I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!!-Chapter 42: Blade of the Sword Saint

The First Head’s face was a mask of utter shock, his eyes bulging as if they might pop out at any moment. In stark contrast, the Second Head bore an expression of intense pain and despair. The differences extended to the base of their necks as well.

The First Head’s neck was cleanly severed as if it had been sliced off in a single, effortless stroke. The Second Head, however, told a different story. Its neck was jagged and ragged, the edges rough and torn, as if the head had been brutally ripped it off. At the same time, the owner was still conscious, enduring unimaginable agony.

’Bandit King and Pirate King.’ Ashok recognized the identities of the two heads immediately. Both had once been Ascended Rankers—figures of immense power feared throughout the empire.

The Bandit King had carved out his dominion in the mountains, his influence stretching across the rugged peaks, while the Pirate King had ruled the seas, his fleet instilling terror in every port.

But now, those same heads, once symbols of unyielding strength, were reduced to mere grotesque relics in the Duke’s hall. No longer the rulers of vast territories, they had become nothing more than macabre trophies of the Duke’s Hunt. They weren’t trophies in the traditional sense—no, these heads were footrests, positioned right beneath the Duke’s feet.

’There is a reason the Duke is feared in the world when he is only an S Ranker, No S Ranker could keep his feet on the heads of two Ascended Rankers. But that does not matter to someone like me who knows the truth behind that feared persona.’ Thought Ashok as he answered the duke’s question.

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"It seems that all your fame was for nothing," the voice dripped with sarcasm and disdain. "To think that THE great Southern Duke is nothing more than an illiterate or maybe you are a fool. If you were truly intelligent—"

ZAP!

ZAP!

BOOM!

Ashok’s words faltered in his throat as a sudden, cold sensation brushed against the edge of his neck. The sound of thunder falling seemed to reverberate through the entire room.

Ashok eyes slowly moved downward, tracing the source of the feeling. There, against the contrast of his clothing, lay the sleek curve of a katana, its blade so finely honed that it seemed to gleam in the dim light. The reflection of his face shimmered on its sharp surface—an eerie mirror image of himself, frozen in time. He could see the precision of the weapon, the flawless maintenance, the sharpness that seemed to hum with deadly potential.

Slowly, his gaze lifted, moving up the length of the blade to the figure holding it.

Two black eyes locked onto Ashok with a chilling intensity, their sclera was as red as fresh blood, as though the very vessels behind them were ready to rupture. The eyes were burning with an all-consuming fury, a rage so deep that it seemed to boil beneath the surface, threatening to explode at any moment. And in those eyes, Ashok could see nothing but one singular, unrelenting target—his neck. The mouth of the Bamboo Hat Sword Saint opened.

"Permission, Sir." The Bamboo Hat Sword Saint’s voice was a near whisper, but it held a razor-sharp edge. The Sword Saint had already lost his composure. His patience, once a thing of precision and discipline, had crumbled the moment Ashok’s words had left his mouth. The note, the reason they were here, no longer mattered. What mattered now was silencing this insolent mouth, shutting it forever. The only reason he was waiting for the Duke’s command.

Yet, in the midst of this impending doom, Ashok’s demeanor remained unchanged. Despite the cold, sharp steel pressed against his throat, despite the certainty that death could claim him in an instant, he remained seated with an unsettling calm.

His expression was serene, his composure so solid it felt almost unnatural. It was as though the blade could do nothing to him. It was his Charisma and the influence of the False Monarch Trait.

’I nearly died again but this time, without even knowing the cause. This truly feels like shit.’ If not for the False Monarch Trait, his face would have changed into a twisted and ugly expression.

’I would have died without fulfilling my greatest desire, even after carefully laying the foundation for it,’ he seethed inwardly. All the plans, all the painstaking effort to build his future, would have been shattered in an instant. And it wasn’t just death that infuriated him—it was the thought that this flashy bastard, this Sword Saint, had nearly snuffed him out before he could even reach his goal.

Ashok felt no fear of death. Not anymore. He had died once already. While he was extremely to something worse than death in the abyss. There was no feeling of fear that remained within him after the two such experiences. What surged within him now was pure, unbridled anger. Fury that burned hotter than the Sword Saint’s own rage for daring to disrespect the Duke.

’I have been too lenient with my words on the note. It seems I need to establish who holds the upper hand over here.’

Ashok set aside the reason he had come here for a moment, his thoughts turning toward a different kind of strategy. His eyes locked onto the Sword Saint, whose blade was still pressed against his neck, waiting for the slightest move that could end his life.

’I can’t physically harm him—he’s stronger than me’, Ashok thought, but the spark of an idea ignited in his mind. ’But what about a mental attack?’

A smirk tugged at the corner of Ashok’s lips as he recalled something that could give him the edge. He recalled the story of the Sword Saint that was available to the players if they decided to act as a free mercenary as a second profession, from the second year of the Academy. The Past that haunted the Sword Saint even after he got his title and till the date of his death.

A Past that was deeply tied to this duchy.