Ascension Of The Villain-Chapter 275: Welcome to Hell

The sight of her tears—glistening like stardrops slipping down her cheeks—shattered every trace of mischief in Vyan's chest. It was as if the night itself held its breath.

He didn't think. He just ran.

Back to her.

"Iyana, I—I'm sorry," he breathed out, stumbling over his words, the color draining from his face. "I was joking—I didn't mean to—I swear on the Goddess, I didn't know it would make you cry. Please don't cry, please—"

But then he saw it.

That wicked little twinkle in her eye.

And before he could brace for it, she smacked his shoulder. Hard.

"Do you think you're the only one who can act?" she exclaimed, hitting him again for good measure.

Vyan blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then groaned as he covered his face with one hand. "You absolute menace."

She grinned, unapologetic. "A menace you love."

He couldn't argue with that. Instead, he let out a breathless laugh and pulled her into a proper hug—forehead resting gently against hers as their breathing slowed together.

The world softened around them.

The garden was bathed in the silver hush of midnight, the summer air warm and sleepy, heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and wild roses. The cicadas sang their lullabies, and fireflies blinked between ivy and branches like scattered stars fallen too low.

Hand in hand, they walked slowly down the winding path, saying nothing for a while. Just being. Just breathing.

But time—it always finds a way to slip between fingers.

Iyana's voice broke the silence, quiet and aching. "It's already late… the day's almost over."

He squeezed her hand gently.

"Only four more days," she whispered.

It hung between them like fog.

Her next words were shakier, caught in that strange place between fear and thought.

"What if… What if the end plays out like that novel? What if this timeline is just another version of the same ending?"

She tried to laugh it off, she tried not to think about it, but the thought, the fear, it was always there in the back of her mind.

"They say… a person's lifespan is already written in the stars. That it can't be changed, no matter what. So… what if I…"

Vyan didn't let her finish.

He stopped walking and turned to face her fully, brushing her hair behind her ear. His touch was steady, grounding.

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"No more what-ifs," he said softly, but firmly. "You're here. With me. Now. And until your last breath, I'm going to be holding your hand like this."

Iyana looked at him, eyes glassy. "Promise?"

He smiled faintly. "With everything I am."

They stood still beneath the garden arch, moonlight painting their faces in silver. The night wrapped around them like a lullaby.

Then Vyan exhaled slowly.

"There's one favor I'd like to ask," he said.

Iyana tilted her head. "What is it?"

He didn't answer right away. His wine-red eyes searched violet ones before he grinned mischieviously.

———

Another imperial court session had unfolded earlier that day—a repetition of chaos disguised in protocol.

This time, the storm bore Easton's name once again, his desperation clinging to him like sweat in the summer heat. He'd suggested something so wildly ludicrous that even the most seasoned ministers had to pause in disbelief: marrying Althea off to a royal of Haberland—the very empire Haynes had been in conflict with for decades.

The emperor's fury had been swift and scorching. He demanded to know if Easton had truly gone mad. After all, how could the heir of Haynes be bound to the heir of a rival throne? It wasn't just an insult to their nation—it was political sabotage. It could just be a ploy for them to abuse Althea and get back their princess, Maria.

And as always, when madness met opportunity, Vyan moved. Alongside Althea, they played the court just right—nudging Edgar toward decisive action. The old man ordered Easton into confinement until Althea's coronation ceremony.

A bold strike. But it only clipped the branches.

Because the root of the problem still pulsed within the palace grounds.

Vyan had had enough. Enough of the theatrics, the endless court deliberations, and especially enough of Easton being used like a pawn in someone else's twisted little game. Time was precious—he would rather spend it buried in his plans, or in blissful sleep, not sitting through pathetic power plays.

So, he shifted his attention where it was due.

To the puppeteer.

To Sienna.

The woman never left the palace during the day—her routines carefully calculated, always shielded. But darkness has a way of coaxing out what sunlight cannot. After studying the essence of black magic, Vyan understood one critical flaw in her secrecy: the magic she used came at a price. A physical one. She needed blood. And someone had to bleed for it.

The recent surge of missing persons throughout the empire now made grotesque sense. They weren't lost. They were taken. For her.

That night, the plan was simple—wait and watch.

And at midnight, as the palace slumbered beneath veils of moonlight, she moved. Cloaked in black, Sienna slipped out of the imperial grounds like a shadow among shadows, heading toward the edge of the estate under the guise of night.

She never saw them coming.

Silent as the wind, swift as vengeance—they struck. A group cloaked in anonymity intercepted her path, binding her entire body with restraining magic before she could cast so much as a breath.

She was gone before the stars could blink.

When Sienna's eyes fluttered open the next time, groggy and aching with a dull pressure behind her skull, the first thing she registered was the stench—wet stone, rusted iron, something acrid and coppery that clung to the air like old screams. Her head lolled to the side, her wrists bound tight against cold steel, the chair unmoving beneath her like it had roots sunk into the floor of that miserable dungeon.

The torchlight flickered, casting shadows that danced like demons on the damp walls. And then—footsteps. Far too playful for a place this vile.

Her gaze snapped forward.

There she stood. Iyana.

But not the commander in crisp uniform or the woman who looked at Vyan with loving eyes.

No.

This Iyana was something else entirely—brimming with a venomous kind of glee that made even the shadows cower. Her violet eyes gleamed in the low light.

She tilted her head slightly, lips curling with venomous sweetness, and whispered like a lullaby dipped in poison:

"Welcome to Hell, my dear sister."