Ascension Of The Villain-Chapter 289: Mask Unveiled

"How audacious of you all," Vyan's words slithered into the silence, every syllable a blade dipped in venom, "—to try and flee before Her Imperial Majesty takes her seat. Such disrespect… Are you all that eager to have your heads introduced to the floor?"

His smile was a crescent moon—beautiful, distant, and cold enough to burn.

Draped in black from collar to cuff with red linings, Vyan was the very image of vengeance. A contrast so stark amidst a sea of white-clothed guests, it now was clear that it was intentional. They were right to be speculating about it.

Like they had whispered before, he was truly like the reaper crashing a wedding.

Several nobles trembled. One dropped his goblet. Another swallowed a scream.

And in the silence of their fear, she moved.

Althea.

She walked slowly. Her heels echoed across the floor like ticking clocks counting down to a new empire. She passed the kneeling emperor without so much as a glance, climbed the dais, and—like it was always meant for her—lowered herself onto the throne.

Then, she crossed one leg over the other.

Graceful. Regal. Lethal.

The throne no longer looked like it belonged to Edgar. It looked reborn under her.

Vyan's crimson eyes swept across the room, catching the Archbishop's gaze, then the Chancellor's. A subtle nod. The two figures stepped forward, seeming unbothered, and approached the broken emperor. It didn't take long for the nobles to also realize that it truly was an elaborate plan with all the important people on their side—the Head of the Imperial Court, the Archbishop of the Holy Temple, and obviously, the Commander of the Imperial Army.

It was a landslide victory for their new empress.

Edgar's knuckles whitened against the blade in his hand, but he was powerless. A ruler only until his power was no longer feared.

The Archbishop reached for the crown, removing it with eerie reverence. The Chancellor followed, carrying it to the throne.

To her.

And then, it was done.

The golden diadem rested on Althea's head like it had waited years to be there.

No music. No applause. Just silence so sharp it could have cut flesh.

Until Vyan broke it once more.

"What happened to your etiquette?" His voice cracked like a whip. "Bow—before Her Imperial Majesty!"

The command struck like thunder.

Every noble in the room—every snake, every fox, every deer caught in the light—lowered their heads.

Not out of loyalty.

But fear.

However, that was not the case for everybody.

Clyde, Iyana, Celeste, Eryndor, Daphne, Althea's loyal supporters, and many others bowed from the bottom of their hearts, welcoming their new empress. Katelyn, Ronan, and all the other underage nobles were already secretly escorted out of the hall. Vyan might be cruel, but he had no business terrorizing kids.

"Long live the new sun of our empire. Congratulations on your ascension, Your Imperial Majesty," Iyana started the chant, and many repeated without any protest, although some stubborn ones remained quiet.

The tension in the hall was a living thing—tight, stretched thin like a noose about to snap.

And then, with a blade pressed to his throat and the throne stolen from beneath him, Emperor Edgar dared to speak.

His voice, though laced with bitterness, still carried the pride of a man too deluded to see his end.

"I can understand Althea," he spat, his lip curling. "She's always been a vengeful little brat. Jealous of Easton since the cradle." He shifted his glare to Vyan. "But you? You, Grand Duke? How could you do this to me? I trusted you. I favored you. I treated you like a son. Why would you do this to me?"

A beat of silence.

Then Vyan laughed.

Not softly. Not kindly.

But the kind of laugh that scraped bone.

"After all you did to me…" he echoed, voice low and dangerous. "You really have the nerve to ask me why?"

Edgar's mouth clamped shut.

Whatever words he might have flung back died in his throat, buried under the weight of own actions.

But the court—unaware of the blood-stained history beneath their polished floors—whispered and wondered.

And then came the voice.

A snake among them.

"Like father, like son," came the cold sneer from Marquess Fremen. "Traitors. Betrayal truly does run in their blood."

Shhiiiing.

In the blink of an eye, ten swords were drawn, tips pressed against Lord Fremen's skull. The crowd gasped in unison, stumbling back, leaving him isolated and surrounded.

"Ah, Lord Fremen. I appreciate your courage to voice out your thoughts. Although I'm not sure if you're brave or just stupid." Vyan descended the dais. "However, you're half-right, half-wrong," he said, voice smooth as silk stretched over glass shards. "I am a traitor. I won't insult your intelligence further by pretending otherwise."

He stopped a foot away from the man, wine-red eyes glowing with venom.

"But my father… was not."

The Marquess, despite the steel at his throat, puffed his chest in arrogance. "Just because you have us surrounded doesn't mean we'll all pretend to believe your lies to survive," he snapped. "Your father was a traitor. He—he unleashed monsters on civilians, he—"

"Blah, blah, blah," Vyan cut in, rolling his eyes with theatrical boredom. "Right, the same recycled bedtime story you all tell yourselves to sleep at night. You're adorable, really."

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful.

"You say he let loose monsters? That he betrayed the empire?" A cruel grin curled on his lips. "Then riddle me this, Lord Fremen… since when did any of you care about peasants losing their homes? Their lives?"

Fremen fumbled. "T-that's preposterous! Of course we care—"

"Do you?" Vyan snapped, his voice now a thunderclap. "Do you really?"

"Uh–"

"Because from what I remember, every time my father stood up to protect them—called out your theft, your land grabs, your fattened pockets—you tried to shut him up. And when that didn't work… you all got together to frame him."

The room began to shift. Whispers turned to murmurs, and eyes darted nervously.

Fremen's face went red. He clenched his fists.

But Vyan wasn't done.

He leaned in, close enough that the man could feel the chill of his breath. "Don't think I don't know what you did sixteen years ago. Don't think I forgot your voice among the ones who screamed for his execution."

Then, louder for all to hear.

"That's right. What happened sixteen years ago was a conspiracy. Crafted by Emperor Edgar… and his ever-loyal dogs."

A stunned hush fell.

Nobles turned to one another, pale-faced, eyes wide.

"You want the truth?" Vyan's voice echoed through the hall like a sermon. "The monsters? The terror? The devastation? None of it was my father's doing. It was a well-scripted lie. And now, the playwright is exposed."

"You—you expect us to believe that?" someone croaked. "Where's your proof?"

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Vyan looked around.

Then smirked.

"The mages who actually shattered the barrier of the Forest of Beasts were captured," Vyan said. "They were turned over to the imperial army. And after just a single day of interrogation… they confessed. All of them."

His gaze swept the room. There was no need to raise his voice—it carried anyway, like a chill wind before a storm.

"Even the knights who attacked our estate sixteen years ago and tried to kill my brother and me were tracked down. Once caught and threatened with punishment, each of them sang like caged birds."

He stepped forward, as if conducting a symphony of ruin.

"In fact…" He lifted a gloved hand, casual. "I could show you a glimpse of the past, if you'd like—"

"Hah!" Lord Fremen barked out a laugh. "You speak as if you have even an ounce of mana in that pathetic body of yours—"

Snap.

The sound of Vyan's finger snapping was quiet. Almost delicate.

But what followed… was not.

Ten blades, previously poised in warning, plunged into Marquess Fremen's body as one. Steel pierced flesh, bones cracked, and his eyes bulged as blood spilled in thick, warm rivers from his mouth.

He fell down like a rag doll, collapsing into a puddle of wretched groans.

Not a single noble moved.

No one screamed. No one gasped.

They were too stunned to remember how to breathe.

Vyan didn't bat an eye.

"Anyway," he continued, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder with calm indifference. "As I was saying… let me show you."

The nobles watched him in horror. No one dared to utter a word. No one dared to interrupt. No one glanced twice at the marquess's bleeding corpse.

It didn't matter what Vyan showed them now. No one would question it. No one would dare.

Because until now… they thought they understood him.

A man of paper authority.

The clever, cold Ashstone boy with no magic of his own, clinging to the status of his family's bloodline.

But now?

Now, they saw the truth.

He had always had mana. He had been lying since the day of his ascension. Every step he took, every perfect fake smile he portrayed, every calculated silence after hearing whispers behind his back—it had all been done with power pulsing beneath his skin.

He had chosen to let them believe he was vulnerable. That he was harmless.

And they had taken the bait.

Because if this was him unveiled...

Then may Goddess help them all.

He was an Ashstone—that alone should have been enough to keep them cautious.

But they forgot. They mocked. They assumed. They talked behind his back. They humiliated his family repeatedly. They told him, "Thank goodness, you're not like your traitorous father."

And now?

Now they remembered.

Ashstones didn't fight.

They annihilated.

Their mana was legendary. Their control? Lethal. And when they struck… you wouldn't even blink before the world around you ended.