A Villain's Guide to Saving the World-Chapter 56: The Great Villain! Plans for the Future...?”

Lucian and Ivan exited the trial dungeon, now back in Ivan’s chambers. Time, as always, remained suspended—not a single second having passed in the real world since their brutal clash within the crater of blood and fire.

"That’s nifty..."

Ivan muttered, glancing around the room as the ambient light of the chamber returned to its usual dim golden glow. His draconic form remained—gleaming scales catching the soft light, wings slightly flexed as if still ready for battle. He ran a hand along his arm, curiosity flickering in his eyes as he considered how—or if—he could reverse the transformation.

"While definitely comfortable and powerful," he continued, his tone thoughtful, "I don’t know how my father will react to this."

Lucian gave a dry chuckle and sank into a plush couch nestled beside a towering bookshelf, the old leather creaking slightly under his weight. He crossed one leg over the other, exuding relaxed irreverence as he flicked a stray drop of blood from his sleeve.

"Just keep it," he said with an almost lazy smirk. "Not like it’s a bad thing."

Ivan exhaled, a small puff of heat leaving his nostrils unconsciously. He couldn’t deny the truth in Lucian’s words. Even now, the transformation pulsed with power—steady, stable. There was no pain, no strain. Just strength. And his father, while stern, had never condemned power—especially not the kind blessed by a dragon, a sacred symbol of the kingdom itself.

"Well... I’ll have to agree with you on this one."

He turned, making his way to the ornately carved wardrobe beside his expansive bed. The remnants of his old outfit—now little more than scorched ash—still lingered faintly in the air, a burnt tang that mixed with the scent of old parchment and incense.

"As for these wings..."

Ivan muttered, brow furrowing slightly as he glanced back at the massive appendages.

Lucian rolled his eyes and let out a soft, amused laugh, the kind that carried both affection and a touch of exasperation.

"You’re quite good at combat," he said, "but I’m surprised you’re this absent-minded when it comes to dominions."

He gestured with a flourish, magic glimmering faintly at his fingertips.

"Just use it to make custom clothing. It’s what I do, anyway."

Lucian leaned back, resting his head lazily against the side of the bookshelf.

"It doesn’t cost that much magic to maintain, and it’s as durable as you decide to make it. Form and function, all in one."

Ivan gave him a long, contemplative look, clearly mulling over the idea. He’d never needed to consider such things before—his wardrobe had always been prepared in advance, stocked meticulously for every conceivable situation. But this was different. This time, he’d emerged from battle in a form no tailor could account for.

"You make a good point..."

He grinned, turning slightly as a flicker of mischief entered his voice.

"You’re actually starting to feel like a fairly decent servant now."

Lucian gave a mock bow, exaggerated and theatrical.

"Why thank you, my lord," he said with faux reverence.

Ivan closed his eyes, focusing inward. He visualized his new body in perfect detail—every scale, every ridge, every line of muscle and wing membrane etched into his mind. The air around his chest shimmered faintly, and fabric began to coalesce, woven from ambient magic and shaped by sheer will. The material flowed outward, tracing his form in elegant, functional folds.

Lucian gave a small, slow clap from his seat—each clap deliberate, more showman than servant.

"What a show! Truly a prodigy!"

His grin was wide, sarcastic, but not without admiration.

Ivan continued to focus, his breath slow and deliberate, each inhale grounding his concentration. Conjuring clothing with dominion magic required a different kind of precision—a far cry from the raw instincts of battle. To his irritation, it was proving more of a challenge than fighting in the trial dungeon itself.

"That reminds me..."

Lucian’s gaze drifted downward, finally taking in his own state. His hair clung wetly to his face, his outfit soaked and stained, a mess of half-dried blood. He hadn’t noticed until now—distracted by Ivan’s pristine form, the dry gleam of his draconic transformation having effortlessly evaporated the blood rain that once drenched them both.

"Gross..."

Lucian raised his arm and gave a flick of his wrist. Instantly, the blood that had splattered across the couch, soaked his clothes, matted his hair, and painted half the room in crimson began to ripple. With fluid grace, it gathered—threads of red twisting through the air, converging on the base of his palm and coalescing into a neat, dense sphere. It pulsed faintly, rich with his own essence.

"As clean as I was before."

He let the orb hover for a moment, admiring its perfect form, before smirking.

"Do you know what I love about dominions, my lord?"

Without waiting for a response, Lucian absorbed the blood sphere into his palm, a faint shimmer of red magic dancing across his skin as it vanished. A quiet, satisfied exhale followed—the subtle relief of regaining just a fraction of the blood he’d lost in the previous trial.

Ivan gave a low grunt in response, his eyes still closed, body rigid with focus. The clothing spell was nearing completion, but every intricate seam and fold he imagined tested his control. Lucian’s attempt at conversation, as expected, was not helping.

"What is it?" Ivan muttered, irritation seeping into his voice. "If you’re gonna just say power, then shut it..."

Despite the distraction, the conjured fabric continued to spread across his body—layers of royal blue and dark silver forming over his scaled skin, beginning to take on the elegant silhouette of princely attire.

Lucian grinned, amused that Ivan had even bothered to reply mid-focus.

"No, I’m not that boring to give such a basic answer."

He leaned back with theatrical flair, folding his arms behind his head as he watched Ivan’s slow progress.

"I’m talking about its niftiness—the way it lets us do in seconds what takes other people hours. Clean up, healing, conjuring... we cheat time itself."

Ivan let out a sharp exhale that might’ve been a laugh or just another effortful breath. His concentration didn’t waver, but his expression strained visibly, beads of sweat forming as the final threads of mana-fabric stitched themselves into place.

"You’re forgetting..." he grunted, his jaw tight with effort.

"That I’m a prince..." another strained grunt followed as he aligned the collar just right.

"I have servants that do that for me."

Lucian gave a slow blink, his smirk deepening.

"Right. How could I forget your loyal army of combers and cuff-adjusters."

Ivan didn’t bother replying. With a final pulse of magic, the conjured outfit solidified—threads settling into place, trim sharpening into smooth, crisp lines. He opened his eyes, finally relaxing his shoulders as he studied the result in the mirror across the chamber. The royal blue and silver gleamed against his scaled skin, regal without being gaudy, unmistakably his.

"Not bad," he said, admiring the way the fabric shifted with his breath. "Looks like I’m ready for a coronation."

Lucian gave a lazy shrug. "Close enough. More like a bloodbath in a crown-shaped arena."

Ivan’s expression darkened just slightly, and he turned away from the mirror, his wings folding tight against his back.

"The deathmatch," he muttered.

Lucian nodded, finally standing from the couch and stretching his limbs with a crack of joints and a ripple of residual magic.

"Three days from now. You’re really cutting it close."

Ivan crossed the room to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of chilled fruit wine. The bottle hissed faintly with cold as the amber liquid slid into the crystal glass.

"I didn’t plan to enter it at first," he admitted, staring into the drink. "But now... after the trial... after this power..."

Lucian accepted the unspoken thought and picked up the second glass Ivan poured without needing to be asked. He sipped, lips curving in mild approval.

"Now you’re not just a contender. You’re the problem they’ll all have to solve."

Ivan gave a grim smile. "If they can."

A beat of silence passed. The hum of the wards around the chamber filled the space between them—a soft, constant vibration like a heartbeat in the walls.

Lucian leaned his shoulder against a bookshelf, arms crossed loosely. "You’re the third prince. They’ll come at you harder than anyone else."

"Even your brothers."

Ivan’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered with something colder.

"Especially my brothers."

Lucian nodded slowly. "And they won’t be fighting clean. You’ve seen the blood oaths that are already circling. Assassins being contracted before the bell even rings."

Ivan’s grip tightened around the glass, the faintest strain of crackling mana webbing through his fingers before he relaxed.

"I won’t need to assassinate anyone," he said quietly. "But I won’t hold back if they try."

Lucian raised his glass slightly in mock salute. "A noble promise from a noble prince. Let’s hope it lasts longer than the first hour."

Ivan’s smile was sharp. "I don’t need to last. I need to win."

Lucian gave an approving chuckle, taking another sip. "Spoken like someone finally getting into the spirit of this whole thing."

There was another moment of stillness, then Lucian pushed off the shelf and wandered toward the window. Outside, the city was quiet, the sun casting soft light over the spires and rooftops of the capital. From this height, the castle grounds stretched below like a coiled dragon—loud and brimming with life.

"Let’s hope it’ll give us the win."