A Villain's Will to Survive-Chapter 241: Sylvia (4)

Sylvia pressed her hands to his chest, trying to push Deculein away from her shoulder, but Deculein didn’t move an inch; his frame was solid as stone, and she struggled against him with all her strength.

“Let go. Let go of me. Let go,” Sylvia said, not because she wanted to—but because she had to.

With a slight nod, Deculein let her go, and Sylvia looked up at him, resentment flickering in her eyes like a fading ember.

"If there's no paradise made only of happiness, then there shouldn't be a hell made only of pain either," Sylvia added, her teeth clenched. "Because that's where I am—hell."

The knife rested in her hand, and she raised it slightly, shaking it as if to threaten him—enough to draw a line between them.

"I hate you—for killing my mom. And I hate you even more for telling me to live on with that hatred, as if it should be my anchor. I don’t even know what you're hoping to get from me anymore."

Deculein said nothing but cast the Cleanse spell, wiping away the grease and scraps of meat from her knife as if they offended him.

“Are you kidding me?!” Sylvia yelled before she even knew it, the words leaving her lips like a flame, the storm of frustration that had been building inside her finally cracking open.

“Sylvia,” Deculein called.

It wasn’t just that Deculein said her name again, but the unshaken calm in his voice that made Sylvia’s blood stir with restrained anger.

“I’m not asking anything of you.”

“Then why—”

“You have my sympathy,” Deculein added in a low voice.

At that moment, Sylvia froze—her lips parted in quiet disbelief, and the knife in her hand stopped shaking.

“Let’s leave it here for today,” Deculein said, his sigh barely audible.

Deculein wiped his mouth, then removed Sylvia's knife and placed it beside her plate. With a flick of his fingers, her attire adjusted itself, the wrinkles smoothing out into perfect alignment through his Telekinesis.

“Be it tomorrow or the day after, I’ll be back when you’re ready. This journey won’t take long.”

Thud, thud—

Sylvia remained frozen in place, her eyes following Deculein's back as he disappeared beyond the restaurant door.

***

... Deculein is poison, Sylvia thought.

Alone in her room, Sylvia lay on her bed, and that single thought echoed again and again.

Deculein is poison.

Deculein is poison—foolish enough to think I’d stoop to poisoning his food.

Deculein is poison...

Lost in her thoughts, Sylvia sat up in bed and looked around her room. Among the rows of books crowding her shelves, one caught her eye. Deculein’s name glimmered on the cover—his work on magical theory, written by his own hand.

On the Floating Island, The Magic of Probability, The Compendium of Spells, and The Theory of Magical Space were sought after by every mage. However, Deculein granted access to only a chosen few, and Sylvia was one of those rare few—though she still didn’t know why to this day.

What could Deculein have been thinking—what could he have felt—when he granted these to me, ones that only a few were ever meant to see.

Knock, knock—

At that moment, the knock broke the silence, and Sylvia rose, opened the door, and there stood a familiar face.

“I was told Deculein is here.” Idnik said.

Idnik, my mentor in magic—though calling her a mentor felt generous, as I had learned most of it on my own. Idnik was more like a part-time tutor from a magic academy. But, anyway.

“Yes,” Sylvia replied.

“It’s time we head back,” Idnik continued, nodding.

“How.”

"Deculein must have the answer to it. The rest depends on whether you'll take it or not."

Even in a world where magic held the threads of reality together, one law remained untouched—nothing could bring back the dead.

Therefore, Sylvia had come to understand that the island she lived on was nothing more than an illusion, and the weight of that truth hollowed her out from within.

Would I find happiness in disappearing into forgetting, Sylvia thought.

“If I go back, the Voice will find its way into the continent.”

Sylvia told Deculein a lie.

I haven’t defeated the Voice, and it still lives within me. If I go back to the continent, it will become a land of ruin, where the dead rise and the living fall. Because now, I am its source.

“To save me, my dad let the demon loose upon the world,” Sylvia said, mentioning the Letter of Fortune to her.

“Right,” Idnik replied, pushing her lips out with a dry look.

Having extracted the information through the torture of several Intelligence Agency agents and now elevated to Ethereal grade, there was no knowledge on the Floating Island beyond her reach. However, Sylvia offered Idnik a fabricated explanation.

“But I don’t want to do that, Idnik,” Sylvia said, her eyes searching Idnik's.

Idnik scratched her temple.

"If I could, I'd rather forget it all."

“... Then, do you really intend to spend the rest of your life on this island?”

“If only I could.”

“Is that why you’ve been designing Deculein on this island?”

At Idnik’s words, Sylvia said nothing, her lips drawn into a firm line.

“This is Deculein we’re talking about—not someone you can just manifest by designing him into being,” Idnik said, shaking her head.

Sylvia remained silent.

“You’re a strange one, Sylvia. Deculein killed Cielia, yet you want to keep her close and can’t bring yourself to let go of him as well?”

Sylvia wished to draw Deculein with her talent, within the canvas of her world.

“I can do it.”

In her world, if Sylvia were to manifest a different Deculein and let herself forget that truth, she could finally be saved from the weight of grief, with the darkness of the past fading like old paint, and she could learn what it meant to live.

“... Do you love him?” Idnik asked.

“Yes,” Sylvia replied.

“Then, do you hate him?” Idnik asked again.

Once again, Sylvia’s answer remained unchanged.

“Yes.”

Love and hate, affection and bitterness—Sylvia had once thought these feelings meant she was broken, but to her relief, the world had already given them a term in the dictionary. It wasn’t just her; others had felt it too, and it was called ambivalence.

“Get some rest,” Idnik said, shaking her head as she turned and left the room.

Without a word, Sylvia took up her diary and pen, sat at her desk, let her eyes wander to Bearbie Panda—sleeping, its tiny head resting on an eraser like a makeshift pillow—and then began moving her pen across the page.

This piece is complete—aesthetically, artistically, and in terms of popularity. Your brushwork shows precision guided by instinct. The color palette is restrained but rich, and the way you translate what you see onto the canvas. It’s all quite to my taste.

Sylvia wrote his words down in her diary—the rare compliment Deculein had spoken.

***

The next morning, I stood at the island’s highest point, watching Cielia with Sylvia, the two of them hanging laundry in the wind. I tilted my head as I looked at her—still the same gentle face, exactly as Deculein remembered in his memories—the face of someone who had lived for Sylvia and her husband, but not for herself.

"Is that Cielia?" I inquired, turning to Idnik—Sylvia’s mentor and once a protégé of Rohakan—who was standing at my side.

"Yes, are you planning to kill her now?" Idnik asked, as she licked her ice cream.

I only shook my head.

“Why?”

“It’s counterproductive.”

"Why not kill her now and be done with it?"

I looked at Idnik—just long enough to let silence speak for her ignorance.

"Why? Killing the fake now is the only way Sylvia might even begin to think about leaving this island," Idnik added with a shrug.

“Not now. I don’t even know what this island is hiding.”

At that moment, Sylvia spotted me, and her eyes narrowed into a glare. Then, without a word, she disappeared indoors with Cielia.

“You had no such hesitation with Rohakan.”

The feeling of disappointment in Idnik’s tone was clear, but there was no edge to it—no hint of hostility.

Rohakan must have left her with a few things to say, I thought.

“We head for the sea.”

At my words, Idnik’s brow furrowed, but she let the silence speak for herself.

And as we neared the edge of the island, toward the shore...

“Where are you going,” Sylvia asked, chasing after us with steps that barely touched the ground.

“Are you sure about leaving Cielia behind? What if I decide to kill her while you’re here?” I said, each word weighed with warning.

"Don’t say that," Sylvia replied, her eyes narrowing.

Laughter slipped from Idnik's lips.

And just like that, we have reached the shore of the island.

"Why the sea, all of a sudden?" Idnik asked, her voice barely above a whisper to keep it from Sylvia.

Without a word, I watched the tide move—waves pulsing like the breath of the world.

“... Hey, I asked you a question. Hey. Hey.”

Idnik repeated her whispers to me a few more times, but I remained silent, and the hours blurred together—from dawn to dusk—each moment indistinguishable from the last, with the hours melting away until the sun dipped below the horizon.

“What’s going on here?” Idnik snapped, finally running out of patience as she turned to Sylvia instead of me. “Hey, Sylvia—what is he doing?”

With just two fingers, Sylvia tugged at my sleeve, as if she were trying to pull me out of the sea.

“... What are you doing,” Sylvia asked.

Without a word, I let the corner of my mouth curl—just enough to hint at a sneer.

“There’s no reason you should know. After all, we stand on opposite sides,”I replied.

Sylvia’s face tightened, and I turned to walk along the shoreline, but one question kept ringing loud and clear in my mind.

I’d been observing the tide—waves, or rather, waveforms in motion. Their timing, their crash, the way they dissolved into foam—all of it was constantly irregular. Nature never offered repetition; only variance.

But this island was different. The flow of water, the arc of the waves, the strength of their crash—it was all in predictable regularity, with a wave I’d seen long ago returning again, breaking in a pattern I already knew, like a loop playing back.

Therefore, I could make one assumption...

“... Sylvia,” I called.

Sylvia turned toward me.

“Let me ask you just one question.”

Sylvia's face became slightly ambiguous.

"Which iteration of me stands before you now?" I inquired, almost to myself.

***

Meanwhile, Sophien found her thoughts straying to Deculein, now far beyond the Empire's reach—far enough that even her memory had to stretch to find him. A strange thing, that her thoughts wandered at all—perhaps because of Yulie, seated opposite her with a brooding expression, glaring at the Go board like a child who’d lost more than just a game.

"For heaven’s sake, you fool," Sophien said.

"Oof!"

Yulie’s shoulders tensed at Sophien’s biting words, moisture welling in his eyes—not born of sadness, but from the bitter weight of a loss.

“Does it burn, knowing you lost?”

“... Yes, Your Majesty,” Yulie replied.

"What is there to be bitter about? Such a level of play would not win even in a hundred lifetimes."

“No, Your Majesty. It’s not the loss that feels bitter in the match, but the weakness I see in myself,” Yulie replied, his eyes turning toward the ceiling.

Today, Sophien intentionally summoned Yulie to the Imperial Palace to discuss Deculein and the trial she had set before her.

“How far along are you with the trial?” Sophien asked.

“There was interference from Professor Deculein; however, the trial is proceeding as it should, Your Majesty,” Yulie replied through gritted teeth.

"I see," Sophien said, a thin smile ghosting her lips.

The documents brought by Yulie covered the desk, each page a step closer to uncovering the conspirators behind Sophien's attempted poisoning—a trial decreed by the Empress herself.

“Tell me, do you know where Deculein has gone?”

“I have heard that Professor is at the Island of the Voice—”

“And you have no intention of following him?”

“... No, Your Majesty,” Yulie replied, shaking her head.

“It seems you have quite the distaste for Deculein.”

"Yes, Your Majesty. But I assure you, I would never allow it to influence anything concerning Your Majesty."

"You’re not the kind to speak ill behind someone’s back—I know that well,” Sophien said as she gathered the Go stones to her side with Telekinesis. “But if I were you, I’d lay bare every reason to weaponize that truth against Deculein. Detail every reason to hate him—and use it before he even thinks to blink.”

“... No, Your Majesty.”

"Politics wins wars long before swords are drawn. You are aware of that, are you not?"

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Are you daring to suggest I’m mistaken?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Yulie replied without hesitation. “You are the will that defines righteousness for this Empire. But I will not win through politics; I will win through justice.”

At Yulie's words, Sophien's hand went to her chin, her eyes narrowing as she regarded her with silent contemplation.

“Very well,” Sophien said, a faint curve to her lips as she gave a single nod.

The Empress placed six black stones for Yulie on the Go board before the match began, having given Yulie five in the previous game. However, even with that advantage, Yulie had lost the match. So this time, the concession grew by one.

“Truth be told, I have known for a long time.”

Yulie’s eyes widened as they met Sophien’s.

"The reason for your hatred toward Deculein, and why your engagement to him fell apart."

Yulie's fist twitched, tight with tension, but she quickly dismissed the thought, thinking there was no way Her Majesty could have seen through something so minute, so personal.

“Veron and Rockfell. And the Freyhem Knights’ Order.”

However, Sophien cut straight to the heart of it, and Yulie felt her chest tighten with a thunderous beat.

"I imagine Deculein handled Veron and Rockfell personally. I am also certain he had a hand in the Freyhem Knights' Order," Sophien continued with a smile, her fingers gracefully placing the white stone on the board. "The rest will come—word by word. And you will listen, move by move. Now, make your move. The longer this match drags on, the more you will hear..."

Gulp...

Yulie’s throat tightened with a dry gulp, uncertainty visible on her face, but Sophien pressed forward, declaring that the match would proceed.

“Place your stone. The board doesn’t wait, nor do I. And while we play, speak of the Professor. I’ve questions only you can answer.”

Obeying Sophien’s command, Yulie gave her a nod and placed her stone—two fingers, one breath—onto a star point. Although Yulie had claimed seven of the nine, it felt as though the game was already lost against the Empress.