Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
297 – Divine Jealousy

“You’re saying… People don’t believe in God because holy energy can be controlled?”

“I’m saying they’ll believe whatever lets them sleep better. Even if it means pretending everything else would still work fine without Him,” Morgan said, winking at him with a dangerously pretty smile.

Burn’s gut twisted. “Ohhhh, fuck them.”

She giggled.

“You mean people like you and me just… showed up? No divine fingers stirring the pot?” Burn groaned.

Morgan laughed a little harder.

“If not for Him, causality wouldn’t have bothered throwing us in the same timeline,” Burn muttered.

Morgan fully laughed now. “And you’re certain of that? That without God, we wouldn’t have ended up in love?”

“I’m not talking about love,” Burn said quietly, not even noticing the gentleness in his voice. “That, between us, is inevitable.”

“Then what exactly are you sure about?” Morgan asked.

“That the absurd amount of luck I needed to survive and to be found by you is only feasible if someone upstairs is plotting,” Burn said. “Without that, you wouldn’t even know my name.”

A corrupt merfolk king and a lustful unicorn, both crossing his path just when he needed them? What timing.

And then she appeared after the Wintersin war, slicing her own throat to curse time in his name. A self-initiated loop. Far too absurd for the concept to be allowed to exist.

“And physics,” Burn added, which made Morgan burst into laughter.

“In all seriousness,” he went on, jaw tight, “this world juggling both law and chaos is enough proof for me that someone is making deliberate choices. And has an alarming sense of humor.”

She kissed his jaw, shutting down his bitterness. Morgan always found his love-hate relationship with God weirdly endearing.

“Anyway, you’re right. Doing something purely for God is next to impossible for most people. But with the right setup, some manage? So if the setup is His doing, that means saints are chosen, not self-made. So much for free will?” Burn asked, sharp again.

Morgan jabbed her elbow into him.

“You’re saying I wouldn’t be a saint without perfect conditions?” she glared.

“You’re saying you didn’t need them? That you created an act of pure devotion, untouched by context, cause, or human reasoning?” Burn challenged.

Morgan hummed. “Want to know how I became a saint?”

“How?”

“I stepped into the rain before entering a church. Because I was covered in mud. And I didn’t want God to see me dirty in His house.”

Burn blinked.

It wasn’t taught. It wasn’t told. It wasn’t fear of judgment or hope for reward. It was an unprompted moment meant only for Him.

And on that note, Burn abruptly stood up.

“Hm?” Morgan looked up. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Burn muttered. “I just need to walk off this jealousy.”

He stomped out, not dramatically, but with just enough noise to count. Possibly his eye twitched.

It had just occurred to him—Paschasius, Isaiah, Romeuf… none of them were his real love rival.

No. His real rival was God.

When he heard Morgan’s yelling voice behind him—

“Am I not jealous of Him that you can love and hate God the way you love and hate me too?!”

—Burn thought he was shameless, but now, he let out an embarrassed laugh he couldn’t hold back.

Of course.

She’d been jealous, too.

***

Spells, circles, and runes were tools invented by humans to micromanage the outbursts of their own souls, like putting traffic signs on a highway made of fire.

Vision, once mastered, rendered most of those trinkets obsolete. Unless, of course, you had some very specific intentions.

Take Morgan, for example—she had the gall to enchant every inch of his clothing. Rejuvenation runes, breezy fabrics, silky softness, resistance to stains—because heaven forbid the Emperor gets mud on his robes—and, naturally, durability enhancements, because fashion must survive battle.

You could even tweak how the fabric felt on your skin. Armor took it a step further: enchanted to glide like silk, mute the cacophony of metal clashing against metal, and somehow turn full plate into ballet gear.

That was just a glimpse into the labyrinth of Vision Magic, a field mutating by the day. After all, this world housed billions of souls, and every time one got a taste of Vision, they’d eventually carve out their own flavor of absurd genius.

But Burn? Burn didn’t have time for that kind of luxurious self-discovery.

And really, why would he need it?

All Burn ever really needed from Vision was a way to bicker with Morgan telepathically and to get stronger. Preferably without having to chant in circles or draw glowing nonsense on the floor.

Yvain’s so-called enlightenment had dropped a few breadcrumbs on how to wield both Force and Vision in tandem. His specialty was ‘Balance’—which, of course, sounded far more poetic than practical, but it showed that Vision’s specialty and Force’s intention didn’t have to be enemies. With enough stubbornness, they could even work together.

Burn had a suspicion—more than that, a quiet certainty—about what his own Vision specialty might be.

“Boundary between everything else and everything else but no more… event horizon…”

His Force Magic came from a dying sun. Not figuratively—a real star on its last breath. It tore his body apart and rebuilt it, so it could endure and emit energy in stellar proportions. What vessel immortality was without it?

His Vision, on the other hand, wasn’t about giving off power. It held energy hostage, trapped it, compressed it, crushed it into a singularity that refused to let go. Not a beam, not a flare. An unblinking, infinite density.

And in that space between a star that gives and a void that takes, he wondered which one he truly was.

“Why do I need to choose between existence and everything but nothing all at once?” he muttered. He didn’t want compromise.

He just wanted it all.

Even the light.

“Can we agreeth thou shouldst ne’er useth that within the bounds of our planet’s air?” Isaiah’s voice drilled into Burn’s skull through sound transmission, firm and unimpressed.

When Isaiah returned to his oh-so-sacred territory—the moon, naturally—having ascended to one of Morgan’s revered Holy Cardinals, Burn had tagged along. This barren rock was the only place he could twist space freely without triggering planetary alarms.

"Morgan slapped my mouth and banned Vision entirely the first time I manifested it," Burn replied dryly. "You think I’d gamble my bedroom privileges two weeks before the wedding? I’m not casting it anywhere near the planet. Even if you cry."

“Canst thou cease thy boasting for but five seconds?” Isaiah groaned, plopping down cross-legged on the jagged lunar terrain.

"Maidenless bastard," Burn shot back.

Isaiah didn’t bother replying. Hard to, when he’d been stuck on this glorified boulder for five centuries playing babysitter to his father’s corpse—said father being the illustrious First Demon Lord.

Dragon Lord, they called him. Couldn’t even manage to get laid. The only female he could even begin to count as company was Nayanika. Unfortunately, she already had Undagi and Rinai hanging around—two male dragonlings armed with more arrogance than discipline.

"Why didn’t you try anything when you were down on the surface for a while?" Burn asked, head tilted in vague curiosity.

“With folk of other kind? Dost thou truly believeth their bodies withstand the burden of birthing a dragon’s egg?” Isaiah exhaled through his nose. “’Tis far simpler to wed another of mine own race. A scarce few still roam the world… yet I doubt any wouldst care enough to heed mine call.”

"Are you underestimating yourself?"

“I am but a hermit, marooned upon the moon. Who, in sound mind, wouldst seek a five-century shut-in, keeper of a rotting corpse?”

"Brother, you’re a handsome fella."

“Augh, why did I ever consent to bringing thee hither in solitude?” Isaiah physically recoiled from this suspiciously affectionate heterosexual.

"Relax. I’m not gay. I love my wife’s pussy," Burn said, lifting one hand and summoning Vision once again. "I didn’t marry her because she has one, but I’m not going to pretend it’s not a big factor."

"Hm," Isaiah muttered. “Speak’st of pussies—verily, I possess two rods. Mayhap that, too, bars me from taking wives beyond mine kind.”

Burn tripped over nothing at all.