Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop

"Even if I was the one who killed him, what would you do about it? Can you even do anything, boy?"

That was what Burn said.

Yvain, no matter how unusually composed and talented beyond his years he was, was shaken by Burn's response. Burn didn’t attempt to clear himself of the accusation.

Instead, he seemed ready to confront any animosity head-on, unafraid of Yvain's potential wrath.

He appeared to be a man indifferent to his reputation, unconcerned with being painted as the villain… or was it because he was a villain?

But…

"Because of his nature, Burn couldn't have killed my father," Yvain asserted. Though Burn might have had both the motive and the means to kill Belezak, if he had truly wanted him dead, "he would have done it right then and there—at his coronation."

Waving his hand toward Velaryon’s body, Yvain said, “Get rid of it. And amuse me of the method. The one with the best idea will get my reward.”

Duke Olfield’s face paled, his mouth agape, as if he’d just witnessed a ghost rather than the cold demise of Duke Benjamin Velaryon.

“W-without… trial…”

Beside him, Duke Merweather’s eyes bulged, his usual composure washed away by a tide of disbelief. He looked from the fallen duke to Yvain, as if trying to connect the dots of a very disturbing puzzle.

“Y-Your Majesty… this is… with your own hands…”

Marquis Reune, meanwhile, clutched at his fine doublet, his knuckles whitening—a stark contrast against the rich fabric.

The air thickened with their shock, an unspoken terror that crept up their spines and set their hearts racing. No one had expected the young king to act so decisively, so ruthlessly. It was as if the ground beneath them had shifted, tilting their world into uncharted darkness.

Amidst this palpable dismay, Yvain's expression remained chillingly detached. His voice, devoid of warmth, sliced through the heavy silence, "Then, let's proceed with the magic pact."

It was not a suggestion but a command, one that echoed ominously around the opulent hall.

As he spoke, the air shimmered with the nascent power of the magic pact. Strands of light, ethereal and commanding, wove through the gathered nobles, binding them not just to the throne but to an unyielding commitment to the people and the kingdom's laws.

These luminous tendrils demanded their absolute submission, allowing no room for personal interpretations or a twisted sense of justice.

The magic, solemn and sovereign, formed a visible network—a stark reminder of their new, non-negotiable reality.

As the light touched each noble, it seemed to sear a promise into their very souls, reshaping their duties and destinies with a spectral hand guided by the young king’s icy will.

In the fractured splendor of the throne hall, the nobles found themselves compelled by forces beyond their control to kneel amid the ruins.

Duke Velaryon's rebellion had left its mark—a chaotic vista of toppled columns, shattered statuary, and the carcasses of palace and military mechs strewn about like the aftermath of a great storm.

These mechanical giants, once symbols of regal defense, now lay in ignoble heaps, their twisted metal forms casting eerie shadows across the marble floor.

The atmosphere was heavy with the dust of destruction and the sharp scent of ozone, a silent testament to the battle's ferocity. 

As the nobles knelt, the air was thick with the tension of subdued defiance and the weight of inevitable submission. The spectral strands of the magic pact danced in the dim light, illuminating their bowed heads with ghostly glimmers.

The scene was a stark contrast to the usual regal order, now replaced by the raw, exposed bones of a palace in distress. 

And on that day, Yvain Edensworn ascended as the undisputed sovereign of Edensor.

***

“Your Majesty, it has ended.”

Hearing Galahad’s report, Burn hummed. He looked toward the fortress of Velaryon’s duchy. There, on top of the walls, were twenty of battle mech armors, the new version Velaryon had ordered from the intergalactic merchants.

"That boy had spent the past week systematically dismantling his own military and guard mechs for training, simultaneously diminishing Velaryon's influence within the palace. Now, with everything destroyed, he had no mechs left at his disposal..."

Burn grinned at Galahad, pointing at twenty shiny new battle mech armors, “Let’s gift them for the young king.”

Galahad sweated profusely, “Y-you’re telling us to fight those without destroying them…? H-how, Your Majesty?”

“Gather the knights. This will be our new war training session,” Burn said.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side, perched atop the formidable ramparts of Velaryon's fortress, the 17-year-old son of the late Duke Velaryon cut a figure that was decidedly average.

With a countenance as nondescript as a page in an unopened ledger, he was the epitome of mediocrity—save for the arrogance that clung to him like a well-tailored cloak.

Beside him, aligned with militant precision, stood twenty of the latest model battle mech armors, their steely exteriors glinting under the cold sun.

This young Velaryon, known for his hedonistic trifecta of women, alcohol, and woefully misguided adventures with children, had a reputation smeared in corruption yet sharpened by cunning.

As news of his father’s demise reached his ears, his face contorted into a grotesque mask of twisted grief, only to be swiftly replaced by a smirk of realization. The duchy, with all its military might and opulent resources, was now his to command.

Grinning with the glee of a fox who’d just inherited the henhouse, he surveyed his metallic minions.

"Ah, father, you old fool, you've inadvertently given me the keys to the kingdom," he mused aloud, his voice dripping with irony. 

The new mech armors, he believed, were the perfect tools to topple Emperor Burn and usurp young King Yvain, thereby installing himself as the uncontested ruler of the land.

After all, the technology was so exclusive and expensive that not even the royal family would be able to purchase them in bulk like his house.

As he stood there, the wind catching his cloak in a dramatic flutter, he couldn't help but revel in the sheer audacity of his plan. 

"With these shiny tin soldiers, Burn’s end is nigh, and as for Yvain... well, the boy king will soon bow to a new crown," he boasted to the empty air, a sneer curling his lips.

His next steps were clear: marshal the forces, march to the palace, and carve a path to the throne through cunning, force, and perhaps a bit of theatrical flair.

After all, what was a coup without a touch of drama? The very thought made him chuckle—a sound as chilling as it was infused with wicked delight.

“We’re on top of the fortress. This is an advantage! So let’s just use the laser beam. ATTACK!”

The young man commanded, his voice echoing off the stoic stones with fervor.

The twenty battle mech armors, technological behemoths in a land of swords and sorcery, came to life. As they powered up, the space hummed with an energy that would have mystified any medieval bard into composing ballads of bewitched earthquakes. 

The mechs, like knights of old reimagined by a mad alchemist, aimed their formidable laser beams at the horizon.

With a synchronized grace that belied their brutal purpose, the beams converged into a singular, searing lance of light that pierced the evening gloom.

The air crackled and shimmered as if the very fabric of reality protested the unholy display of power. Birds, caught mid-flight, reconsidered their life choices and retreated with a haste that would shame the swiftest steed.

To the medieval onlookers, this spectacle might have seemed like a dragon's fury had been harnessed by the hands of a vengeful wizard king.

But no, this was not magic of the old scrolls; this was magic birthed from the forge of ingenuity and audacity—the kind that flirted dangerously with the limits of known laws and moral codes.

The barrage from the mech armors did not merely attack; it performed a ballet of destruction, a choreographed devastation that painted the sky with strokes of incandescent agony.

The beams, unforgiving and precise, left nothing in their path but echoes of their thunderous might.

But as the dust settled, it became apparent to everyone that the enemy army below… remained unscathed.

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