Villain Throne:I Build An Empire On Bones

The room stank of decay, air thick with filth's cruel grip. A cracked mirror hung on the wall, its broken lines splitting my face—not the boy I was, but a hollow stranger, pale as death, eyes burning like Hell's fire. Each crack hissed her dying cry, steel cutting flesh.

I turned away.

The floorboards creaked under my bare feet as I crossed the ruined room to a broken window. I pushed it open, hinges creaking like dying breath. Night poured in, dark and cold. The breeze brushed my skin, soft, like a mother's hand on a wounded child.

I breathed deep. For a moment, the wind felt like peace.

Then my stomach growled—loud, ugly, hungry.

"I need food," I muttered, voice rough as rusted steel.

My eyes scanned the room: dust, decay, silence. Then I saw it—a tray on a cracked table, its tarnished lid glinting like a lost offering. I lifted it.

The stench hit like a fist. Vile. Unforgiving.

Moldy bread. Soup gone green, vegetables rotting. Meat—gray, slick, maggots twisting. A living curse.

It smelled like death.

I didn't flinch. I smirked—a sharp, broken smirk. "Good to be back," I hissed, letting them think I'm done.

And then—I ate.

My teeth snapped through decay. Mold crunched, sour meat slid down my throat, its slimy filth crawling, stench burning my throat. I swallowed the sickness, blood crusting my lips, unflinching.

When it was done, I collapsed onto the bed, the thud heavy like a corpse hitting dirt. The ceiling blurred, and memories hit, sharp and cruel.

I saw myself, small, laughing in a sunlit garden. My mom's voice sang, "Zairen! Zairen!" My dad read under a peach tree, my sister chased butterflies. I sneaked into the forest, dirty, proud. My mom always found me, wiping dirt from my cheeks with her dress, whispering, "Zairen, you stupid boy." She'd carry me home, where food was warm, hands soft, love alive.

Then came that day.

I begged for the Royal Carnival—lanterns floating, fire dancers, sugar clouds. My heart raced with wonder, her smile my only light. My parents said no, waiting for my sister's return from the Holy Kingdom. But I pleaded, and my mom, too kind, smiled. "Just for a bit."

That starless night, my world broke.

Our carriage rolled past the forest trail. Then—shrieks. Steel. Fire.

Not bandits. Traitors.

The guards turned first, blades flashing red under moonlight. Then came worse—figures in black, masked, moving like silent death. My dad fought like a beast, blood staining the dirt, iron stench choking the air. But even beasts bleed.

Two grabbed me and my mom. "Drop your sword," one hissed, "or they die."

My dad, a Third Circle mage, proud and unbreakable, begged for the first time, his voice cracking like shattered steel. "Please," he pleaded, "let them go. I surrender." I'd never seen him kneel, never heard him plead.

A mocking nod. "Sure."

Then—schhk. A wet rip. Blood gushed, soaking my face, hot and blinding. My mom dropped, head half-severed, flesh torn, bones cracked, eyes wide, lips curled in a forgiving smile. Her blood's warmth faded in my hands, my world breaking with her.

I didn't shriek. I didn't move. I just breathed, crimson soaking my knees.

My dad roared, snapping a masked man's neck, blood spraying, iron stench thick. A blade caught him, his body slumping, eyes dead. "Run, Zairen! Run!"

I stared at her broken body.

"Run, damn it!"

My legs moved, tears burning. I ran—through clawing branches, thorns tearing my skin, feet bleeding as the sky wept.

I found a cave, collapsing with her shawl, clutching its fading warmth.

Days later, they "rescued" me. But what was left?

At the estate, my sister sobbed—not for me. "Because of you… Dad died!" I clenched my fists, nails biting skin, her words a blade in my chest.

Blame. Rage. Hate.

I was five. Just five. And they cursed me.

My aunt and uncle came, smiles like lies, craving the estate, titles, power. They needed my sister. I was discarded—a shadow, unfed, forgotten.

Her words faded, the bed's decay pulling me back. I chuckled, low and bitter, on this rotting bed. I thought of my sister, now noble, loved by all. "What a fragile puppet," I whispered. "So easy to control. Easier to break."

I smirked, voice rough as ash. "Now my mood's ruined."

I turned on my side, eyes heavy, empty. "Enough of the past. Tomorrow's a new day. A new start."

And I slept—not like a man, not a monster, but something forged in pain, born in decay.

Something that remembered her blood.

And the smile on her dying face.