Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
263 – Bottomless Well

At last, the final curtain call had arrived. The day everyone had been waiting for—not with joy, perhaps, but with that grim satisfaction people reserved for funerals and overdue confrontations.

The sentencing of the so-called sinners? Done and dusted. The land had been sliced and plated like a victory feast, spoils of war portioned out to the deserving—or at least, the persistent. Titles and roles had been handed out like favors at a divine banquet, Burn now officially crowned as the Emperor of the World. A bit rushed, yes, but given the circumstances, who could argue?

The mythical communities, in turn, accepted their shiny new status as vessels. A dignified way of saying “conquered but politely.”

All that remained now was the final matter—the cherry on this apocalyptic sundae.

The interrogation.

Of the Demon Lord.

The one behind the chaos, the collapse, the fire, the blood, and all the poetic suffering in between. The cause of every hero’s trauma and every bard’s best-selling tragedy. And now, for the grand finale, they would sit him down, ask him how he broke the world, and—if he was tactful—maybe get an answer that made sense.

Because nothing said closure like cross-examining evil incarnate with the entire world watching.

“But unsealing the Demon Lord without Her Holiness present—are we really doing that?” Adroros Borion, the ever-diplomatic centaur chief, asked as their hooves and boots echoed down the marble hallway toward the grand assembly.

Onulph Sam, as ever allergic to subtlety, let out a grunt. “We’ve still got His Majesty. At the end of the day, wasn’t it him who drop-kicked the Demon Lord into oblivion in the first place?”

“Lord Sam,” piped up Endreos, dutiful son of a chief and poster boy for cautious optimism, “how strong is His Majesty the Emperor, really?” The young centaur knew well enough that Burn’s authority could probably part oceans and taxes, but the idea of a mere human being the strongest living being in existence? It still refused to compute.

Onulph just chuckled, the kind of laugh that said, ‘Oh, sweet summer child.’ “So, defeating the Demon Lord, and single-handedly blue-balling the Outsiders’ invasion three years ago still hasn’t sold you on the idea?”

Endreos coughed. “Sir, I just meant—well, there’s still you, Lord Navarre, Lady Blackmantle, Master Vlad… And even without Her Holiness, surely the most powerful of us all is Lord Isaiah? He may be a lunar recluse now, but wasn’t his title—”

“The Dragon Lord,” Adroros finished, grimacing as though someone had just said a cursed word. “But don’t go flinging that title around casually. For the past five centuries, 'Dragon Lord' and 'Demon Lord' have been used almost interchangeably.”

“Still, Father—” Endreos pressed.

“We get it,” Onulph sighed, a tired smile on his face, “but listen, kid—The stronger a man is, the harder it is to see the bottom of his well. Especially when you don’t even have the bucket to begin with.”

“Or the rope,” another voice chimed in—light, amused, and unmistakably smug. Aidyl, accompanied by Eos, was walking up beside them, hoofsteps clicking against polished marble like punctuation marks on sarcasm.

Endreos arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m too weak to judge?”

“That would be a precise summary,” came Selen Blackmantle’s voice as she arrived with Theor the Minotaur, her husband and usual provider of silent menace. “His Majesty is strong. Dangerously so. Frankly, it’s a little unnerving.”

“Hush,” Eos neighed with scandalized dignity. “Lady Selen, that’s dangerously close to sedition.”

Selen just laughed, her tiger tail flicking behind her like punctuation on mischief.

“Honestly? I still can’t picture him beating Lord Sam,” Endreos declared, with the confident skepticism only the young and not-yet-traumatized could muster.

The older veterans—seasoned legends in their own right—erupted into laughter. Not mocking, just crisp, deeply entertained, like parents watching a toddler challenge gravity. Their chuckles rang clear and dry through the marble hall, each note echoing with ‘Oh, sweet boy…’ energy.

Especially Onulph, Aidyl, and Selen—the trio who had once thoroughly assessed each other’s power and mutually agreed, with polite smiles and veiled threats, that they were all in the same terrifying league.

“That’s flattering,” Onulph said with a grin that bared just enough fang to remind you why he was the Alpha King of Werewolves. “But no. His Majesty? I can’t even begin to imagine the kind of hell he had to crawl through to end up that powerful. Whatever it was—it wasn’t survivable by normal standards.”

He glanced at Endreos with something like pity. “One day, maybe you’ll understand.”

What no one realized—what none of the veterans could have possibly known—was that that day would be today.

And understanding? Well… it was coming fast, loud, and probably through a stone wall.

They entered one by one, like chess pieces taking their final places on a divine board—though far less quietly. The mythical representatives filed into the assembly hall with the weight of centuries dragging behind their ceremonial robes.

The Elven Queen glided like moonlight, the Dwarven King stomped in as if the marble floor owed him money, the Vampire of the West, Vlad, his daughter, and the Dragon of the East, Isaiah, carried the kind of calm that made people wonder if they’d survive his next breath.

Each representative took their seat as if their mere presence ensured world order—or at the very least, decent catering.

Then, like the last move in a long and rigged game, Burn arrived. Not alone, of course. With him came the humans—his entourage of mortal monarchs and misfit legends.

There was Young King Yvain of Edensor, Burn’s sharp-eyed, recently-polished adoptive son. King Lazarus Lumine of Luminus, all light and robes and just enough holiness to make the Vampires roll their eyes. Aroche Leodegrance, the loyal vassal king of fallen Inkia, followed in behind like a man who knew how to smile at betrayal that took his life, got revived, and still asked for more work.

And trailing among them, like the final twist of fate, was Blair Inkor—illegitimate princess, survivor of a fallen kingdom.

Before shrinking in nervousness the moment she sat down.