Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
270 – Say ‘Aaah’ and Swallow

“How benevolent.”

At this point, every accusation had been laid bare in the court, each more theatrical than the last. Not that any of it mattered. The entire premise was, frankly, ridiculous.

In any world, fiction or fact, the usual fate of a Demon Lord was death by dramatic decapitation. Justice, in such cases, was swift, silent, and usually accompanied by a conveniently symbolic sunset. The idea of dragging one to court—alive, no less—wasn’t just unheard of. It bordered on performance art.

And yet, here he was. Still breathing. Neatly sealed in some divine Tupperware and presented like a defendant in a civilized debate. All this didn’t speak of mercy. It spoke of sheer, unapologetic power.

Only one man could make that happen. Caliburn Pendragon, the Absolute Emperor—the strongest existence this world had ever reluctantly accommodated.

Saying he could blot out the sky with one hand wasn’t hyperbole; it was more like a meteorological footnote. His very presence could undo creation itself, and somehow, everything unfolded exactly as he pleased, like the world itself feared disappointing him.

Not the Outsiders, not the Second Demon Lord, not even the rot of four continents could so much as inconvenience him. He had power. He had luck. He had plot armor thick enough to shame prophecy itself. One might begin to wonder if he wasn’t some stray Apostle moonlighting as a monarch. His curious intimacy with the Original Saint certainly didn’t help dispel the theory.

And yet, for all that divine shine and silent thunder, Lancelot couldn’t shake the feeling—when he looked at Burn—that Paschasius was staring back.

Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe it was divine déjà vu. Maybe not.

Either way, Lancelot still had a card left to play. And he always did love a dramatic ending.

"Inviting me here—this close, in the lion’s mouth—forcing me to parade my sins before your people, knowing full well what I could do or might yet become… Tell me, Caliburn Pendragon, was it just another grand display of your overwhelming strength? Ruling by sheer, unrelenting fear—that has always been your signature move, hasn’t it?"

"Naturally," Burn replied, all charm and venom. "Also, my wife isn’t present today, so I can defecate directly into your throat and not a single soul would dare flinch."

"Then by all definitions, wouldn’t that make you the most qualified candidate for the Third Demon Lord? With your bottomless authority and just enough sanctity to manipulate corruption as if it were sacrament? Let’s not forget—your wife, that Infinite Bitch, dreamed of scrubbing this world clean of every speck of corruption. But you…”

Burn’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction. Lancelot noted it with something approaching satisfaction.

“…you also signed off on my work regarding Corrupted Mana, didn’t you? Quietly. Conveniently. Because even you saw the potential. That vast, endless, untapped potential—immeasurable, adaptable, terrifyingly useful.”

The Infuser. The Vision Resonator. A glorious horror show of innovation. Mass-producing soldiers warped by corruption, establishing order through madness—a future efficiently brutal and brutally efficient.

After all, corruption was power. Sustainably quick to spread, easy to exploit, maddeningly flexible.

Its only downside?

It had a tendency to kill the vessel—be it body, mind, or soul.

Minor side effect.

Burn smiled, and even agreed without hesitation. "Of course," he said, with that breezy pause, "It’s so convenient that practically all sacrifices sound worth it, yes?"

Aroche’s hand clenched at his side, the twitch so sharp it made Bella—stationed silently behind his and Vlad’s chairs—crease her brow. Burn, for all his smiling barbarity, might truly see Corruption as a charmingly efficient utility.

But—

"This is precisely why I haven’t killed you yet, no?" Burn added, in that lilting tone of his, half-flirting with death.

It sounded, on the surface, like a benevolent extension—keeping the Demon Lord alive to aid in research. But something in the cadence of his voice, in the glint of his eye, made a chill slither down what was left of Lancelot’s vertically bifurcated spine.

"My wife," Burn continued, "lost all the power she’d spent 500 years storing. Soul energy in that volume isn’t exactly a quick refill, you see. So the world still swims in corruption—unpurged, inconvenient. But luckily," he smiled, "we have you."

There was something too cheerful in that declaration. It felt like being called ‘special’ by a butcher.

"Rather than burn through resources creating test subjects doomed to scream and die, we’ve still got you. You, who stubbornly refuse to die. Mind, body, soul—annoyingly intact. The very definition of reusable. I mean, you are the Demon Lord."

Lancelot’s eyes flared. "You bastard—"

"You just need to say ‘aaah,’" Burn said brightly, "and we’ll feed you four continents’ worth of Corrupted Mana. With spaceship noises."

For a moment, Lancelot honestly questioned how he ever mistook this man for a divine Apostle. This wasn’t heaven-sent judgment. This was devilry with a charming aftertaste.

And Burn, seeing the horror flicker behind Lancelot’s glare, broke into delighted laughter.

"I know, I know," he said, waving a hand. "Even the First Demon Lord would’ve gone completely insane after swallowing that much raw corruption. And if you did somehow survive, surely you’re not deluded enough to think you’d be strong enough to defeat me, are you?"

Then his voice softened, tone light, gentle, golden eyes aglow with something that resembled warmth—until you looked closer.

"But I’m joking, Lancelot," Burn said kindly. "If you agree to a nice little magic pact—one that ensures you’ll spill every factory, hideout, and corrupt operation you ever ran on this planet, with not a single omission—then I’ll do you the favor of killing you in, let’s say… five thousand? No—ten thousand strikes."

"And if not," he added, lifting his shoulders in an amiable shrug, "well, maybe I wasn’t joking."

Silence followed. Absolute. The Assembly of Mythical Communities could only sit and stare—utterly lost for words. Negotiations, it seemed, had taken on a new format. Outgoing. Thorough. And, naturally, unflinchingly vicious.

Only Burn could make court diplomacy feel like cheerful sadism in a dinner jacket.

By now, Burn was more than familiar with how “convenient” Corruption must look through Lancelot’s rotted perspective. Every research note pried from a seized base preached the same sermon: a sustainable, flexible, scalable power source.

Practical. Promising. Profitable. Surely worth the occasional sacrifice.

"Still," Burn said, reclining slightly, voice as calm as it was cutting, "no matter how efficient, reliable, or elegantly engineered the technique might be—even if it keeps the mind lucid, the body intact, the soul more or less glued together—"

He gestured lightly, a mock toast in Lancelot’s direction.

"Wouldn’t they all just end up like you?"

A perfect silence followed.

"People like to think dabbling in Corruption is about sacrificing the trifecta—mind, body, soul—usually from those who won’t be missed. But then again, isn’t that what Vision and Force demand too?"

He let the words hang, then dropped them like lead.

"Vision asks you to forfeit your doubts to God. Force demands you surrender your doubts to yourself. Both chew you up—mind, body, soul—and spit you out stronger, purer."

And then Burn’s expression darkened—not with anger, but with something colder. Revulsion, maybe. Recognition.

"But there’s a difference. A simple one."

His voice now low, sharp as broken glass.

"It’s to sacrifice or maintain one’s honor and dignity."