Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
272 – Shatterpoint

Son of Arthur.

That’s what he was supposed to be.

Even when Clarent, in his final breath before Burn struck him down, claimed otherwise—that Burn wasn’t their father’s son—he’d still hoped it was just bitterness, or Lancelot feeding Clarent lies.

Aroche had told him what he saw inside that tent—Clarent standing with Lancelot and Guinevere, two ghosts who should’ve been long dead.

Maybe Lancelot spun a convincing tale. Maybe he told Clarent that Burn had no right to the crown. That he was never a Pendragon to begin with. And Clarent—poor, simmering, second-best Clarent—finally saw his chance.

Of course he would rebel. Why wouldn’t he? It must’ve felt like justice. Why hand your throne to the golden boy who outshined you at everything, only to find out—surprise—he isn’t even your brother?

But Merlin’s son?

That’s not just insulting. That’s mythological-grade bullshit.

It couldn’t be.

Merlin? That bastard—the very lunatic who practically rewrote the apocalypse in footnotes? Merlin—the same man who ripped 500 years off his own daughter’s soul like it was pocket change?

His wife’s father. His wife’s—

“Soulnaught Syndrome,” Lancelot cut in, oh so helpfully. “An incurable illness where your soul can’t properly anchor to your body. Chronic leakage. Excruciating pain. Always fatal. Most don’t make it past fifteen.”

Silence. Deafening. Not just Burn—everyone in the hall shut up like the air had been vacuumed out.

“But who’d have guessed,” Lancelot continued, “that the real reason a child would be born with it… was simply because they’re Merlin’s spawn?”

Then he laughed. Of course he laughed.

“You thought I was the villain? Oh no, no, no. That man Merlin—hoo boy—whatever the hell he did to his test-tube children, jamming them into meat-shells tough enough to survive it… they turned out like you.”

The vertically-split demon smiled like a knife. “Viviane. Poor Viviane. Had to push you into the world—soul-shattered and vicious. No wonder she practically yeeted you at Arthur like he was a dumpster marked ‘Lost and Found.’”

“And credit where credit’s due,” he added with a wicked shrug, “he did inspire my own work. Who would’ve thought—editing your unborn children’s soul tether for personal transcendence? Real visionary stuff.”

CLATTER!

Vlad stood.

He was the only one present who could actually see inside Burn’s head—and what he saw must’ve knocked the breath out of him.

“Son!”

“Aroche, Isaiah—hold him down! Now!”

“Brother!”

“Burn!”

The rest caught up a fraction too late.

The room’s temperature plummeted like the floor had opened into hell. Air turned viscous with raw mana, thick enough to chew.

GRASP!

SHHHHH!

CLANG!

Steel hissed free from scabbards across the chamber.

And Vlad—old, composed, terrifying Vlad—teleported in front of Burn, face carved with horror.

“Son. Son, listen to me. Listen to me—”

Fear.

Endreos—who’d been told earlier that morning, “One day, maybe you’ll understand what kind of man Emperor Caliburn Pendragon really is”—well, congratulations. That day had arrived.

Understanding came like a sledgehammer to the chest.

It felt like the sky had collapsed in on itself.

The earth? Gone. Just gone.

Death was in the room, watching them all through a thousand unblinking eyes.

But what Endreos actually saw was worse: a man being restrained by a dragon, an undead, and a vampire in the center of the grand hall—not after doing something, not mid-rampage—no, before he even moved.

Before anyone could process what he might have done in that blink of a second.

Before anyone even understood that something had gone terribly, irrevocably wrong.

Every soul in the room had already felt their head metaphorically separated from their neck. A few, just to be safe, had to physically hold theirs down—just in case the metaphor decided to become literal.

Because that man—that man—almost certainly did not want them breathing anymore.

This secret was far too heavy for the tiny price of their lives.

Caliburn Pendragon might decide to erase every single witness.

And the worst part?

He absolutely could.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Lancelot’s broken laughter shattered the air like glass. “Just look at them—look at how terrified they are of you, you glorious little kinslayer! Caliburn Pendragon—the legend who killed his own father and brother—ah, wait, silly me! Technically, you didn’t. Because they weren’t yours to begin with, right?”

He leaned forward with a twisted grin. “So what does that make you? Ah, yes! A man who murdered and snacked on the flesh of two sentient beings—just to patch up that little soul-leak that proved you were that bastard Merlin’s spawn?”

“SHUT UP!” Vlad roared, nearly losing his grip as he tried to silence him.

“Oh, but you must have hated him,” Lancelot spat, eyes wide. “The very man who jumpstarted the apocalypse three years ago. Who shredded your beloved wife’s soul—his own daughter—and then, surprise! Turns out he’s also your dad? HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“Don’t listen to him—don’t, my son—Caliburn—!” Vlad’s voice cracked as he tightened his grip. “Seal the void—shut that filthy mouth—Caliburn!”

“Brother, listen to us—Brother!” Aroche’s voice was strained, clutching Burn’s right arm and shoulder with ghost-pale desperation.

“‘Tis futile—none…” Isaiah, on the left, growled between gritted teeth as the floor cracked beneath them. Despite his seven-foot frame and dragonian strength, he was trembling under the pressure. Even with Aroche helping, Burn was a walking cataclysm—momentum incarnate.

So that was it. That was why Viviane—Lady of the Lake—never truly loved him. She’d always known he wouldn’t survive past fifteen. She’d also known who his father was. Which explained the name she gave him.

Soulnon.

A joke? A curse? A prophecy?

His father was never his. His brother—of course he hated him. Who wouldn’t?

The throne—

And Merlin.

He was Morgan’s brother.

Burn lifted his head. And when he met Lancelot’s eyes, it wasn’t a man looking back. It was a sun—cold, blinding, and merciless.

“So what if she’s my sister?” he said. “As you said, I’ve done worse.”

It wasn’t the throne. It wasn’t Merlin. Not his father. Not his mother. Not even himself.

The reason he wanted everyone in that room dead was far simpler, far crueler—

“Not a single word,” he said.

The words dropped straight into the bones of everyone in the room, ringing in their middle ear ossicles.

“Not a single word to my wife.”

Because she was the one person he never wanted to break.