Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
267 – Bullseye

Ah, the laundry list of sins.

They had done their homework, hadn’t they? A neat little dossier of damnation, bullet-pointed atrocities, all pinned lovingly to his name like medals on a war criminal’s chest.

Yes, yes. He’d killed some world leaders. Boo hoo. Poisoned dynasties like a particularly vengeful parasite in a royal bloodline. Oh no.  Toppled economies, incited civil wars, nudged paranoid kings and desperate warlords to slit each other’s throats over glittering lies. Cry me a contaminated river.

They made it sound like he was the problem, when all he’d done was scratch the itch that was already festering in humanity’s soul. The hunger for power. The greed. The rot. He didn’t invent those things. He just... organized them. Like a good little curator of carnage.

But of course, the real scandal wasn’t the betrayal or bloodshed. It was the accessibility. Power for everyone—now that was the true obscenity.

He'd introduced corrupted mana, a gift wrapped in filth and temptation. Tangible power for the powerless. Even the weakest, the Visionless and Forceless—those pathetic ants without magic or might—could wield destruction like a god, as long as they agreed to char their souls to cinders.

So what if it left behind a trail of haunted corpses and psychic mulch? So what if entire ecozones turned into magical Chernobyls? It was still power. Glorious, delicious power. And everyone wanted it.

And so came his crown jewel of functional heresy: The Infuser.

A charming little bauble-maker. Took corrupted mana and turned it into glittering trinkets—artificial stones, as pretty as they were poisonous. Jewelry for the damned. Batteries that didn’t just hum with power, but sang with suffering. Portable devastation with a snap and a grin.

And oh, the potential! Power grids lit by sorrow. Cities fueled by guilt. A future glowing with neon regret!

They called it a Vision Resonator.

He preferred: Soul-Fucker 3000.

But mana batteries weren’t enough. No, no, no. Not for a man like Lancelot. He wasn’t here to distribute corruption. He wanted to engineer it. Sculpt it. Live it.

And for that, he needed the perfect host.

Not Elves with their smug enlightenment. Not Merfolks or Beastkins with their divine physiques. Not even dragons, who thought they were too mythical to fail.

No—he chose humans. Weak, desperate, tragically moldable humans.

The best blank slates for monstrosity.

Their mediocrity was a blessing. Their ambition, a curse ripe for cultivation. And so he did. Over decades. Generations. Birth by birth. Soul by soul. An infestation disguised as evolution.

Ah, Ahlgrath… That moist little disaster. Born wrong, grown worse. One of his proudest grotesqueries. A sludge-slick testament to prenatal corruption.

And yet, the world only saw the surface. The experiments. The wars. The factories. They thought they’d uncovered the truth. How quaint.

If they only knew how deep the rot went.

But then, in the silence of the courtroom, just as Lancelot was savoring the taste of tension on everyone’s breath—Burn spoke.

And it wasn’t what he expected.

Not the war crimes. Not the kingdoms razed. Not the children turned into weapons. No, the man opened his mouth and dropped a nuclear fucking thesis bomb:

“Did you cause the death and corruption of the beloved Apostle of God, Father Paschasius Yi?”

For just a fraction of a second—Lancelot blinked.

Ho.

This fucking bitch.

“You dare… say that name in my presence…?”

The void seal gurgled in response, a thick, mucosal groan like a dying god’s bowel movement. His vertically-halved form—still suspended in place by black ropes of anchoring filth—twitched violently. One half of his face twisted into a leering sneer, the other convulsing in a grimace of unspeakable emotion, like two separate beasts trying to wear the same corpse.

The oil between his halves bubbled, seething, a boiling slurry of unholy bile and suppressed screams. It writhed with the barely-contained hunger of a thousand damned souls, churning into sloshing vortexes of wrath like a blender trying to puree hatred.

A foul steam hissed out of the crack between his torso, a stench like scorched confessionals and melted baby teeth. His ribs snapped open like angry book covers, dripping black ichor as veins of cursed mana pulsed under translucent meat.

"You DARE bring him into this pitiful mockery of justice?" he rasped, every syllable wheezing out like a century of plague breath through punctured lungs. “You sanctimonious, golden-dick bastard.”

One arm spasmed, twitching toward Caliburn Pendragon as if to strangle the man across a mile of light and law. Tendons slithered like worms out of his half-split shoulder, snapping taut like furious harp strings plucked by an invisible hand of rage.

“PASCHASIUS—was MINE!” Lancelot roared, voice crackling like burning fat. “What did that witch of a woman tell you? You think your holy little shrine-boy died a saint?! No—he DROWNED in ME!”

And oh, how he boiled.

Bubbles rose from the depths of his abominable core, popping with tiny gasps that sounded almost like laughter—tiny, high-pitched giggles of a hundred damned Paschasiuses shrieking from the past.

“I shaped him,” Lancelot snarled, eyes bleeding thick ropes of molten tar. “I held him when his faith broke, kissed his forehead as he slipped into heresy, whispered nightmares into his heart until they sang hymns of corruption! You think he was your beloved apostle?! He was my masterpiece in progress, you pontificating slab of sword-wielding hypocrisy!”

The black ooze pulsed harder, lighting the air with arcane static, casting shifting shadows across the assembled hall like flickering sins made manifest.

“I should have drowned you both in the womb of the earth,” he hissed, voice dragging gravel through acid. “But no. You wanted a trial.”

He bared his gums—those slick, tar-slathered horrors of something that should never have smiled—in a grin jagged as a broken altar.

But just as his wrath coiled to strike, ready to lash out with the rotted elegance of a god betrayed—

Burn moved.

Calmly. Quietly. With that same unbearable stillness of a predator already chewing.

Then: he shrugged.

“I was just taunting you,” he said, light as sin. “Didn’t know you were gay for him like that.”

The words hit like a hammer to the spine. A thousand years of vitriol, corruption, murder, and apocalypse—halted. Lancelot’s grotesque split shape convulsed, not with power, but with pure, horrified… recognition?

“W-what—?”

Burn smiled. Not kindly. Not cruelly.

But gleefully. Like a boy about to break a toy just to watch it shatter.

“What?” he sneered, golden eyes dancing like twin suns over a field of shame. “Jealous of my wife for being loved by your little gay crush?”

It landed like divine smut hurled from heaven. The crowd of myth and legend stirred. And there stood Burn, resplendent and vile, out-monstering the monster with one twist of the knife.

Lancelot floundered in the seal, black bile erupting from his midpoint like a sputtering volcano of humiliation. Half a ribcage tried to slam shut in denial. The void seal convulsed as if choking on its cargo's indignity.

“You… You fucking dare—!” he gasped, face curdling into something between one meltdown and another meltdown.

Burn leaned forward slightly, all mock-casual venom.

“I didn’t even know you knew him,” Burn mused, tilting his head. “So that’s how old you are. I see. You were involved in the Original Sin.”

Lancelot screamed—not in agony, no, but in something far worse: a sound that cracked open like a confession. The shriek of pride ruptured. Of secrets peeled raw in public light.

Burn just laughed, low and wicked.

“What was my mother then, huh? Guinevere—what, a rebound to help you pray the gay away?” He clicked his tongue, as if disappointed. “Denying your attraction to his Divine Dick?”

And in that moment—oh, in that beautiful, wretched moment—the great Demon Lord, the one who had marionetted nations and gods like meat dolls, looked suddenly, unmistakably… small.

Burn beamed. “Ohh, my wife is going to love this story. Too bad she’s not here to hear it firsthand.” He clasped his hands lazily behind his back, his gait loose and unbothered as he strolled forward.

“Pascha,” he said, drawing the name like honey over a knife. “That poor, poor soul.”

Then, with theatrical grace, he crouched—face to face with the wretchedly bifurcated Lancelot.

“Just so we’re clear,” Burn purred, voice dripping with the kind of poison that smelled like perfume, “Pascha never fell. Still beloved. Still God’s most treasured lover. You thought you were gonna be his side chick?”

He chuckled—sharp, glinting, predatory.

“Brother, eugh,” he shuddered theatrically, nose wrinkling. “I thought I imagined the sexual tension you started leaking the second I said his name. Turns out I was right? That’s… disgusting.” He burst into laughter, loud and indulgent.

And the assembly… they didn’t even know what the fuck is happening.

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