I Am The Villainess Who Will Tame Every Yandere Heroine!-Chapter 49: Ruined

[You Have Ruined 50 Ruination Points For Gambling]

'Oh?'

Serafine tilted her head. Now that was interesting. Somewhere in the hazy depths of her previous system tutorials which she had, admittedly, half-listened to, she vaguely recalled that most of her actions were now completely up to her, meaning she had some free reign over how she wanted to handle things.

A delighted grin spread across her face.

'Oh-ho, so this means my glorious future acts of debauchery and chaos will be handsomely rewarded?'

She nearly cackled in glee, but she held it in, settling for a suspicious little snicker under her breath.

Calix, walking beside her, took one look at her and shivered. "Why do I feel like you've just discovered something terrible?"

She ignored him, far too pleased with herself. "Open my stats," she commanded.

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Name: Serafine

Title: The Sun Who Burns The World

Race: Human

Nation: Oradale

Level: 30

Ethos: Illusory Radiance

Meta Energy: 250/250

Ruination Points: 50/1,000

--- Stats ---

Radiance: 1,002

Clarity: 1,002

Burn: 1,002

Finesse: 1,002

Charisma: 1,002

Ability: Mask of Light (Level 2)

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'Level Thirty, huh?'

Serafine tilted her head, unimpressed.

'Not bad, not great. Probably stronger than your average street thug, but still a far cry from true greatness.'

She had a long way to go. The real powerhouses of this world were at Level 70 and beyond, the kind of people who could crush a man just by looking at him funny.

But at least there was a system in place to keep track of strength. It wasn't like everyone was walking around blind, wondering if they could take on an ogre or if they'd be flattened like a pancake.

Meta Statisticians, found in major guilds, were responsible for ranking people and determining their levels.

A useful little system, one that also meant she could gauge exactly how much stronger she needed to get to utterly dominate the playing field.

When she had distributed her stats days ago, she noticed something interesting.

Her Soul Sigil was a separate entity—it had to be leveled manually by sacrificing points.

'Oh, so it's either power or essence, huh?' A trade-off. How delightfully frustrating.

Well, there was only one way to know more.

"Open Soul Sigil Stats."

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[Soul Sigil Description: An Enhancer of the Ethos]

Soul Sigil: Mask of Light

State: Stage One

Level: Thirty

Ruination Points (RN): 1,500

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Her Mask of Light was still sitting at a pitiful Level Two, mostly because she hadn't quite cracked the 'evolution' part yet.

Did she need to train it like a muscle?

Use it on more dead bodies?

Make a speech about the art of deception to an audience of unfortunate souls?

The system wasn't exactly handing her an instruction manual, and trial and error only got her so far.

Her musings were abruptly shattered when the massive door in front of them creaked open, its sheer weight grinding against the floor like an ancient beast stirring from its slumber.

And behind it—

A cell full of humans.

Mariella flinched, her breath catching in her throat. Even the ever-so-smug Saintess could feel her body tense, though she masked it well.

The stench hit first. A putrid cocktail of sweat, blood, and something far worse.

The air inside was humid and stale, a lingering testament to how many souls had been crammed into this hellhole without proper care.

Bodies were piled against one another, some slumped like discarded dolls, others shivering in thin rags, clutching themselves as if trying to shrink out of existence.

Their eyes were hollow, reflecting the kind of hopelessness that had long since accepted its fate.

Some had fresh wounds, others bore the faded scars of old torment, and a few didn't react at all as if their spirits had already left, leaving only husks behind.

A woman in the farthest corner clutched a child, shielding their fragile form from view.

The child barely made a sound, save for the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of their tiny chest, a sign that they were still alive. Barely.

And then there were the chains.

Shackles, some rusted, some freshly coated with blood, bound ankles and wrists to the cold stone walls.

Heavy iron collars hung from the necks of the more rebellious ones, evidence of past resistance that had been forcefully subdued.

Etched into the walls were desperate carvings - names, prayers, curses. A silent scream written in jagged lines.

Serafine let out a slow breath. Not even she could joke about this.

"Ah..." Mariella's voice wobbled slightly, her fingers tightening into fists. Rage flickered in her brown eyes eyes.

Calix didn't speak, but his grip on Mariella's shoulder hardened - not just to comfort, but to ground himself. He had always been gentle, soft-hearted despite his clumsiness. But even he had his limits.

Serafine's golden eyes swept over the scene, her usual smirk absent for once.

She exhaled. "Well… I've been to worse places."

Both her disciples snapped their heads toward her, expressions caught between horrified and disbelieving.

Serafine merely stretched her arms lazily. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I said I've been to worse, not that this wasn't bad. Perspective, my dear students. Now then…" Her gaze landed on the pale golden-eyed prince, standing just behind them, watching their reactions with amusement.

She rolled her shoulders.

"It's time for some negotiations, don't you think?"

That's right. Prince Donovan wasn't just some shadow lurking behind the crown prince. He wasn't just some sleazy businessman running a brothel with an ungodly amount of expensive wine and questionable life choices.

Oh no, no, no. That would've been too simple.

He was a human trafficker.

And not just your average, run-of-the-mill, back-alley type. No, he had a system. A refined operation. He handled heretics, traitors, discarded souls, and anyone deemed a 'stain' on society. If Oradale wanted to wash its hands of someone, Donovan was there to offer his ever-so-generous services.

And guess what? He decided their fate.

Would they be tossed into the deepest pits to rot? Sold off to someone even worse than him? Or—oh, the grand prize—would they receive his "highest mercy" and become one of his brothel workers? Because apparently, in his own twisted logic, that was a merciful act.

To him, this wasn't about profit. It wasn't just about power.

No, this was his way of cleansing.

His very own holy purification ritual, except instead of using divine light, he used shackles, chains, and a disgustingly high tolerance for other people's suffering.

Donovan leaned back against the cell bars, arms crossed, his pale golden eyes gleaming with amusement. He tilted his head, studying Serafine with the kind of look that said he had already decided what kind of person she was.

"You know," he mused, voice dripping with lazy amusement, "you look like the type of man who's completely messed up in the head."

"Excuse me?"

He smirked, eyes dragging over her stolen, masculine form. "You've got that look. The kind that's seen too much, done too much, and now can't settle for anything normal. Probably the type to collect as many women as you want, huh? Own them, break them in, discard them when you're bored—"

"—Okay, wow," Serafine cut in, voice slightly higher than intended. "I feel deeply attacked right now."

She could deny it. She should deny it. But Donovan was looking at her like a cat that had just watched a particularly stupid mouse walk into a trap, so at this point, why even bother?

Instead, she settled for adjusting the cuffs of her stolen jacket, grumbling under her breath. Mariella looked like she wanted to pull out a knife right there and Calix had to grab her away.

"Right then," Donovan said, clapping his hands together. "Chop. Chop. Let's get down to business."

With a snap of his fingers, the courtesans at his side moved forward, unlocking a series of cell doors. The first woman was dragged forward, her wrists bound, her expression blank.

"She was a thief," Donovan explained, gripping her chin, forcing her to look up at Serafine. "Stole from a noble. Now she works off her debt."

Serafine made a noncommittal hum, pretending to look interested.

The next girl. A noble's unwanted daughter.

The next. A supposed heretic.

One by one, he paraded them in front of her, gripping their faces like they were fine merchandise on display rather than actual human beings. Some flinched under his touch. Others were eerily still, long past hope.

Serafine let out a low hum, playing the part of the insatiable bastard Donovan assumed she was, eyes scanning the rows of cells with feigned disinterest.

And then—

She saw her.

Clara.

She was sitting against the back of her cell, legs pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around herself. She was thinner than before, far too thin. Dark bruises marked her skin, her once fearless expression now dull, tired, and far too hollow.

What the hell happened to her?

Clara, the same girl who had betrayed her, ruined everything, sent her spiraling down a path she never wanted to take—

—looked like she had been broken first.

Serafine barely hesitated. She lifted a gloved hand and pointed. "I want her."