shrinking form of the so-called King of Inkia.

The mythical rulers watched in stunned, horrified fascination—an audience witnessing the execution of a man whose corpse had yet to realize it was dead.

“**** b***** r*** t**** d****** piss-soaked mold.”

The vampires, known for their collected, almost indifferent nature, were transfixed. Even Vlad, whose face rarely betrayed emotion, arched an eyebrow, barely suppressing a smirk at the sheer brutality of it all.

Bella, on the other hand, was extremely impressed, idolizing her as if reevaluating the concept of verbal assassination.

The elven dignitaries, normally poised beyond measure, sat rigid as statues, their elegant faces betraying the smallest hints of disgust.

Tashr pressed a delicate hand against her mouth—whether to stifle a gasp or keep herself from vomiting at the sheer filth being unraveled, no one could tell.

The dwarves, less subtle in their reactions, exchanged glances that could only be described as deeply uncomfortable appreciation. Wekkoun let out a low whistle, muttering something about how he’d heard battle-hardened warlords take less of a beating in an orc pit fight.

“Pathetic excuse of a ***** **** d******** g***, a*** *** demon’s a*** *** *****.”

Meanwhile, the werewolf alpha king leaned forward as if caught between fascination and secondhand agony. He bared his teeth in what could have been a grimace or a grin.

The merfolk monarch gave Rafaye a long, slow look, the kind reserved for things scraped off the bottom of a ship. A slow exhale escaped his lips, the faintest shake of his head making it clear—there was no redemption here, no pity, no mercy.

And Rafaye himself? The king—if such a title could even be granted to such a vile, festering wretch—looked as though the floor beneath him was moments from opening up and swallowing him whole.

His face, pallid as a corpse, glistened with a cold sweat, his lips parting soundlessly as if seeking words that had long since abandoned him. His fingers twitched at his sides, grasping at nothing, like a drowning man reaching for an anchor that would only drag him further into the abyss.

Burn saw her take a deep breath. He took her hand in his, her melodious yet vicious mockery still ringing in his ears. Finally, she lowered the intensity of her words.

“A joke,” she spat, her voice rich with venom. “A king? No. You are a bloated, spineless maggot, lapping up the moldy, decaying remains of what was once a ****** splendid realm. A realm that, through your inept, ****** claws, you’ve rendered a festering, putrid disgrace—a rotting roadkill in the scorching ****** of the sun.”

She leaned forward, slowly, deliberately, her blue eyes glowing like a goddess descending to smite the unworthy.

"God made sure that at least maggots serve a purpose. But not you, oh no. You're nothing but the rancid rot, the fetid stench that chokes the innocent, the contaminating filth that sullies the hands of those who dare to wade through your ***** putrid mess.”

Her words were a force of nature in themselves. “You, you're the festering pus, the very embodiment of disease, the pestilence that eats away at the heart of your once-prosperous land."

Adroros the centaur and his son exhaled sharply through their noses, crossing their arms over their broad chests, silently praying.

“What a selfless father you are, to offer your own flesh and blood to the clutches of humanity’s rotten rectum lining,” she hissed, her voice dropping to something colder, sharper.

“A pitiful vermin, a failure of a man—no, not a man, for even the lowest of creatures do not willfully hand their spawn over to the slaughter. And yet you did. You, a wretched heap of cowardice, watched your children’s bodies break, their screams swallowed by your abhorrent ******* silence, their bones shattered for your own pathetic, miserable existence.”

A flicker of movement—Isaiah, who had been still as a statue, suddenly looked away, something dark and unreadable passing over his face. Even he, a man who had seen the depths of war and bloodshed, found this display unforgivable.

Morgan tilted her head, studying Rafaye the way one might examine a particularly disgusting smear of refuse clinging to their shoe.

"Slavers flourish under your rule," she continued, her voice now a whisper, somehow more terrifying than before.

"The vilest mongers of human souls walk your streets untouched, making their fortunes on the broken backs of the innocent, feeding off the bones of starving men—of children. Blood is a mere pastime in your cities, murder a game for the depraved. And you—" she exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

"You, with the audacity to sit there, wearing that abominable scrap of gold atop your empty skull, pretending that you rule anything more than a graveyard."

Aroche had been silent the entire time, lounging in his seat with his fingers interlaced, but the corner of his lips twitched upward—the look of a man thoroughly entertained by the sight of another being publicly executed—if not in body, then in spirit.

"You fancy yourself a king," Morgan murmured, almost gently. "But all you have ever commanded is the descent into hell. Your kingdom is a wretched cauldron of disease, a pit where souls are crushed, while you—" she leaned in, her voice the whisper of a blade sliding into flesh, "—you are lower than the filth in its ****** gutters."

One might forget that the words of a saint could inflict physical damage upon a person's soul. Killing Rafaye now would condemn him straight to hell, as her curses had already marked him. It was rare for a saint to invoke such long and vicious curses, personally calling upon God to fulfill them.

And yet, if He so pleased, He would. Every curse she uttered would shape Rafaye’s soul after death—one by one, form by form, creature by creature—each bearing the sentience of a man.

This was why Burn said that death might be a fate far worse than any punishment he could impose in life.

And today, not only had everyone witnessed it firsthand, but Eos Kirmizi, the Alicorn, and especially Lazarus from the Holy Luminus had emerged visibly shaken—perhaps even a little traumatized.

Meanwhile, Selen and Theor stood wide-eyed. The Beastkin Sovereigns were certain they’d be adding a few colorful new entries to their personal dictionaries soon—courtesy of an impromptu profanity lesson.

And Celia fell to her knees.

That was when Burn coldly continued, “Now, let’s define the death sentence for Rafaye Inkor.”

It was an expected declaration, yet something about his gaze held an almost peculiar weight—something that, had it not been so absurd, might have been mistaken for jealousy.

His eyes carried a silent lament, as if mourning the fact that Rafaye, of all people, had been granted the singular honor of being eviscerated by his beloved wife’s tongue.

He sighed. Some men were blessed by fortune, others by fate. And then there was Rafaye—granted the privilege of being the personal canvas for Morgan’s linguistic annihilation.

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I've been enjoying myself writing lately. It's great for my mental health. As you can see, writing a pretty lady cursing herself a colorful selections of words are therapeutic. Try it out!

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