Villain Throne:I Build An Empire On Bones

The halls of Viscount Draven's manor were silent, like a tomb waiting to swallow someone whole. Torches flickered weakly on the stone walls, casting shadows that danced like ghosts. Zairen walked forward, calm, steady, and chill. He knew he was heading straight into death's mouth, but he didn't care. Strength was his sole pursuit now, and he hungered for it with urgency. As he moved, memories of his past life surfaced,betrayals by those he once held dear. His teeth clenched, a slow burn of anger rising within. They'll regret it, he vowed silently, the thought propelling him forward.

He reached the massive ironwood doors of Draven's room. A guard in scratched armor stepped up, slammed his fist on his chest, and knocked once.

Clang.

The doors groaned open, heavy and slow.

"Master Zairen Kaelridge," announced, his tone flat and mechanical.

Inside, Draven sat under dim orange lanterns, his scarred face looking older than it should. His chair was black stone, carved with silver scratches, like a throne for a tired warrior. Scrolls and letters were piled around him,reports of dead men, stolen gold, burned villages. He looked up, took off his glasses, and gave a small, weary smile.

"Zairen. Sit. You've got fire in you today," he said, voice rough but real.

Zairen bowed, cool and steady. "My lord."

He sat across from Draven. The old man's eyes locked onto him, not judging, but searching, like he wanted to see if Zairen would crack.

"You're training hard. Body and soul," Draven said, dropping his quill.

"Yes, my lord. For the raid," Zairen replied, voice chill.

Draven sighed, long and heavy, his eyes turning soft like a father's. "Zairen, I know you want to prove yourself—to become something so people don't look down on you. You want revenge for your parents' killers. I see that look in your eyes—I know what you're thinking. But Zairen, you're my friend's son. If something happens to you, how will I face your sister? So, it's a request, a fatherly one—think about your decision."

Zairen's gaze held firm, icy and resolute. "My lord, your care honors me. But my will is unbreakable."

Draven sighed again, deeper this time. "Alright, Zairen. Just… don't die."

Draven leaned back, and for a second, he wasn't the big lord—just an old man tired of fighting. "I'll keep it simple, Zairen."

Zairen leaned in, every word pulling him tighter.

"The bandits—we found them. Two valleys south, in the Withered Hills. The rocks there look like skeletons. We hit them in two days."

Zairen nodded, face hard as rock. But inside, his mind was racing with thoughts: I need to bloom the dark tree fast and grab those rewards. Bandits? Hah, I've killed thousands of them in my previous life. But now, my power's weak. I've got to be careful, think before I move, and not play hero. Just kill, loot, and profit. He smiled to himself, already imagining the gains.

Draven's voice cut in. "These bandits are dangerous—monsters in human skin. They don't care who they kill—kids, women, anyone. Money is their god. They're cowards, only thinking about themselves."

Zairen thought, Well, I think about myself too—what's wrong with that? He snapped out of it as Draven said, "Are you listening, Zairen?"

Zairen blinked. "Yes, my lord. I'll be careful. I'll be ready."

Draven leaned back. "Good. The scrolls you asked for are in your room. And I sent your size to Haxton. He's a master smith, famous across the city, who makes swords and armor for House Draven. You'll get something solid."

Zairen's eyes widened a bit. "My lord… that's more than I asked for."

Draven's face softened. "It's what you need to live. Don't waste it."

Zairen stood, bowed low, his chest buzzing with excitement and something dark. "Thank you, my lord."

He left, the doors slamming shut behind him. His legs moved quickly, pulling him to his room. The raid was real—two days away. He could feel it pressing down on him.

In his small room, three scrolls sat on a dark table, wrapped in red silk that looked like dried blood. They buzzed with power. Zairen's hands trembled as he unwrapped them.

Two glowed red—Class D Prime Spell: Flame and Class D Prime Spell: Ice. Deadly magic, enough to roast or freeze a man in a heartbeat. The third shone blue—Class C Lesser Spell: Shield.

Zairen stared, thinking, Worth more than I asked for. Well, the Viscount is generous. Should I ask for more? He smiled. Nah, this is enough.

Scrolls weren't easy to get, even for lords with gold. You had to kill monsters or explore towers, and even then, finding one was pure luck. For common people , it was almost impossible. That's why he thought Draven was so generous to hand these over. But using them? That was the real danger.

He remembered his past life—after his uncle kicked him out, he'd joined a mercenary group for scraps. One time, he saw a village boy use a Class D Prime scroll without telling anyone. The kid didn't have a stable mana circle. His body shook, then burst like a firecracker—flesh and blood splattered everywhere, bones cracking the ground. Even with a mana circle, if it wasn't strong enough, you couldn't handle the scroll. Either it turned useless, or you died, like that boy.

Power's a thief—it takes everything and gives nothing back, Zairen thought, his voice low and ruthless.

He grabbed the Flame scroll. Slammed his hand on it. Mana roared in his chest, hot and wild. The runes blazed, and pain stabbed him—fire clawing through his spine, melting into his bones. He bit down hard, sweat dripping, blood trickling from his nose. Then it stopped. The spell was his.

Next, Ice. Cold sliced into him, magic howling as it dug in. His breath froze, his fingers went numb, and his skin cracked. He took it, barely standing.

Then the Shield. He sat, legs crossed, already half-dead. He pushed his mana out. The scroll pushed back. He forced harder. Blood poured from his nose, his eyes went blurry, and his heart pounded like a drum.

I won't die here.

He threw everything into it. The scroll flared blue, cutting him deep. A shield flickered around him, then shattered. It was his.

Zairen collapsed forward, gasping, blood pooling under him. His body shook. "I… I did it…"

Mana exhaustion hit like a hammer. His head spun, but he couldn't rest. He had to train.

He dragged himself to the training center. The wind screamed outside, sharp and cold. Dummies stood there, beaten and burned.

"Class D Prime Spell: Flame," he rasped.

Blue fire exploded out, smashing a dummy. It burst apart, wood splintering like broken bones, ash raining down.

"Class D Prime Spell: Ice."

Ice shot forward, spearing another dummy. It froze solid, then cracked open, chunks of frost hitting the ground like glass.

Then the shield. He focused. Blue runes glowed. A weak bubble formed, held for a second, then popped.

Zairen fell to one knee, blood dripping from his mouth. His mana was gone, but he felt alive, angry, unstoppable.

"I'm not enough yet," he growled. "But I will be."

Back in his room, he washed off the blood and sweat, pulling on his dark coat with silver leaves stitched in. He needed air, so he headed for the city gate. Then he stopped cold.

Seressia was there.

Her violet hair glowed in the dying light. Her purple eyes, sharp as knives, sliced into him. She didn't move, but she felt like death waiting.

Zairen's heart sank.

"…of course.Just my luck."

Fuck!