Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
303 – Von Winter’s Last Winter

Morgan Le Fay.

Caliburn Pendragon’s wife was that witch? The ageless immortal with a documented habit of turning kingdoms into ash over minor inconveniences?

Of course. That explained everything.

Not to mention the small detail that she turned out to be the Original Saint.

That was how he’d conquered the Mythical Races. That was how he secured their loyalty—not through treaties, not through campaigns, but through one gloriously manipulative political marriage: the human and the myth, bound by law and flame.

That bastard.

Seventy-four-year-old Emperor Cynric Von Winter sprinted through the hidden corridors of his own palace, cradling his four-year-old grandson—the newly minted Crown Prince—in his arms.

He had been warned. Personally. Privately. By him.

That arrogant boy had appeared in his chambers the previous night and told him, with all the certainty of a man ordering tomorrow’s weather, that if he wanted to survive, he needed to evacuate his people. Immediately.

He would come.

Cynric hadn’t believed it.

The man was getting married today. What sort of monster used his own wedding as a launchpad for conquest?

Besides, Mahkato had informed him she would attend the wedding in person. Surely, with the Overlord of the Alliance physically present, there’d be no war. No fool would ignite a war with the Alliance directly in the crossfire.

And beyond that—Cynric had been told, again by Mahkato, that tomorrow, at dawn, the Alliance would be launching a decisive, large-scale assault on Soulnaught.

The timing simply didn’t line up.

They wouldn’t dare attack today. That was his judgment.

His pride and dignity demanded it. Why should he evacuate his capital under threat from Soulnaught, when the Alliance had all but promised its protection?

Evacuation? Nonsense.

It would’ve looked weak. Panicked. Undignified.

And he—Emperor Cynric Von Winter—was none of those things.

Until now.

So not even the Overlord’s arrival could stop him from acting out?

He should’ve known. He should’ve known.

“Cedric… this is my fault, boy,” he murmured, clutching the child closer. “Forgive me…”

It was his fault. Every part of this.

It had all begun during the civil war.

There had been two in the last decade—two great fractures across the continent.

Soulnaught’s Civil War had arrived with fanfare and fell like a guillotine: brief, brutal, and efficient. Two of Agravaine’s Young Lords were the opening casualties. The Duke of Leodegrance died next, crushed beneath the rebellion of the First Prince of Soulnaught—and then, swiftly, the prince himself fell to the blade of the man who now called himself Emperor: Caliburn Pendragon.

A grand beginning. A quick end. Neat.

Wintersin’s Civil War, by contrast, had no such flair.

It began quietly and dragged on for two years—a festering wound of guerrilla warfare, each month bloodier than the last.

One skirmish—just one—was enough to take everything from Cynric. His eldest, Eirwin, heir and pride of the empire, was slain before he could put down the bastard who started it all: Justevan, third-born, spawn of a maid, and revolutionary scum.

After Eirwin’s death, that left only Cletus—second-born, violent, lust-drunk, and not fit to rule a broom closet.

Thank the gods that Eirwin’s son was born just in time. One infant crown prince was a better bet than an adult disaster.

Outwardly, Wintersin remained unshaken. The empire still boasted the highest number of Force Masters in the world. Still mighty. Still proud.

But beneath the surface?

Cracks. Complications. Whispers.

Something had shifted since the war. People had started having ideas. Dangerous ones. The smell of rot was everywhere—crime, corruption, deception, from the gutter to the guild. He could sense it before it reached his desk.

He was old. His heirs were either dead, defective, or defected. And the empire was dying slowly in its sleep.

The true cause revealed itself only weeks ago. The Demon Lord. Lancelot.

The investigation’s report—released in the aftermath of the Mythical Assembly—had named him plainly. And in that moment, everything clicked.

Lancelot wasn’t just a myth or a symbol. He was the infection. He was the reason kingdoms had begun to fester from the inside out.

And that was precisely why Cynric had to side with the Alliance.

They weren’t kings or warlords. They were gods—celestial, absolute. They descended from the sky bearing gifts: weapons, miracles, knowledge. Control? Order? Irrelevant. The gods gave power, and power excused everything.

Cynric had seen what they could do. Their might went beyond comprehension. It was no longer “technology.” No. They were chosen—handpicked from across the stars, paragons of countless worlds.

Who was he in the face of that?

Who was Burn?

Yes, yes. The bastard had destroyed the Outsiders’ first wave alone, as if he were some divine calamity in human form. But this time, the Ninth Overlord herself had shown up in person. Mahkato stood between them. That should’ve been enough.

So what if he’d conquered a continent? So what if he’d married her—the Infinite Witch, the Original Saint? So what if the mythical races bowed their heads to him now?

Light!

He ran towards it, knowing it was the way out of these winding tunnels. He pushed out the hidden threshold and emerged!

So what if Burn still attacked today? Today, on his own wedding day—

But tomorrow, at dawn—

The Alliance would strike back. Surely.

Surely.

SSH!

Cynric froze. Two swords had come to a polite stop against his neck.

His hand instinctively went to his hilt—ready to draw, cause a distraction, and vanish back into the tunnel—but then he felt it. Another presence. Behind him. Heavy. Unmoving. A battle axe now comfortably pressing into his back.

The twin swords belonged to a pair of elves who clearly shared both blood and the same infuriating cheekbones. The presence behind? A dwarf—absurdly large, unfairly tall, and thoroughly inconvenient. Grumbletoe.

“Ah, Lord Rekre and Lord Yukre,” came a familiar, exasperated voice. “We meet again so soon. Finding the entrance wasn’t a problem, I see,” Grumbletoe announced, sounding far too pleased.

“Yes,” Rekre replied, each word dragged across the wreckage of his Common. “His Majesty Lord Anville… is truly… uh… knowledgeable… about tunnels.”

Behind the elves emerged the Dwarf King himself: Wekkoun. A walking insult with a beard.

“We dwarves do tend to know our way around tunnels,” Wekkoun said, puffing up with pride. “Unlike you elves, who’d probably get lost inside a hollow tree if someone covered your eyes.”

Rekre and Yukre both managed smiles—the kind that stretched just enough to hide the murder building in their jaws. Elves had never taken kindly to dwarven humor. They still didn’t.

“Stop here and let’s call it a day, Von Winter,” Wekkoun continued. “For old time’s sake.” He raised a brow, casual as anything. “We didn’t kill nearly as many of your people as we could have. His Majesty gave strict orders—not a drop of blood from those who surrender. Not even your second-born slab of pig fat.”

“One of the reasons… we were sent… instead of his army… was to make sure… no killing… was necessary,” Rekre added, valiantly wrestling with the sentence.

“Oh for the love of dirt—let me talk!” Wekkoun barked. “Your accent’s a war crime.”

Rekre growled. His long ears twitched like they were trying to leap off his skull.

“Von Winter,” Wekkoun began, voice dripping with performative patience, “we even brought the Holy Empire’s army along for the fun. Top-tier healers, too. Real S-rank restoration magic for your wounded—if you surrender now.”

He tilted his head. “But don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like we’re unable to start the killing, either.”

Wekkoun turned fully to face Cynric, the grin gone, replaced by something altogether less generous.

“His Majesty, in all his overflowing mercy, also made sure we brought the Beastkin Army.”

He paused. Just long enough to let the implication dig in.

“If you know what I mean.”

His eyes narrowed. The joke had officially ended.