Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
256 – Audacity

"Your Majesty, thank you for your intervention," one of the Wilderwood Capital Mansion guards said, bowing deeply.

Headmaster Bianca Lumine stood nearby, unable to enter the assembly hall. As expected, she wasn’t important enough for such a high-level meeting, so she waited.

And in waiting, she witnessed everything.

She had been moments away from stepping in herself—until her first-year top student beat her to it.

Evan di Sator.

Or rather, Yvain.

Yes, she had been told the truth days ago. But seeing him like this, fully assuming the authority he had been born to wield, was something else entirely.

“Didn’t I say I would decide the fate of you and your mother?” Yvain’s voice was steady, unyielding. His black eyes locked onto Locan, still immobilized by the binding spell. “You don’t get to make that decision on your own.”

Then, just as calmly, he addressed the guards. “Take him and his mother away.” His gaze flickered to Nahwu. “Senior—Princess Nahwu, Your Highness. I trust you can keep an eye on them?”

Nahwu flinched. Then, to her absolute mortification, she blushed.

“Y-yes, Your Majesty.”

Yvain smiled. “Good work.”

She immediately dropped her gaze, her face burning with a mix of shame and mortification.

Yes, she had also learned the truth just yesterday. The adults had kept their suspicions and schemes about the Demon Lord under wraps, leaving the younger generation blissfully ignorant.

And then, in a single conversation with her mother and sister, poof—Evan di Sator was none other than Yvain. The Little Merlin.

The very same boy she had so arrogantly tried to humiliate during the school entrance exam.

That night, sleep had mocked her. She tossed and turned, replaying every word, every sneer, every misplaced condescension. The Original Saint’s personal disciple? The youngest inheritor of a legacy she could barely comprehend? She was, in every conceivable way, doomed.

She would not—could not—let herself forget this humiliation.

And yet, as if fate itself wished to remind her just how outmatched she was, Yvain continued his march forward without so much as a glance back. The assembly hall doors loomed ahead, and as they began to close behind him, sealing away whatever awaited within, he spoke.

“Papa, Mama, give me Inkia!”

Silence.

What.

The audacity. The sheer gall. This twelve-year-old boy king had just demanded an entire crumbling nation like it was his birthright.

He didn’t stop there.

“Papa—no, Your Majesty—let me clean this place up myself. I’m going to school here anyway, so I can handle governing the kingdom in my spare time.”

Locan’s brain short-circuited.

He had spent his entire life carefully avoiding political entanglements, keeping his distance from power, staying in the shadows so he wouldn’t be dragged into the chaos.

And then here came this twelve-year-old—this child—practically begging to take responsibility. To wield power. To bear the burden.

“Kek, too late, nephew. I already took it,” Aroche suddenly cut in, smug as ever.

"Huh?!" Yvain immediately dropped his composed, regal demeanor, snapping his head toward the duke like an actual twelve-year-old. "What?! But—"

"Just focus on your education," Burn sighed, already rubbing his temples.

"But Papa! You already delegated my task of leading Edensor and Elysian to the Round Table members! I’m idle! I just go to school—” The boy practically pleaded. “Y-you said my kingdom is under your sovereignty and I’m just freeloading! I—I need to be useful for yo—”

"I said that because you didn’t want to go to school, brat," Burn deadpanned.

"Papaaaaa!" Yvain clutched his head in despair. "This is unfair! Why does Sir Aroche get Inkia while I get nothing to do—aaaaahh?!"

Meanwhile, the Original Saint, seated beside her husband, merely giggled before letting out a soft sigh. “That’s enough for today. We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow.”

What…

What is this family…?

***

Morgan hadn’t called a rest to the assembly just for fun. Something had slithered into her mind—a presence, a whisper—and she instantly recognized it. Yggdrasil was calling.

“They’re finally ready for purification?” Burn arched a brow.

“Yes,” Morgan replied with a smile, stretching lazily as if she hadn’t just been handed the burden of purging deep-rooted corruption.

“It took longer than expected, but their bodies finally rebuilt some affinity to Holy Energy. Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long. Their time in that factory must have been catastrophic.”

Burn exhaled through his nose, unsurprised. After all, the place had been a glorified nightmare machine. The Demon Lord’s little corruption factory—churning out those dainty, jewel-like ‘Infusers’ that looked like high-end trinkets but were, in reality, neatly packaged doom.

The moment they’d seized control of the facility, its workers—kidnapped civilians, slaves, and unfortunates who had long stopped being ‘people’ in any meaningful sense—had been carted off to the World Tree for what was essentially Holy Energy rehab.

And really, the details of their time in that hellhole read like the world’s bleakest diary. A mindless cycle of assembling pretty little objects drenched in malice, their bodies slowly corroding with each creation.

Every step of the process—mechanical, soul-crushing, endless—only deepened the corruption seeping into their bones. At some point, their bodies had been so far gone that even basic purification wouldn’t stick.

They had been kept alive—if you could call it that—by the oh-so-generous corruption-sucking runes the Demon Lord had thoughtfully installed. Not out of mercy, of course, but because dead workers were inconvenient. After all, as long as they could be squeezed for a little more productivity, why let them expire?

And really, from a strictly pragmatic, utterly vile business perspective, it was a solid strategy.

If the poor souls could still function on their own dwindling life force, great. If not, well—there was always the efficient alternative: forcefully powering their bodies with corrupted mana. Ahem. Sorry. Necromancy.

Either way, it was a win-win scenario. They lived? They worked. They died? They got recycled into something useful. Efficiency at its finest.

So yes, Morgan supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that purging that level of filth had taken its sweet, agonizing time.

“I’ll be gone for quite a while,” she said. “Days, perhaps.”

Burn just nodded, offering no input whatsoever—no thoughts, head empty, both hands resting on her soft cheeks, subtly squeezing. She looked a little pouty. A little sulky. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why.

“Is there something you need to tell me?” she asked.

Instantly, Burn’s neurons ignited in a desperate, record-breaking relay of comprehension. He was in trouble. But why? Had he forgotten to put the toilet seat down? Left his dirty pants on her side of the bed again? Tracked dirt onto her precious, sacred carpet? What exactly was he being put on trial for?

The Absolute Tyrant had no clue.

“I’m sor—”

“This is the first time I need to leave your side for more than just a few days since we met, right?”

Burn’s brain short-circuited. Again.

He had nearly taken the emergency exit, skipped all logic, and gone straight for the I’m sorry cheat code—apologizing before even knowing what for. No. Not nearly. He already did.

“I’m sorry I can’t be with you,” he reworded, desperately salvaging whatever dignity he had left.

She smiled—soft, warm, devastating. The kind of smile that made him feel like he should be the one sulking. “No, I’m sorry I can’t be with you…”

Yeah. He’s so whipped.

This was his life now, ladies and gentlemen. This was his life now.

“I won’t need to bring Nemo with me since Yggdrasil is already there. Yvain mentioned needing some parental signatures for school—don’t forget to check on that, okay? Also, I ordered some flower seeds yesterday, since someone decided the palace garden needed a reenactment of an apocalyptic battlefield when he captured the king, so have someone fix that. And make sure to finish the honey-roasted lamb before it goes bad. Oh, and the curtain enchantments—”

Morgan continued rattling off an increasingly absurd list of domestic concerns, and Burn, the great and mighty Assembly Leader, nodded along like a particularly obedient poultry, all while standing in plain view of the world’s most powerful mythical rulers as they exited the hall.

Those rulers, by the way, were having an existential crisis. Seeing their supposedly fearsome leader standing there, nodding along to his wife’s household to-do list like a scolded husband at a weekend market, made the married ones suddenly miss their wives terribly.

Maybe shipping them over here wasn’t such a bad idea? 

Meanwhile, the singles—having witnessed the absolute simpdom unfolding before them—could only chew on their dog food-flavored handkerchiefs.

"Alright, see you in a couple of days," Morgan said. But instead of simply waving, she opted to rub Burn's chest back and forth in a motion that was—technically—wave-adjacent. Then, without further ceremony, she turned to leave.

"Where's my kiss—"

Before he could finish his undoubtedly shameless demand, she cut him off with a single blushing, devastating glare. The kind that sent lesser men running and, in his case, only made him more insufferable.

Properly dismissed, he watched as she gave a brief nod to the other mythical leaders, who, in contrast, demonstrated actual decorum by bowing respectfully in return.

Naturally, rising to the title of "warmongering tyrant" required an exceptional lack of shame—something Burn had mastered to an art form.

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