Villain Throne:I Build An Empire On Bones

Zairen hadn't stepped foot in the lunch hall since that day. Not even once.

Seressia kept inviting him—her voice soft, her smile gentle, a spark of curiosity dancing in her eyes. But he refused. Once. Twice. Then a third time. Each rejection came with the same tired excuse: "I've got training… or errands outside."

The truth was uglier. Zairen didn't want to face Seressia again. He couldn't stomach her prying, her questions about his sister—questions he'd rather bury than answer. He wasn't here to explain himself, to justify his scars or his silence. He had work to do, real work. The dark tree needed him, its twisted roots calling louder than any noble's feast. He wasn't wasting time on her bullshit.

On that fourth refusal, Seressia lost it. Her fist slammed the dining table, sending goblets clattering and wine spilling like fresh blood across the linen. The butler and maids froze, their faces pale as ghosts. The air choked on her rage.

"How dare that little shit reject me again?!" she roared, her voice a raw, jagged thing. "If I see that bastard one more time, I'll rip his throat out myself!"

No one moved. No one breathed. The room was a tomb, her words the epitaph.

Meanwhile, Zairen roamed the city's cobblestone streets, a faint smirk curling his lips. "Bet her face twists up real nice when she's mad," he muttered, a dark spark of joy flickering in his chest. He stopped at a grimy stall, tossing a few coins for a pack of stale bread—hard as rock—and two leather bladders sloshing with water. Enough for 20 men… or something less human. He stuffed them into his pack and slipped toward the city's edge.

The guards didn't care anymore. They'd seen him leave too often. A nod from them. A nod from him. Done.

The wilderness welcomed him, vast and untamed. There it stood—the dark tree, once a gnarled monstrosity dripping with malice, its bark black as death. But now? It was shifting. Its ebony hide had softened to a deep, earthy brown. Green leaves shivered in the breeze, and if you squinted, you'd see them—pale blossoms, fragile as a dying breath, blooming against all odds.

Zairen knelt, placing the bread and water at its roots. The ground quaked faintly, a low groan rumbling from the tree—not the snarl of evil, but something rawer. Hunger. Yearning. A chained beast tasting freedom.

"Easy now," Zairen said, tossing the supplies down. "Brought your meal. Get whole again, fast as you can."

The air buzzed, electric with wild energy. For a heartbeat, the tree's oppressive aura vanished, replaced by a desperate pulse, like a heart clawing its way back to life.

"You're healing," he whispered, staring at its branches. "Soon, you'll be whole. Like me."

The tree swayed, as if it understood. As if it knew.

Back at the manor, night cloaked the halls in silence. Zairen shut himself in his room and sat cross-legged on the cold floor. Mana surged through him, sharp and electric, like lightning trapped in his veins. He breathed in. Held it. Let it go.

Again. Again.

He was getting better. He could coat objects in mana now—his dagger gleamed with it, edges sharp enough to split the air itself.

"Just a little more," he growled under his breath. "Initiate Apprentice Magi. I'm so close."

But it wasn't enough. He needed spells—real ones, the kind nobles hoarded like gold. Without them, he'd always be less. Always be beneath them.

"The Viscount swore he'd deliver," Zairen muttered, fists tightening. "I'll hold him to it."

The wait clawed at him, though. Every second stretched into eternity, feeding the fire of his frustration.

Sleep wouldn't come. As Zairen tried to rest, her face haunted him—the veiled girl, her voice a whisper in his skull: "You forgot me, Zairen." He snapped awake, heart pounding, sweat soaking his skin. "Fuck," he hissed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Why am I dreaming again? Who the hell is she?" Restlessness burned through him, his body trembling with it. He stood, pacing, then stormed out, boots echoing through the manor's shadowed corridors until he reached the library.

The librarian—an old man with ink-stained hands and eyes like weathered stone—glared at him. "Basic section only," he snapped. "Upper archives are off-limits without the Master's say-so."

Zairen dipped his head. No point arguing. He knew the game—nobles locked their secrets away, dangling power just out of reach. Well, what did he care about House Draven's secrets? That crumbling house would fall one day, anyway. Whatever. He slipped into the basic section, eyes scanning the shelves.

Maps, scrolls, flowery tales—useless. Then a thick, dusty book caught his eye: Human Reign: Forgotten Histories. He yanked it free, the scent of ancient pages hitting him like a fist.then he open the first page

"Long ago, after the war of gods burned the skies and shattered mountains to dust, four celestial lords fought for land and worshippers. But none wanted humanity."

Zairen's brow furrowed. Why discard us?

"They saw humans as trash—greedy, weak, stained with too much want. So Malrik, the God of War, youngest of the gods, took them. After the great war, his power had faded, and he became the weakest."

"Malrik…" Zairen whispered, the name bitter on his tongue. The outcast god.

The text was brutal, unflinching. Humans got nothing—no power, no divine spark. In Solthiem's Holy Kingdom, even Evelith, the "gentle" goddess, treated them like livestock. No temples allowed them. Just chains. Humans were sent to Kaelar—a barren, cracked wasteland. Elves ruled Thyrden, all beauty and cruelty. Beastkin held Valrok, a savage sprawl of fae and monsters. Humans? They were prey. Hunted. Enslaved. Devoured.

The words painted horrors:women torn apart, their screams swallowed by elven laughter. Children's charred bodies stacked into grotesque towers, their bones gleaming under torchlight. Even Elwyna, nature's darling, turned a blind eye.

Malrik, their so-called god, stood idle. Until he could bear it no longer.

Zairen's hands shook as he turned the page. "And so, Malrik broke the divine pact. In secret. In silence. He forged an Apostle —a mortal weapon to defy the gods."

Treason. Gods couldn't meddle, couldn't craft avatars. But Malrik did. No one knew the Apostle's name or his origins. His story lived in his carnage—bloody, glorious, terrifying.

Zairen stared at the page, where a crude sketch showed the Apostle: no face, just a lean, muscular figure cloaked in black armor etched with a snarling dragon. In his hand, a red sword gleamed, raised high, dripping with blood. The Apostle wielded every weapon like a god. Forged the first raw Mana-Fused Blade, a sword that screamed with power. Carved the Path of the Blood Edge, teaching mortals to turn mana into slaughter.

He was a demon unleashed.

One man. 100,000 corpses. Elves with throats slashed, beastkin with skulls split, fae with bodies broken—their blood soaked Kaelar's dust, their guts painted its stones. He didn't stop until their armies were ash.

He taught humans mana-wielding techniques, spells, the art of war. Through him, Malrik's power surged, eclipsing all other gods, making him the strongest among them. The Apostle's wrath forged a human kingdom so mighty it shook the heavens. Kaelar rose on his shoulders. The hunted became hunters.

Elven palaces burned. Fae woods became graves of ember and bone. The sky choked red as cities fell. Even the gods trembled.

Then, he vanished. After the war, the Apostle walked into the mist, leaving humanity to squander his gifts. Elves, fae, and beastkin took back their stolen land, but not all of it—humans had grown too powerful by then, and their enemies had lost too much strength to take it all. Even today, the human kingdom stands strong.Human greed festered, twisting the world again.

Zairen slammed the book shut halfway, his chest tight, his face pale. "Well, this is new," he muttered. "Never thought history books held this shit. In my past life, I never read a damn book. No luxury for that. Kicked out at thirteen by my uncle, left to wander till I met my master." His thoughts drifted to the mysterious man who'd trained him, taught him to survive, but never spoke of about himself he also tell him about history—not these gory details. "I have to find him," Zairen growled, resolve hardening.

He forced the next page open, eyes locked on the Apostle's final stand. One man against a tide of steel and magic. He cut them down—elves' throats gushing, beastkin's skulls caving, fae's limbs hacked apart. Blood pooled so deep he stood ankle-high in it, the ground slick with gore. When the last foe fell, he stood over the carnage, exhausted, hollow. Then he walked into the mist, gone forever.

Zairen's fingers lingered on the page. Who was this man? What drove him to drown the world in blood, only to abandon it? The questions burned, but the book gave no answers. He slumped back, the weight of history pressing down.

He turned the page again, eyes catching a final line:

"From the rot of blood and ash… monsters were born."