The Villains Must Win-Chapter 200: Lyander Wolfhart 50

Lyander staggered back, one hand gripping his chest as a violent tremor rippled through his body.

His veins pulsed black beneath his skin, glowing like molten lines of obsidian. Steam hissed off his flesh as his muscles bulged, bones cracking, reforming.

Then came the scream—not of pain, but of transformation.

His spine arched backward with a sickening snap, fur tearing through his skin in dark waves. His limbs elongated, claws erupting from his fingertips, fangs splitting through his jaw.

His eyes burned—gold at first, then black-ringed and glowing with a wild, unholy light. The air itself thickened with raw power, heavy and ancient. A growl tore from his throat, low and guttural, shaking the ground beneath him.

He was no longer a man. No longer just a werewolf.

He had become a Lycanthrope—a perfect fusion of demon and beast, a creature of legend and nightmare.

Liora stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes widened in disbelief, glowing softly as her magic flared in alarm.

"No . . ." she whispered. "No . . . what have you done?"

The Lycanthrope turned toward her.

There was still a flicker of Lyander in those eyes—but it was buried beneath power too great, too evil, too wild, too untamed.

Henry stepped forward, his face pale. "He took the egg . . . He swallowed it."

Liora and Lyander stared at each other, a still moment in the chaos. All around them, wolves clashed and howled, the air thick with blood and dust. But for one heartbeat, it was quiet. Just the two of them.

Both knew.

This might be the last time they’d see each other like this.

Lyander’s chest rose and fell with ragged breath. His dark fur glistened, stretched tight over muscle. His glowing, golden eyes flickered—not with fury, but something gentler, something slipping away.

"Liora, I . . ." he began through the mind-link, his voice warped and echoing in her head.

But it didn’t last.

The bond snapped like brittle glass, shattering into silence.

The frenzy took him.

The demon’s power surged through his blood, and the man—her Lyander—vanished beneath a tidal wave of rage. His head snapped back with a howl so deep it split the sky, and when his gaze fell forward again, there was nothing human left.

Just the beast, and the demon.

Just the monster born of shadow and blood.

With impossible speed, Lyander launched forward. The ground cracked beneath his feet, and before anyone could react, he was already inside the enemy’s formation. Wolves screamed as they were thrown aside like dolls, bodies crashing against rock and soil. He didn’t even slow.

Rhett turned, sensing the shift in the battlefield. His dagger lit with runes, and Talia stepped in beside him, her hand already glowing with golden magic. She reached toward Rhett, casting a healing surge into his side where blood still trickled from Lyander’s earlier strikes.

But it didn’t matter.

Lyander didn’t go for Rhett.

He went for her.

Talia had just enough time to turn. Her eyes widened, mouth parting to cast something—anything.

She was fast. Her wolf was fast.

But not fast enough.

With a single, savage motion, Lyander’s claws plunged forward and tore straight through her chest. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed across the battlefield in a high arc.

Her spell shattered into golden dust that never reached its target. She gasped, her mouth moving soundlessly as her knees buckled beneath her.

Lyander didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch.

His hand was still in her chest when she collapsed.

Talia, the Moon Priestess. The goddess-touched. The battlefield’s shining flame—extinguished in an instant.

Rhett screamed, his wolf howled, lunging forward, but Lyander was already gone—vanishing into the blur of smoke and fangs.

He was too fast. Too strong.

The demon’s power coursed through his body, warping muscle, heightening reflexes beyond natural limits.

Rhett struck out with a rune-forged blade, but Lyander caught the sword between his claws with a screech of metal and shattered it into pieces.

"Monster!" Rhett shouted, fury thick in his throat.

Lyander responded with silence.

He lunged.

Every blow landed with crushing force. Rhett barely dodged the first strike, only to be caught in the ribs by a follow-up that sent him flying. He slammed into the earth, breath knocked from his lungs. Blood filled his mouth. He tried to rise, but Lyander was already over him.

He drove his fist down—Rhett rolled away, but not fast enough. The ground cracked where Lyander struck, a crater forming beneath his knuckles. The sheer power was inhuman.

No. It was more than that.

It was unnatural.

Unholy.

Rhett knew that this wasn’t just a werewolf. This was something else entirely. Something not meant to walk among mortals. And it was tearing through them.

Liora watched from afar, her hands trembling. The bond between her and Lyander remained broken—severed by the surge of dark power. She couldn’t feel him anymore. Couldn’t call him back.

She didn’t even know if there was anything left to call back.

But her heart knew.

That monster was still Lyander.

And he had chosen to protect her and their people the only way he could.

Even if it cost him his soul.

Rhett saw her fall.

Talia’s body hit the ground like a shattered star, her light gone in an instant. One moment she was at his side—glowing, fierce, radiant—and the next, her heart had been torn out by the very monster they had sworn to destroy.

Rhett didn’t think. Couldn’t.

A roar tore from his chest, deeper and more guttural than anything he’d ever released. His control snapped like a frayed wire, and he charged. Rage burned through every vein, eclipsing all strategy, all caution. Talia was gone. And the thing that killed her—he would tear it apart with his bare hands if he had to.

Rhett slammed into Lyander with the full force of his transformed body, fangs bared and claws slashing with fury. The ground cracked beneath the weight of their collision, a shockwave tearing through the battlefield.

But it wasn’t enough.

Lyander caught him.

Not with a counterstrike—no, with one hand.

His massive clawed fist closed around Rhett’s throat mid-attack, halting him in the air like a ragdoll. His eyes—once golden with fierce will—were now obsidian voids, leaking smoke and madness. His body had swelled with unnatural power, black veins pulsing beneath skin stretched too tight over demonic muscle. Heat rose from him like steam off burning iron.

Lyander tilted his head at Rhett, slowly, almost curiously, as if wondering why this insect still dared to challenge him.

Then he moved.

With a sickening crack, he drove Rhett into the ground, the impact cratering the earth. The sound of snapping ribs echoed across the field.

Rhett coughed blood, struggling to rise. Still defiant. Still fighting.

He didn’t get the chance.

Lyander snarled and brought down his claws—monstrous, black-tipped, glowing faintly with the cursed power of the black egg. They tore through fur, flesh, and bone in a single strike.

Rhett staggered back, his form faltering, shifting between wolf and man. He tried to say her name—Talia’s—but only a choked breath came out.

Then came the silence.

Rhett, the mountain. The indomitable. Alpha of the strongest pack in the northern wilds—was dead.

Just like that.

The battlefield froze.

Rhett’s wolves stared in disbelief as their leader’s broken body was hurled aside like carrion. For a heartbeat, nothing moved—no cries, no growls—only the wind, and the slow, deliberate thud of Lyander’s heavy steps.

Then panic erupted.

Wolves who had once stood unshaken now turned tail and ran. The war was no longer a battle—it had become a massacre.

But Lyander didn’t stop with the enemy.

His claws shredded through ally and adversary alike. A red haze clouded his mind, his snarl now constant, his movements animalistic. Thought was gone—only blood and fury remained.

He leapt into his own ranks, snapping necks, breaking limbs, roaring louder than thunder. Some tried to stop him, to reach the warrior they once followed.

But he didn’t recognize them anymore.

Lyander was no longer a werewolf.

He was something worse. Something born of madness and magic and the price of power that should never have been touched.

Liora was the only one who didn’t move.

She stood rooted in place, her eyes glassy, her limbs trembling. She had seen this power. She had feared it. She had known this would happen if that demon seed was consumed. It was never meant to be used. Not by humans. Not by wolves. Not by anyone who wanted to return from it whole.

And now Lyander was lost.

Her Lyander.

The blur of muscle and shadows raced toward the command ridge—toward Henry, already weakened and cornered.

She moved.

Without thinking, Liora stepped between them, her hands glowing with desperate magic. The power of the forest still lingered in her veins, barely enough to hold a barrier, barely enough to keep her standing.

"Lyander," she whispered, not sure if he could hear her.

He didn’t slow.

Tears stung her eyes as the realization set in: he was too far gone.

So she did the only thing she could.

She summoned the last of her strength and shaped her magic—not into a shield, not into a spell—but into a blade.

Made of light.

Of sorrow.

Of love.

And as Lyander lunged at Henry, she struck.

The blade plunged into his heart.

It wasn’t strength that pierced the beast.

It was her.

The last part of him that still remembered her.

His body froze mid-lunge. Breath hitched in his throat. Claws stopped inches from Henry’s face.

For a moment—just a flicker—his eyes met hers.

And she saw it.

Not the beast.

Not the demon.

But the man.

"I’m sorry," she whispered, voice cracking. frёeweɓηovel_coɱ

Lyander’s form crumbled, collapsing to his knees. His body flickered between monstrous and human, spasming with surges of black energy that burst and withered into the air.

Then he fell.

Still.

Silent.

Gone.

Liora dropped beside him, hands trembling, lips pressed shut to hold in the scream rising from her chest.

The battlefield was quiet now.

No one cheered. No one moved.

They all watched the nymph on her knees beside the corpse of the one who had almost saved them all—only to be consumed by what it cost.

And Liora . . . would never forget the look in his eyes, just before the end.

"Is he . . . ?" Henry couldn’t finish the sentence. The words caught in his throat, heavy with grief.

He had ended the war. He had won.

But at what cost?

The black egg, now lifeless, slipped from Lyander’s mouth and rolled into the dirt. Without hesitation, Liora stepped forward and crushed it with her bare hand.

The dark shell cracked and crumbled, releasing a faint wisp of smoke that vanished into the wind.

She stood over Lyander’s fallen form, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she turned to Henry.

And smiled.

"All hail the Alpha King," she said, her voice calm, almost hollow.

A wind picked up, scattering the ashes of the battlefield. One by one, voices rose—cheers, howls, cries of victory.

The war was over.

But Henry didn’t smile. He didn’t raise his arms or bask in the moment.

He looked at Liora’s smiling face—so composed, so serene—and tears streamed silently down his cheeks.

Because he knew.

He knew what had been sacrificed to reach this end.

Her mate was gone. Lyander was gone.

The sourc𝗲 of this content is fre(e)novelkiss