Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
271 – Remains

“I am an orphan. Yet, in this age, that alone does not make me unique. What sets my circumstance apart is that my parents were sovereigns—rulers of a nation. Thus, unlike others, when they passed, I was not merely left behind; I was burdened with a duty far greater than my own life. At the age of seven, I ascended as king, guided by the hand of my master—now my adoptive mother—Morgan Le Fay.”

Yvain began, solemn and unwavering, with the confirmed accusations and dire suspicions of the Demon King’s influence over Edensor, the circumstances surrounding his parents’ deaths, Velaryon’s crimes, and the betrayal of noble vassals sworn to his blood.

“And so, in the fifth year of my reign as King Yvain of Edensor, I accepted the offer of His Majesty Caliburn Pendragon—now my adoptive father—to become his vassal king. In doing so, I brought an end to the Edensworn line as sovereign rulers of Edensor.”

“For the murder of the former King and Queen, Belezak and Madeline Edensworn—my father and mother by blood. For the corruption that turned noble vassals to treachery. For the support of the villain Velaryon, whose deeds plunged the realm into unrest, and for the countless civilian lives lost in that shadow…”

“With this declaration, I relinquish the right to mete out justice to the hands of my lord and father—Emperor Caliburn Pendragon.”

Afterward, he turned to Blair, who stood quietly beside him, gently encouraging her to speak.

“My lords and ladies, I am Blair Inkor, the illegitimate princess of Inkia. Only recently was it revealed to me that I am one of several surviving subjects from the Demon King’s experiments— and the sole surviving illegitimate child of Inkor’s royal line, among countless others who were forcefully cultivated in corruption since infancy.”

Her voice trembled. The slight figure of a twelve-year-old girl stood beside Yvain, matching him in age, yet her presence was frail and filled with sorrow.

“For the manipulation of the kingdom of Inkia, for leading its sovereigns astray, for the corruption of its moral heart, for the pain and abominations wrought, for turning the children of Inkor into tools of unknown purpose, and for the countless innocent lives lost…”

“With this, I surrender the right to pass judgment upon evil to the hand of our lord and emperor, Caliburn Pendragon.”

In turn, Shorof Reyrie rose to her feet. The First Princess of the Elves began with evidence of her affliction—an incurable illness born from an Infuser crafted by the Demon King—and alluded to the haunting possibility that the same device had brought about her father’s demise.

“I surrender the right of judgment to His Majesty, Caliburn Pendragon.”

“I, Lazarus Lumine, King of the Holy Kingdom of Luminus…”

“…for crimes of corruption, manipulation of trade, and the orchestration of overwhelming national debt—”

“…thus, I surrender the right…”

“…in my name, Aidyl Navarre, Monarch of the Ocean, I have obtained sufficient proof of the former monarch’s secret alliance with the Demon King, an allegiance that resulted in the mass mutation of merfolk into sirens…”

“…unto His Majesty, Caliburn Pendragon.”

“With this, I surrender…”

“…for the encouragement of unlawful ties with the Outsiders—”

“…for the evidence of possible collusion and treasonous intent…”

“…I surrender the right of judgment into the hands of my lord, Emperor Caliburn Pendragon,” Aroche Leodegrance solemnly declared, bringing all statements to their conclusion.

Silence fell like the curtain after a particularly grim play—one where every actor confessed to inherited sins and promptly handed the script to a single man, hoping he'd rewrite the ending.

The air was thick, not just with tension, but with the sheer weight of generational failure laid bare in public, like dirty laundry hung on royal banners.

No one dared to cough, blink, or even breathe too loudly, as if afraid that their mortality might interrupt the sanctity of the moment—or worse, that Emperor Caliburn Pendragon might decide breathing was next on the list of crimes to judge.

Even the chandeliers above seemed to dim themselves in solidarity, casting long shadows on the polished floor where pride once stood tall.

“How remarkably convenient it must be, having a demon lord to blame for every misfortune under the sun. Don’t you think so, Lancelot?” Emperor Burn’s voice laced the air with derision, his gaze fixed on the man suspended midair within a void seal, silently listening at the center of the grand assembly hall like some damned ornament.

Burn rose with deliberate slowness, each movement dipped in disdain. “Truly, congratulations are in order. After five centuries of gallivanting through blood-soaked meadows and history’s worst decisions, this modest little pile of accusations doesn’t even begin to unravel the catastrophe you might’ve authored. A legacy so staggering, one might call it… visionary.”

His eyes swept to Blair, then to Yvain—his own son, whose expression betrayed just a flicker of protest. “Leave. Both of you. Whatever comes next is no longer material for children.”

Yvain flinched. A strange shift. Burn had let them stay for the grand public skewering of the Demon King—so what could possibly be more 'inappropriate' than that? He had his suspicions, though. It likely had something to do with the rotting truth buried in the Elysian Kingdom.

“Blair, we’re going.”

He bowed stiffly, Blair following suit, both young figures exiting the chamber with quiet obedience. The doors shut behind them with a finality that seemed to pressurize the room. With the children gone, only the adults remained—and suddenly, the air was less ceremonial and more like the moment before a storm breaks: charged, grim, and deeply, deeply uncomfortable.

And now, at long last, it was time for Burn to begin unearthing the truth behind Morgan le Fay—what she truly was. The mystery of her seventeen incarnations as Saint Lucia Elle. What she had once been before time began stitching her into the fabric of this world. And what monstrous or divine thing she had become after.

She—his Miss Momo—had never fully explained what it meant to possess an infinite soul. Not directly. Only scattered implications across their strange, lingering conversations, like breadcrumbs trailing through centuries. He understood the gist. The mechanics. How it tethered her stubbornly to the world of the living like a curse and a miracle bound in one breath.

But secondhand understanding wasn’t enough anymore. Not for what was coming. He needed answers from another. Someone older. Someone who had seen it all from the other side of the mirror. Someone who might even know what Morgan refused to admit to herself.

Lancelot. The Demon Lord. The grotesque, half-ruined relic of corruption and sin, split vertically down the middle like a desecrated idol. Was he, too, a participant in Duchess Delone’s twisted “princess breeding” plan—a scheme to resurrect the Original Saint through generations of manipulated bloodlines?

And further still… Had he played a hand in the endless cycle of death and rebirth Lucia Elle had been condemned to endure?

Burn’s voice rang through the hall, level and cool.

“Since there is no representative of the Elysian Kingdom here, and since most of you likely know little of its truth, allow me to begin with a suspicion—”

“I see,” a voice interrupted, sharp and sudden.

Lancelot spoke.

The shift in the room was tectonic. Not just a change of speaker—but a possession of the air itself. The weight of the hall twisted under the sound of his voice, dark and gleefully decayed. As if history itself sat up in its grave.

He chuckled. That horrible, cracked-lung sound from a throat that should no longer exist.

“You want me to tell you what your wife actually was?”

The room fell into breathless stillness.

The twisted, split form of the Demon Lord laughed again. Not kindly. Not cruelly. But with the indulgence of an old man unsealing a sarcophagus for amusement.

“Oh… I wasn’t supposed to reveal this. Not out of kindness, no. But an old promise. To my dear sister—Viviane Du Lac.”

He turned his ravaged head slightly. “But why not. Let’s start with the easier question, shall we?”

He smiled—or tried to. Half his face failed to move.

“I’ll tell you what you are instead.”

Burn’s eyes narrowed.

The laughter in Lancelot’s breath only deepened. Mocking. Melancholic. Rotting from the inside.

“Have you never wondered?” he said softly. “Not even once… who your real father was?”

And there it was. A silence colder than iron. Caliburn Pendragon—Emperor, Absolute Tyrant, god-slayer—froze.

It wasn’t just a question. It was an execution. And the blade cut clean through history.

The Elysian Kingdom. Morgan le Fay. Viviane, the Lady of the Lake—

The pillars of his identity cracked.

“You should start calling your wife ‘sister’ instead,” Lancelot said, voice rich with venom and amusement.

“Son of Merlin.”