Villain Throne:I Build An Empire On Bones

Zairen lay on the blood-soaked ground, chest heaving, sweat and crimson dripping from his brow. Beside him, Harlen's corpse sprawled, eyes frozen in a betrayed stare, charred shoulder oozing, blood pooling thick and red. Zairen glanced at the body, voice a low rasp. "Huh, fate's a cruel bitch, Harlen. You came to kill me, and now your blood stains my hands." A bitter sigh escaped him, exhaustion clawing his bones. Every muscle screamed, blood seeping from cuts and shattered ribs. He was teetering on the edge—without healing, he'd be dead soon. A flash of a past life's betrayal stung his mind: Another knife, another friend, another life. "Not again," he whispered, clenching his fist.

Muttering, Zairen whispered, "Lunara's Grace." A blue pendant at his neck pulsed, mana flowing like a warm river, knitting torn flesh. A flicker of peace washed over him—something he hadn't felt since his parents' screams faded years ago. His eyes fluttered shut, and he sank into the bloodied earth, slipping into a dreamless sleep as dawn's red glow kissed his face.

Sunlight burned his eyelids. "Damn light," Zairen groaned, stirring. A foul stench hit—rotting flesh, Harlen's body decaying, the air thick with death. He pinched his nose, staggering up. His robes clung, heavy with the iron reek of blood. To anyone else, he was a monster, eyes burning like embers. "I need a bath," he growled, wincing as his ribs throbbed.

He knelt by Harlen, searching his pockets: a few silver coins, a low-tier healing potion, and a magical compass glowing faintly. Zairen downed the potion, a tingle slowing his bleeding, though pain lingered. "Not enough," he muttered, pocketing the compass.

A voice broke the silence. "Lord Kaelridge!" Zairen grabbed Harlen's bloodied blade, pointing it. It was Ryan, barely alive, his left arm gone, half his body burned, skin blackened and peeling like charred parchment. He looked like death itself. "You're alive?" Zairen asked, lowering the blade.

Ryan's voice cracked, raw with grief. "What happened, my lord?" His eyes were hollow, tears carving paths through soot-stained cheeks.

Zairen glanced at the cliff. "The monster. We lost everyone. Only I survived… thanks to Harlen's sacrifice." His voice wavered, tears welling for show. Inside, he thought, Should i Kill him? He's seen too much.

Ryan collapsed, clutching the dirt, sobbing. "My sister… Lila… she was along with the villager. Her smile, her songs—gone! I was too weak to save her!" His voice broke into a wail, memories flooding: Lila braiding flowers into her hair, laughing as she taught him to wield a sword. "I should've died instead!" He drew his blade, pressing it to his throat, hands trembling.

Zairen lunged, grabbing the sword. "Ryan, stop! Weakness isn't death—it's a call to rise." His voice was firm, hiding cold calculation. "I lost everything too—my family, my home. But you don't see me giving up. Lila wouldn't want you dead. She'd want you strong." And I need you alive… for now, he thought.

Ryan's sobs choked, tears streaming. "She was all I had…" he whispered, nodding weakly. Zairen tossed him the potion. "Drink." Ryan gulped it, his charred skin mending, blood slowing, though his severed arm remained a stump. Zairen watched, thinking, This broken man might be my pawn yet.

"Let's go," Zairen said, pulling the compass. "To Viscount Draven's fief." Ryan staggered up, wiping his face, and followed northeast, the compass glowing faintly.

They trudged through the forest, the air thick with pine and decay, the ground soft with buried secrets. The compass pointed steadily. No monsters attacked—a strange mercy. "Someone's cleared the beasts," Zairen muttered. "Draven's men, maybe." Ryan tensed, spotting a shadow—a lone wolf's eyes glinting through the trees. "My lord!" he hissed, pointing. Zairen flared mana, a pulse of light scattering the beast. Ryan exhaled, muttering, "Thank you." Zairen smirked. Not bad for a wreck.

The dried plains gave way to a bustling road. Merchants and children froze, gasping. A girl screamed, hiding behind her mother, pointing at Zairen's blood-soaked form, his eyes like a demon's fire. Ryan's severed arm and burned flesh drew horrified whispers. "Monsters," someone muttered. Zairen ignored them, his robes heavy with death's iron stench.

A rider approached, armor gleaming with Draven's crest—a snake devouring its tail. "Master Zairen, welcome. Lord Draven awaits." Zairen nodded. The rider whistled, and a luxurious carriage rolled up, the crest embossed. "Board," he said. Zairen and Ryan climbed in, the vehicle gliding toward the manor, its black spires towering like an ancient fortress. A Viscount's power, Zairen thought.

At the manor, medical staff rushed forward, their robes fluttering, voices urgent. "Master Zairen, Lord Ryan, this way!" They were led to a chamber humming with mana stones, the air thick with herb and antiseptic scents. Nurses swarmed, faces pale at Zairen's blood-caked form and Ryan's mangled state. "Lie down, my lord," a nurse urged, her hands trembling as she poured a medium-tier healing potion over Zairen's chest. Mana stones pulsed, their energy knitting his fractured ribs. A surgeon, sweat beading on his brow, worked three hours to extract a jagged shard from Zairen's chest, blood pooling on the table, the metallic tang sharp in the air. Ryan's burns faded under potions, his stump bandaged, though his eyes stayed haunted. "My sister…" he whispered, clutching the bed.

"Rest, both of you," the head nurse pleaded, her voice soft but firm. Zairen ripped off his bandages, wincing as pain flared. "No time," he growled, staggering to a side room. He scrubbed blood and grime in a steaming bath, the water turning crimson. Dressed in fresh black robes, he headed to Draven, steps steady despite the ache.

The office doors creaked open. Polished obsidian tiles reflected torchlight like a dark lake, golden veins shimmering. Two Second-Class Magi Masters stood by a throne-like chair, mana heavy. Viscount Draven sat, hands on lion-headed armrests, aura like a storm. He rose through blood and steel, Zairen thought, recalling Draven's war-forged ascent from Baron, his scars hidden beneath polished armor.

"Young Kaelridge," Draven said, voice steady but tinged with worry, his eyes tracing Zairen's scars like a father seeing a wounded son. "Sit. You look like you've crawled from the grave."

Zairen bowed, heart steady, and sat, the chair creaking. Draven leaned forward, concern deepening his voice. "Tell me about the village, Zairen. Every detail. I need to know what we've lost."

Zairen closed his eyes, memories raw—wolves tearing homes, screams fading, nobles fleeing, villagers turning on each other in desperation. He spoke of the lightning wolf's cursed eyes, Captain Harlen's fatal blow, and faking his death. "I survived by a thread, my lord."

Draven's fingers tapped the armrest, his sigh heavy with grief. "A brutal tale. I've sent scouts, but I fear no one else made it." His eyes locked on Zairen, softer now, almost pleading. "Zairen, this bandit raid—abandon it. You've faced death once. I knew your father, boy. He'd never forgive me if I let you die."

Zairen's jaw clenched, defiance blazing in his eyes. "My lord, your concern honors me, but I will march to the raid—not to prove my worth, but because I refuse to live choked by shadows." His voice was a low, resonant vow, each word carved with resolve. Power calls me, he thought, heart cold as steel

Draven studied him, pain flickering in his eyes. "You're stubborn, ok i understand u can go to the raid"He leaned back, voice softer. "The bandits hide after monster attacks, led by a shadow we can't yet name. The raid starts in seven days. Rest. Heal. Prepare."

"Yes, my lord." Zairen stood, bowing.

"Zairen," Draven called, voice thick. "If you need anything, ask. For your father's sake."

Zairen paused, a flicker of doubt in his chest. Does he know more about my past? "A low-tier spell scroll," he said.

Draven's brow rose. "You haven't awakened."

"I will. I need to be ready."

Draven nodded, a faint smile breaking through. "Like your father—always planning ahead. It'll be arranged."

Zairen pressed, "And a sword. Armor. Something that fits."

Draven chuckled, though worry lingered. "Walking into death like a prince?"

"No," Zairen said, eyes steady. "To survive it."

"Very well," Draven said, his smile fading into concern. "Be careful, Zairen. The shadow behind the bandits… it's no ordinary foe."

Zairen entered a vast guest room—clean marble floors, a soft bed, sweet fruits on a silver tray. The luxury mocked the blood still etched in his mind. "Better than Uncle's whole house," he muttered, biting a red fruit, juice dripping. "In my past life, I conquered empires but never tasted peace. This… feels wrong." He lay back, staring at the ceiling. "Is this life?" No screams haunted him, but a shadow lingered—her face, veiled, whispering betrayal from a past life. Who are you? he thought, heart aching with a loss he couldn't name.