Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
261 – [Blank]

“That’s the general gist of what happened to you,” Morgan said, in the same tone someone might use to explain how you tripped over your own feet and faceplanted into a tragic backstory. “But as I mentioned—I know this because you’re just… one of many. Beyond that…”

She shook her head.

[Blank] nodded, eyes scanning the rows of unconscious bodies on makeshift beds inside the tent. Just one tent out of many, apparently. A whole neighborhood of half-dead mystery people who used to be tools with expiration dates. And the worst part?

He didn’t recognize a single damn one of them.

“So… you also don’t know who I am?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even, like he wasn’t about to spiral into an identity crisis again.

Morgan gave him a look that said “Sorry, child,” but with celestial grace. “Even the best of us couldn’t find a trace of your memory before it got shredded by corrupted mana.”

Fantastic. Even this divine being couldn’t find a receipt on his soul.

“You said I… stopped your carriage? In the street? Begging for help? For someone…?”

The urge to get help still clawed at him. Like an itch under the skin. Someone needed help. Desperately. Whoever they were.

“Yes. You ran into the street like a walking cautionary tale,” Morgan replied. “My husband stormed out of the carriage to see what’s up, so naturally, he kicked you halfway back to the gutter.”

[Blank] blinked. “He… kicked me?”

“Oh yes,” she said with a smile so radiant it should’ve been illegal. “Right across the curb. Very graceful.”

He stared at her, half-sure this was some elaborate prank. That smile did not match the content. “And you’re just casually smiling about this, my… lady?”

She laughed, all twinkly and charming, as if she hadn’t just described a crime. “Please don’t take it personally. He’s a protective man. Traveling with his wife and child, you see.”

“Right. So naturally, a desperate, memory-wiped man crying for help equals ‘punt it across the street.’ Makes total sense. I suppose that’s what makes him the angel’s husband.”

“Hmm, perhaps. Perhaps,” she said, like she was humoring him—or herself. It was hard to tell.

[Blank]’s eyes darkened. His hands clenched, then unclenched like they were arguing with each other about whether to punch something or not. The more he thought about it, the worse it got.

If they hadn’t found him when they did…

If someone else had stumbled on him instead…

If fate had sneezed five minutes earlier or later, he might’ve ended up just another lunatic screaming into the void—left to rot in a gutter somewhere. And that someone he was so desperate to save?

They’d be gone too. Buried right along with the black hole where his memories used to live.

“There… are there more of them?” he asked, voice tight. “I mean, people still stuck? Not rescued yet?”

“Yes,” Morgan said, her voice calm, but not unfeeling. “Maybe more than we originally thought. Our people are scouring the area for other factories like this one. It’s a mess, but we’re not stopping.”

“You’re going to save all of them, right?” he asked, trying and failing to sound casual. Because if all of them were saved… maybe—just maybe—one of them would be his someone.

Morgan smiled, soft and terrifyingly reassuring. “We will save them all.”

He nodded slowly, as if that could pin the universe into keeping its promise.

She led him to other tents. More groggy souls waking up from god knows what kind of nightmare. And he helped. Patiently, awkwardly. Tried his best to explain the unexplainable to people who barely remembered how to blink.

Some had fragments of memories, scraps of identity still clinging like lint. Some remembered their names, their jobs, their kids.

Others, like him, had nothing. Just a foggy sense of loss and the annoying itch of purpose without a name.

They could’ve been someone’s sibling. Someone’s parent. Someone’s someone.

Meanwhile, he had a lingering instinct to shout “help!” and no idea who the cry was for.

As the sun dipped under the branches of the Great Forest, all fire and shadow, he turned to Morgan.

“Will I remember? Someday?”

She turned too, bathed in red-gold light that made her look like the final boss of some holy trial. Like she was about to hand down a divine verdict.

“Maybe never,” she said.

He swallowed. Yeah. That tracked. Corroded memory from corrupted mana wasn’t your garden-variety soap-opera amnesia. This wasn’t “bonk on the head” level stuff. This was “your memories got dissolved like sugar in acid.” Gone. Not misplaced—obliterated.

“But,” Morgan added, “if your soul remembers, your ‘vision’ might return.”

He blinked. “You mean… Vision as in Vision Art? Like, the fancy magic kind?”

Morgan shrugged, all mysterious and vague, because of course she did. “That too,” she said. “But also Force. Sometimes your body remembers things your mind can’t. Same logic.”

“So what you’re saying is, I need to learn magic like those overfed noble brats and trust-fund warlocks?” he deadpanned.

Morgan burst into laughter. Real laughter. The kind that sparkled with mischief. “Well,” she said between chuckles, “at least we know you’re not rich or noble. Your words remembered.”

He blushed, then looked away, utterly betrayed by his peasant mouth. This woman was dangerous. The kind of charming that made you forget she also dealt in god-tier metaphysics. What kind of man married her, anyway?

…Oh right. The kind who kicked him across the curb.

That guy.

When night finally swallowed the Great Forest whole, [Blank] took a look around—half in awe, half in existential crisis.

“It seems… there’s still a lot to do,” he mumbled, mostly to himself, as the elves continued swarming the tents like diligent, overworked bees. People were still unconscious, corrupted, and possibly dreaming of better lives where they weren’t being slowly cleansed by ancient magic and stress.

Morgan, of course, nodded with the calm poise of someone who had absolutely no right to be that serene after working all day. “Yes. Later, when the moon rises high, there’ll be another prayer session and holy-energy casting. In batches. For the ones still in magical comas.”

“Oh,” [Blank] said. “I see.” Which was code for ‘Cool cool cool I have no idea what any of that means but I’ll pretend I do.’

Morgan looked at him sideways. “We found you first, so you woke up first. But honestly? You were one of the worst cases. You needed about ten healing sessions. Directly from Yggdrasil himself.”

“Huh?!” [Blank] flinched, mentally trying to calculate how many ancient tree god blessings that was. “So I was… wow. Okay. That’s… something.”

“What can I do to help?” he asked quickly, trying to sound useful despite looking like a half-drowned scarecrow in borrowed clothes.

Morgan looked him up and down—judgmentally. Her lips clicked three times. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.”

It was the kind of tsk that said ‘bless your heart, but you’re pathetic.’

“You can start by eating something,” she said, her tone implying this was not a suggestion but divine mandate. “You barely managed to choke down porridge at lunch. But now that you’ve walked around, your body might finally be convinced to accept calories.”

[Blank] opened his mouth to argue—but then his stomach betrayed him with a rumble loud enough to startle a nearby elf.

He blushed. Again. That was apparently his new default setting: pink-faced and starving.

“Go on,” Morgan said, waving him off. “You know where the public kitchen is.”

“Y-yes.” He scurried off like a kicked puppy.

But then—

Morgan froze. Her expression went from divine serenity to sudden internal apocalypse. She clutched her stomach. Her entire aura dimmed like someone unplugged her from the sacred power source.

[Blank], halfway turned around, stopped dead and stared. “Uh. Are you… hungry too?”

Morgan hiccupped.

Hiccupped.

A dainty, shell-shocked half-diety trying to process the universe. One hand flew to her mouth, the other pressed against her lower belly.

She swayed slightly. Rubbed her stomach again. Her eyes—those goddess-tier bluest of blue orbs—stretched wide with full-blown horror.

This wasn’t just hunger.

This was capital H Hunger—the kind that came with plot twists and…

She whispered something under her breath. A name. A curse. A prayer.

“Oh… Caliburn…”

[Blank] blinked.

He didn’t know who—or what—Caliburn was, but judging by the way Morgan looked like she just felt the earth tilt… He was either a very important man. Or about to be hunted down by one.

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