Villain Throne:I Build An Empire On Bones

The night was pitch black, no moon or stars. The air outside was dead quiet, heavy with tension.

In his cold stone room, Zairen sat cross-legged, his body shaking. Mana burned through his veins, stinging like a knife. His muscles ached, but his face stayed blank—a killer waiting for his moment. Sweat dripped onto the floor.

His eyes snapped open.

"Haaah…" His breath steamed the window. Outside, it was still dark, but a faint red light glowed at the sky's edge, like spilled blood.

"Tomorrow," he muttered, voice low and hard, "I start. The first step to crushing everything in my way."

He stood, ignoring the pain in his legs. He climbed into bed, hoping the nightmare wouldn't come, The one where he saw her—a beautiful woman, her face hidden by a veil. Her long hair flowed like silk, her eyes sparkled like stars, but her face stayed out of reach. If only I remember her, he thought, his heart twisting. Lost in that longing, he didn't even notice when sleep pulled him under.

But sleep was no rest.

Tk-tk-tk-tk…

Hooves on stone woke him, loud as a hammer. Zairen shot up, heart pounding. He yanked the curtain back. The manor courtyard was chaos—dozens of mercenaries stormed in, boots hitting the ground like war drums. They carried a dark, heavy presence, like dogs ready to bite. These were men built from blood and fights, their eyes sharp, their grins cruel.

Viscount Draven stood at the gate, arms open. A man stepped off the lead horse, his presence sucking the air dry. Long black hair hung to his shoulders, and a deep scar cut down his right eye, red and raw. His sword was huge, built to kill, and his aura felt like it wanted to crush anything weak.

Draven hugged him like family.

Zairen's eyes tightened. That's him…

Commander Varek Kaelthorn, head of the Ashen Fangs—a famous mercenary guild that burned enemies to ash. and slaughtered beasts for gold and fun. He was close with Draven and Zairen's dead father.

As they talked, Varek's eyes cut through the crowd, locking onto Zairen at the window. His stare was cold, like a knife to the throat. Draven followed his gaze and smiled. Zairen nodded once and dropped the curtain.

"They're here," he said, voice sharp. "The game's on."

A hard knock broke the quiet.

"Master Zairen," a maid said. "The Viscount wants to see you."

Zairen followed her through the manor's dark halls, the air thick with dust and wax. Guards opened the study doors, calling his name.

Inside, Draven and Varek stood over maps and knives. They turned, their eyes pinning Zairen like a bug.

"Zairen," Draven said, his voice warm but tense. "This is Commander Varek Kaelthorn. My old friend… and your father's brother by blood."

Varek stepped forward, his black eyes glinting like polished stone. He towered over Zairen, his presence a storm of barely contained power.

"So," Varek said, his voice smooth but hard, like a sword wrapped in silk. "The youngest Kaelridge."

Zairen met his gaze, unblinking. "Yes."

In a flash—woosh—Varek moved, faster than a heartbeat, his hand slamming onto Zairen's chest. The air crackled with mana, and Zairen's body tensed, his instincts screaming to fight. But he held back, hiding his mana, keeping it coiled like a snake.

Varek's eyes narrowed. "Hmm…" He pulled his hand back, fingers flexing. "Not awakened. Yet your mana's steady. Almost… professional."

"I've trained," Zairen said, his voice cold as ice.

Varek's lip curled into a sneer. "Training's not enough, boy. Go to the temple. Awaken properly. This raid isn't for unawakened kids."

"I'll awaken after the raid," Zairen shot back. "Not before."

Varek's faint smirk vanished, his face twisting into a scowl that could freeze blood. "You think this is a child's game? We're not dancing, brat. We're killing. Devouring. If you break in battle, no one's dragging your corpse home."

The Viscount stepped in, his voice softer but firm. "Zairen, he's right. You're gifted, but unawakened. Let me give you another task after you awaken—"

"No, my lord," Zairen cut in, his tone sharp as a blade. "I wasted seven years drowning in grief. Hiding. Hating myself. If I die on this path, let me die walking."

The room fell silent, the air heavy with tension. Varek tilted his head, studying Zairen like a wolf eyeing prey.

"Fine," Varek said, his voice low and deadly. "Come. Die, if you must. But remember one thing Even though I am your father Friend there is no favour in my squad understand. You're one of us… or one of the dead."

Zairen bowed, slow and deliberate. "Understood."

Back in his room, Zairen grabbed the mana stone—a rough, pulsing gem from the Devil Tree, full of raw anger and dark magic. It glowed a sick blue, promising power and pain.

He sat cross-legged, his blade and armor nearby. He pressed his hand to the stone and braced himself.

Ssssshhkkkk!

Mana rushed out of him into the gem, fast and hot. His veins burned like they were melting. The stone glowed blue, then turned black, like it was eating his life.

Zairen's body shook hard. Blood sprayed from his mouth, hitting the floor in red streaks. His eyes blurred, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay strong.

Then—whoooosh—the stone pushed back. A flood of wild mana hit him, full of the forest's rage. His skin tore open, blood pouring down his arms. His chest caved, ribs cracking loud enough to hear. Blood leaked from his nose, ears, eyes, soaking his face. The air stank of iron, thick and choking.

He screamed, a rough, broken sound that rattled the walls.

SKRCHHH!

His mana core twisted, changing from pale yellow to bright green, then to a dead black. His heart skipped, each beat like a punch. The mana filled him, heavy, like water in a dead man's lungs. His skin peeled off in strips, showing raw flesh. His nails split, blood pooling under them. His bones groaned, ready to break.

BOOM—mana exploded from his back, hitting the wall and splattering blood everywhere. The floor was slick, the room reeking of death. Zairen fell forward, gasping, barely alive.

"Done," he croaked, voice raw.

His body was wrecked, bleeding and torn, but his mana was new—stronger, hungrier, darker. He wasn't a kid anymore. He was something worse.

"Class-One Magi Master," he said, a bloody grin spreading. "Almost Class-Two."

He flicked his fingers, casting a spell. The blood on the floor vanished. His wounds closed, just enough to move. He stood, shaky but fierce, his grin sharp like a killer's.

He grabbed his blade. It buzzed with his new power. He strapped on his armor, the plates hissing as they fit his broken body. He pocketed the mana-stone shard and slung a bag of supplies over his shoulder.

"Time to conquered," he said, voice cold and hungry.

At the same time, Kaelridge Manor buzzed with life. A grand party filled the halls with music, laughter, and the clink of wine glasses, all to celebrate Elyra Kaelridge's return after two years training under a royal mage. But outside, in the chilly courtyard, the air was thick with tension, the night air biting at exposed skin.

Zairen's uncle Virel, his aunt Meralyn, and their son Calyen stood waiting for Elyra's carriage. Calyen shifted, his face twisted in a pout. "Mother, how long do we have to stand here? My legs hurt. Why are we welcoming her like she's a princess? She's just a second-circle magi apprentice."

Meralyn opened her mouth, but Virel snapped, his voice sharp as a whip. "Shut up, boy. She's training under a royal mage—a fifth-circle master. We show respect, or we pay the price. This manor belongs to her family, not us. One wrong word, and the royal mage could crush us. So keep your mouth shut, or I'll make you wish you were never born."

Calyen shrank back, nodding sullenly. Meralyn sighed, her voice soft. "He's just a boy, Virel. Don't be so harsh."

"You've spoiled him into a fool," Virel growled, his eyes flashing. "That's why he's useless."

A luxurious carriage rolled into the courtyard, its golden sigil gleaming under the torchlight. The horses snorted, their breath steaming in the cold air. Out stepped Royal Mage Daksha, a tall, blonde man with smooth hair and piercing blue eyes, his presence radiating power like a storm. Behind him came Elyra, her long black hair flowing like silk in the breeze, her red eyes glowing like rubies, her skin soft as velvet, her lips red as fresh blood. She was breathtaking, a mix of beauty and steel, her aura sharp enough to cut.

Calyen's jaw dropped, his face flushing, a hungry glint in his eyes. Virel hurried forward, bowing low. "Welcome, Royal Mage Daksha! It's an honor, my lord."

Daksha nodded slightly, his voice calm but commanding. "Just Daksha, please."

Virel turned to Elyra, hugging her warmly. "How was your journey, Elyra?"

She nodded, her voice cool and distant, like a blade held at a distance. "It was fine."

Meralyn rushed over, pulling Elyra into a tight hug. "Oh, my dear, you've grown so much! You're so thin—don't they feed you? Are you okay?"

Elyra gave a faint smile, her eyes guarded. "I'm fine, Aunt Meralyn. How are you?"

"I'm well, darling," Meralyn said, her voice warm but trembling with emotion.

Calyen stared, lost in her beauty, then lurched forward to hug her. Elyra stepped back smoothly, her expression polite but cold as ice. "Good to see you too, Calyen," she said, her voice sharp, cutting off his advance. Then her eyes narrowed, her tone hardening. "Uncle, where's Zairen? Is he still locked in his room?"

Virel and Meralyn exchanged uneasy glances, the air growing heavier. Virel cleared his throat, his voice low. "Well… Zairen's not here."

Elyra's brow furrowed, her red eyes flashing with worry. "What do you mean, not here?"

"He's gone to train with Viscount Draven's special forces," Virel said, looking away, his voice tight.

Elyra's eyes widened, her voice rising. "Training? He's not even awakened!"

"He awakened recently," Virel admitted, his gaze flickering to Meralyn. "When Viscount Draven came, Zairen spoke up, bold as anything. The Viscount couldn't say no. But to join the special forces, he had to prove himself… so he's gone with mercenaries to wipe out a bandit camp."

Elyra's face twisted in shock, her voice trembling with anger and fear. "You let him go? Why didn't you stop him?"

Daksha's expression darkened, his voice calm but heavy with authority. "Explain, Virel. Why was he allowed to leave?"

Virel shifted, his shoulders tense. "Let's go inside. I'll tell you everything."

Elyra glanced around, noticing the curious stares of the gathered crowd. Her jaw tightened, but she nodded. "Fine. Let's go." She turned to Daksha, her voice softening but urgent. "Master, please stay a few days."

Daksha sighed, his blue eyes softening as he looked at her. "Little Lyra, I have duties. But… one night, for you. I want to hear about your brother. Maybe I can help."

They walked into the manor, the shadow of Zairen's absence hanging over them like a storm cloud, heavy with the promise of bloodshed.