Ascension Of The Villain-Chapter 286: Noose of His Own Making

Her eyes flicked up to his, still heavy with sleep but glinting with curiosity. "You didn't tell me. Where are you going?"

"Home," he said simply, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I just need to check if everything went alright last night."

"Should I come with you?" she asked, starting to shift under the blanket.

But he shook his head and gently eased her back down, his palm cradling the back of her head as he settled her against the pillows.

"No. You should sleep." He kissed her forehead, lingering a second longer. "I'll join you soon. Then we can sleep in till noon, hmm?"

A lazy smile pulled at her lips. The coronation ceremony wasn't until the evening. There was no urgency.

His fingers combed through her hair softly, and she closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his care more than his words. She was so tired. They both were. And for a fleeting moment, this unfamiliar bed, this unknown room, this delusional bubble away from everything else—it felt like safety.

"Okay…" she whispered, already half-asleep, "Be back safely."

He leaned down and brushed a kiss against her lips, featherlight but full of something unsaid.

"I will," he murmured.

———

A soft swish echoed through the air as Vyan materialized in the grand hall of his manor, the shimmer of teleportation magic fading like smoke from his coat.

And then… he paused.

The marble floors were streaked in drying blood, as were the once-cream curtains, now soaked in crimson art. One of the armchairs appeared to have been stabbed. The velvet was slashed open, stuffing spilling like entrails.

"My poor living room…"

A polite cough came from the side.

"Good morning, Master," Benedict greeted with a bow so graceful it felt slightly illegal in a room this gory. "How was your date?"

Vyan brushed nonexistent dust off his shoulder, as if that could distract from the bloodied battlefield around him. "It was good," he replied. "Sorry for not coming to the church last night."

"There's no need to apologize," Benedict said smoothly. "You had already instructed me to leave if neither you nor Lady Iyana arrived by midnight."

Vyan hummed in acknowledgment. He had, indeed. Last night, in a spur-of-the-moment suggestion (read: slightly chaotic, heavily unhinged idea), he'd told Iyana that if she agreed to marry him, they'd head straight to the church run by Benedict's family—the Church of the Goddess Hecate—for a midnight wedding, no fuss, no audience. He'd even asked Benedict to be the officiant.

But Iyana, ever the rational to his impulsiveness, had simply made him understand that he was being stupid.

He cleared his throat and scanned the still-bloody room. "Why hasn't the rotten blood been cleaned up yet?"

Immediately, the servants who had been lingering nearby snapped into action like guilty cats caught napping on the furniture. Scrubbing brushes, mops, and brooms sprang to life. The sound of panicked cleaning filled the hall.

Benedict replied without missing a beat. "The intruders put up quite a fight. It went on for… quite a while. And it appears our knights took their sweet time dealing with them. They acted like vengeful beasts and created a mess of the manor. I'd appreciate it if you reprimanded them, Master."

"Okay, will do." He absolutely will not. He'd reward his knights. They committed such a bloody massacre, only out of a sense of loyalty for him and his family. They didn't act like a beast on normal occasions; they were all good people at heart. "Anyway, did you send the intruders' bloodied swords to their master?"

"Just as you ordered," Benedict replied with a faint smile that said you are terrifying, and I support that.

"And the bodies?"

"Abandoned at the gate of the imperial cemetery."

"Excellent." Vyan gave a satisfied nod like he had just confirmed brunch reservations instead of a strategic corpse delivery. "Now—can you prepare a change of clothes for me and Iyana?"

"Of course, Master. Please wait a few minutes."

Benedict turned to leave, then paused.

"Oh," Vyan said, as if remembering something. "And get me a healing potion."

Benedict didn't even need to think. "In my opinion, stamina and fatigue-curing potions would be more appropriate."

Vyan froze. His ears went red.

The silence that followed could've snapped.

"…Y-Yes. Those, then."

And that's when he realized it. Not just Benedict, but all the servants in the living room—maids, knights, footmen—were doing their absolute best not to make eye contact with him. Or worse, they were. With smug, knowing little glances. One maid had her lip bitten to keep from smiling. A young footman was quietly wiping blood off the floor with a little too much glee.

Oh no. Oh no.

As if twisting the dagger further, Benedict added as he turned to leave, "Also, please refrain from bathing at the hotel. When you return with Lady Iyana, take a proper bath here. We will have warm healing water prepared. It should soothe any marks… lingering on the skin."

He didn't even wait for a response. He simply walked off, entirely too smug for someone who didn't openly smile.

Vyan stood rooted in place, mortified. A man could only take so much.

Clyde teasing him? He could roll his eyes and throw a punch. Maybe even roast him back. But Benedict? With his quiet dignity and saintly aura? That was psychological warfare.

And the servants—oh, the servants. The loyal staff he fed and paid and protected—now looking at him like he was the protagonist in one of those cheap romance novels with steamy covers.

Vyan groaned under his breath and covered his face with one hand.

"Great," he muttered. "I'm never looking any of them in the eyes again."

He glanced toward the hallway and seriously considered hiding in a closet.

Just in case someone else had more potions to recommend.

———

A loud crash echoed through the chamber as porcelain shattered against the stone wall, fragments of an heirloom vase raining to the ground like jagged snowflakes.

Sienna was a storm wrapped in velvet, rage curling through her like wildfire as she grabbed another object—a crystal perfume decanter this time—and hurled it across the room. It smashed into a mirror, splintering both glass and reflection. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving as she sent yet another priceless artifact flying. The room had started as royal; now it looked like the aftermath of a tantrum in hell.

Blood glistened along her fingers, trickling from the sharp edge of a broken frame she'd thrown without thinking. She didn't care. Her pain only fueled her fury.

"All of your subordinates are useless!" she shrieked, her voice sharp as a whip crack. "Not only did they fail to kill your sister, they couldn't even get rid of her lapdog!"

Her hazel eyes began to glow gold, fiery and unhinged, almost too bright for her face. She clawed at her hair in frustration and turned to the man sitting quietly in the corner like a static puppet.

"I've no choice," she hissed, eyes blazing, "but to use my own powers now."

"I don't see why you didn't from the beginning," Easton said dryly.

The slap came like thunder.

Hard. Quick. Loud.

Her palm stung and his cheek bore the red mark—but Easton didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't react. His hollow green eyes stared at her as if she were just noise. As if he had long since drowned in silence.

"How dare you taunt me?" she seethed, voice shaking with a blend of fear and pride. "Don't forget, you're mine. If I tell you to slit your own throat, you'll do it."

He didn't respond.

He didn't need to. The deadness in his eyes said everything: he probably would.

It's not that he didn't have a mind of his own anymore. But he knew his mind would cease to fight back as soon as she barked an order. He was just a doll now. He had no desire to do anything. This woman here was planning his sister's demise, and he could do nothing.

Because it was his own fault. He himself invited the snake into his home—he, in fact, married the snake. Now he had no choice but to bear the consequences of his choices. It was a noose of his own making.

Sienna turned her back to him, pacing like a caged animal. "Don't you understand?" she whispered, her voice dropping into a tremble. "If I openly use dark magic in this empire… I'll be sentenced to death. No trial. No pardon."

She pressed her bleeding hand to her lips, biting the skin as if trying to ground herself. "But I've got no choice now. I've waited, I've planned, I've suffered. If I don't use all my cards… I'll never wear the crown. And if I don't become empress—" her voice cracked, "—then what was any of this for?"

Desperation laced her every word, burning through her anger like acid through silk. Her glowing eyes dimmed for a moment as she looked down at her hands—her blood, her mess, her loss. Red smudged the cuffs of her gown. She felt sick.

Her gaze drifted to Easton. Her husband. Her pawn. Her prisoner.

He didn't even look at her.

A bitter laugh escaped her. "I bet Vyan wouldn't have let Iyana bleed like this," she whispered to herself. "He would've stopped the world just to keep a scratch off her skin."

But here she was. Standing alone. Bleeding. Broken. With nothing but borrowed magic and shaky ambition keeping her upright.

What did she have if not power?

Not love.

Not dignity.

Not a future worth envying.

Just a hunger.

A single, desperate desire burning her alive from the inside out.

She had to become the empress.

No matter what. No matter who she had to destroy.

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Because if she didn't… then she was nothing. And nothing terrified her more than being irrelevant.