Reincarnated as the Villainess's Unlucky Bodyguard-Chapter 222: Glitches in the Puppet Strings

It began, as all grand moments of personal liberation tend to begin, with a minor inconvenience.

A nose itch.

Not the dramatic kind, either no thunder, no lightning, no celestial alignment. Just a tiny, persistent tickle at the very tip of my nose, the sort of nuisance perfectly engineered by the universe to mock my continued lack of basic bodily autonomy. I tried to ignore it. I failed. The more I ignored it, the worse it became.

If this was destiny, destiny was a sadist with a feather.

[Ready?] the system asked, its tone halfway between encouragement and exasperation.

No, I answered, because honesty seemed like the least I could offer myself. But I'd like to be done with this.

[That's the spirit.] There was a flicker of something like warmth in its presence a gentle pulse, as if the system were rolling up its metaphorical sleeves.

Azael's magic pressed in around me, thick and oily as ever, the spell-lattice clinging to my bones like a spider's web. But something was different. Since my last surge of defiance, the walls felt thinner, more brittle. Hairline fractures spread through the enchantment. Sometimes, when I listened hard enough, I could hear them creak.

The itch grew. My focus sharpened.

All right, I thought, digging in. Let's break something.

The system chuckled. [We're going to start slow. On my count, push not with brute force, but with precision. Find the threads we unraveled last time. Good. Yes, there. Now twist, not pull. Unravel them the way you'd untangle hair from a comb after Mara borrowed it for a demon masquerade.]

You have a very specific set of metaphors, I noted, concentrating until sweat beaded at my brow.

[You're not the only one who's suffered in this world.]

A gentle push.

The tiniest snap.

The pressure in my head loosened, and suddenly, for the first time in what felt like centuries, I could move my right hand.

It was almost underwhelming. Not a lightning bolt. Not a shout of triumph. Just a hand. My hand.

But oh, the feeling of it! The soft ache of returning muscle, the glorious tingling of blood waking up after a long nap. I flexed my fingers, one by one. My skin prickled with anticipation.

Azael was in the next chamber, monologuing to her collection of enchanted skulls (no, really she collected them; they were the only things in the fortress with worse social skills than her). Her attention had slipped. Just a little. Enough.

[Now the left,] the system whispered, giddy. [That's it. You're doing it, Liria.]

I pressed harder less with force, more with will. My magic, warm and insistent, surged in the cracks. I felt the web loosen and fall away, thread by thread, until I could shift my arm, then my neck, then blessed heavens my legs.

I didn't stand at once. That would've been too easy. Instead, I let the moment stretch, savoring the rush of possibility. The first taste of power after endless powerlessness.

[You need to hurry,] the system warned. [She'll notice any moment.]

How dramatic should I be?

[On a scale from "quiet escape" to "catastrophic fireworks," I'd recommend somewhere in the mid-chaos range.]

So, a classic.

I grinned, baring my teeth to the empty room, and slowly deliberately stood.

The world tilted. My vision flickered as blood rushed to my head. My knees wobbled, but I did not fall.

Freedom, I decided, felt a lot like standing up after a three-day binge on cursed mead and regret. My body ached everywhere, but I was standing. I was alive.

And I was no longer anyone's puppet.

A low rumble echoed through the fortress the distant sound of alarms triggering as the remnants of Azael's control spell collapsed, sending shockwaves through the castle's ancient wards. Shadows peeled away from the walls, pooling at my feet, confused by my sudden autonomy.

Time for a little chaos.

With a flick of my wrist, I called up my own magic. The room brightened, a soft glow spilling from my fingertips—silver and emerald, sharp with adrenaline. I spun a thread of energy through the air, lashing it out to sever the locks on the chamber door.

[She knows,] the system said, delight and dread dancing in its tone. [She's coming.]

Let her.

The doors exploded inward.

Azael strode in, hair blazing like a comet, cloak snapping behind her with enough drama to make any theater director weep. Her eyes widened for the barest instant genuine shock, a crack in her omnipotent façade.

"You," she spat, voice venomous. "You're supposed to be "

"Supposed to be what?" I interrupted, rolling my shoulders. "Broken? Sorry. I got bored."

She snarled, summoning a crackling lash of shadow in one hand and a sphere of dark flame in the other. "You ungrateful "

"Can we skip the insults?" I asked, and I was surprised by how calm I sounded. "It's been weeks. I know all your material by heart. Even the mean ones about my hair."

Azael hesitated, and in that flicker of uncertainty, I struck. Magic unspooled from my fingers, a web of shimmering force designed to bind her in place. It wouldn't last, but I didn't need it to. I just needed a distraction. ƒreewebɳovel.com

She twisted free, her power shattering my spell. We circled, predator and prey, but it wasn't clear which of us was which.

[You can't win a head-on fight,] the system cautioned. [She's still stronger. Smarter. Probably meaner.]

I know.

But I didn't have to win.

I just had to last long enough.

The walls shook as Azael hurled a torrent of shadow at me, but I dodged, rolling across the floor, pulling up a barrier of silver light. The impact rattled my bones, but the shield held.

"You think you can resist me?" she sneered, stalking forward. "I made you. I can unmake you."

"You can try," I replied, throwing a snarl right back. "But you're not very good at finishing things, are you? How many enemies have you left half-defeated in this place? How many speeches have you wasted on an audience that isn't listening?"

Azael's eyes blazed. The shadows at her command thickened, swirling around her feet like a living storm.

I took a step back, keeping her in my sights, never breaking eye contact.

[She's angry,] the system noted. [That's good. Angry people make mistakes.]

I ducked another blast, the air scorching past my cheek, and retaliated with a sweep of my arm, sending a wave of force crashing into her midsection. She staggered, regained her footing, and with a roar, sent a cascade of black chains arcing through the room.

I let the first few strike my shield, absorbing the shock. The rest I dodged, weaving through the barrage with a dancer's grace. My mind buzzed with possibilities, every step fueled by adrenaline and stubbornness.

"Is this it?" I taunted, breathless. "I thought the great Azael would be more creative."

"Careful," the system warned, "if you provoke her too much, she'll stop playing."

That's the idea.

Azael drew herself up to her full height, the air crackling with the promise of violence. "You want creativity? I'll show you what true power looks like."

She unleashed a sphere of nightmarish energy, the kind that made the walls groan and the very air shudder. I braced myself, magic flaring, calling every ounce of resistance I had.

It struck.

For a heartbeat, I was everywhere and nowhere, light and dark, self and other.

But I held. I held.

When the light faded, I was still standing, battered but unbroken.

Azael's lips curled in disbelief.

"How?"

I wiped a smear of blood from my chin. "Didn't you hear? I'm very stubborn."

She hissed, stepping forward, power gathering around her like the wind before a storm.

But I was ready.

I was free.

And for the first time, as I met her gaze, I saw it the doubt. The fear. The dawning realization that I was not, and never would be, hers.

"Let's dance," I said, flexing my fingers, power swirling in the air.

She roared.

The battle had truly begun.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the system cheered, [Go get her, Liria.]

If I survived this, I was going to give Gregory the rune-snail a medal.

But first, I had a demon queen to humiliate.

And for once, it was going to be fun.