Villain Throne:I Build An Empire On Bones

The seventh day crept in like the hush before a blade falls.

Zairen sat cross-legged on the cracked tiles of his room, the cold floor biting his knees. Dust drifted in the faint morning light, like ghosts too stubborn to fade. He breathed slow, mana flowing through him—a warm stream, alive, like a spark dancing in a dry forest. He exhaled, letting the faint haze of impure energy slip away, dissolving into the still air.

His power was sharper now. Stronger. But not enough for the road ahead.

He opened his eyes, dark and steady.

A knock cut through the quiet.

"Master Zairen," the maid's soft voice came through the worn wooden door. "They're ready at the gates."

Zairen stood, brushing dust from his robe. He packed with steady hands: his father's sword, its edge dulled but heavy with memory; two vials of healing potion, cool against his palm; a patched satchel with spare clothes; and crumpled pages of mana runes, their faint glow pulsing like a heartbeat. Simple tools for a deadly journey.

The manor's halls stretched out, cold and broken. Cobwebs clung like forgotten lies, and the floorboards groaned, each step a whisper of something dead. This place wasn't home—it was a tomb waiting to swallow him.

Outside, the morning sky hung gray, heavy with unspoken danger.

A carriage waited at the gates. Not fancy, just a battered box on wheels—built for speed, not comfort. It spoke of secrets and hurried plans.

Zairen didn't care. He'd ridden worse. He'd walked through worse.

Four guards stood nearby, cloaks draped over chainmail. Their sleeves bore a crest: two swords crossed over a bleeding eye. A family mark—or a warning.

Vireal, his uncle, stood with arms crossed, a sharp smile on his lips. His son Calyean leaned beside him, smirking like a snake that had already struck.

Marylyn was nowhere to be seen. Probably keeping her hands clean for now.

Vireal stepped forward, voice smooth as ice. "Zairen, sorry for the plain ride. Time was tight."

Zairen gave a small, practiced smile. "It's fine, Uncle. The road doesn't care."

Vireal chuckled, handing him a pouch that clinked with coin. "A thousand silver. For the journey. Spend it well."

Zairen weighed the pouch, its heft heavier than coin. He bowed slightly. "Thank you."

"It's nothing," Vireal said, waving a hand. "Safe travels, nephew."

"Same to you," Zairen replied, voice calm.

Calyean stepped up, arms open for a hug. Zairen tensed but allowed it, feeling his cousin's breath against his ear.

"Watch the road, cousin," Calyean whispered. "It can end fast."

Zairen's smile stayed cool. "I'll keep my eyes open."

He climbed into the carriage. The door slammed shut like a trap closing. The wheels creaked, and the manor faded into the mist.

Zairen sat still, thoughts cold as steel.

This road will end someday. But not today.

The path twisted through old woods, trees looming like silent watchers, their branches curling like claws. Mist hugged the ground, hiding secrets in its pale veil. The air carried the scent of wet leaves and something sharper, something alive.

An hour later, Zairen parted the carriage curtain. The sky burned orange, the sun climbing slow, like a tired eye blinking awake. He leaned out to the nearest guard, a man with a scar splitting his brow like a broken vow.

"How long to the Viscount's lands?"

"Two days," the guard grunted, eyes fixed ahead. "Less if we push."

Zairen nodded and leaned back, watching shadows flicker between the trees. Birds sang above, blind to the danger below. They passed a village—kids chasing each other with sticks, a woman hanging clothes, a blacksmith's hammer ringing like a heartbeat. Smoke curled from chimneys, rising into the sky like lost hopes.

Zairen let the curtain fall.

Safety seemed so sweet here, so soft. But what good was safety that made a man weak, that dulled his edge until he forgot how to fight?

Night fell, and they stopped by a stream, its dark water gliding over stones smooth as bones. The guards lit a fire, its crackle sharp in the quiet. They sat in a loose circle, eating stew from dented bowls, their voices low, hiding their plans.

One guard brought Zairen a bowl. "Eat," he said. "You'll need it."

Zairen took it with a nod and sat by the fire, its light dancing across his face. He didn't eat. He listened, catching the whispers slipping through the guards' careful words.

He tilted his head down, eyes half-closed, pretending to doze. His hand brushed the dirt, mana flowing out, soft as a breeze, sinking into the earth like water into dry sand. It carried their voices to him, clear as a blade.

"Tonight," one hissed. "Quick cut, then into the river."

"No," an older voice snapped. "Too soon. We can't look guilty."

"Why wait?" the first pressed.

"Because we need it clean. When the bandits hit, we kill him in the chaos. Burn the body. No one asks questions."

The others muttered agreement.

Zairen's face didn't move. He pulled his mana back, slow and quiet, like a shadow sliding into the dark.

So they're waiting for their moment.

He stared into the fire, its flames reflected in his eyes.

Let them wait.

He'd be ready when they struck.

Zairen didn't sleep. He sat upright, eyes half-open, body calm, mind sharp. The river whispered outside, telling tales of betrayal to the cold moon.

A sound broke the night—a low howl, sharp and wild, echoing from the woods. Wolves. Zairen's hand drifted to his sword, fingers brushing the hilt. He stood, slow and silent, stepping away from the fire's glow toward the trees. The guards didn't notice, too busy with their whispered schemes.

Another howl, closer now. Zairen moved toward the trees, his boots soft on the earth. In the shadows, a pair of yellow eyes gleamed, locked on him. A wolf, lean and gray, its fur bristling. It stared, unblinking, as if weighing his soul.

Zairen held its gaze, his own eyes steady, unafraid. For a moment, the world was still—just him and the beast, two predators sizing each other up.

Then the wolf turned and bolted, vanishing into the dark.

"Huh," Zairen muttered under his breath. "Just a normal wolf."

He walked back to the carriage, climbing inside with a quiet grace. He sat, half-closing his eyes, his sword resting across his lap, fingers still on the hilt. He looked asleep, but every sense was alive, alert, waiting.

Let them think I'm resting. Let them think I'm weak.

The river kept whispering, and the fire crackled on. But Zairen knew—bandits, wolves, or betrayers, something was coming.

And when it did, he'd be ready to show them the wolf they'd mistaken for a sheep.