Why Am I The Villain?! Reincarnated in My Favorite Novel-Chapter 48: Ash and Ambition

Meanwhile, Roman, still slumped against a container, gripped his blade with a trembling hand.

"What the hell just happened?"

Nereva shot Roman a sidelong glance. "Go home, little soldier. Tell your boss the Dark Hand won’t tolerate interference."

Roman, breath ragged, body still thrumming with pain, locked eyes with Constantin, his gaze burning. Blood still seeped from the gash in his side, dripping onto the debris-strewn ground—shards of metal and organic remnants of Nereva’s tentacles.

"You’re really abandoning your garden?" Roman’s voice was hoarse. He took a step forward.

Constantin didn’t answer. His once-fiery gaze was dull, extinguished.

Roman clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. Frustration surged like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him. "I asked you a question!" he roared, his voice echoing through the ravaged clearing. "Why are you leaving now? What’s changed? What did he say on that call?"

Constantin stayed silent. He didn’t even glance at Roman. His eyes fixed on some unseen point beyond the twisted containers and pools of black fluid. That silence, more than anything, infuriated Roman.

Nereva watched the scene with unconcealed amusement. She wiped a trickle of blood from her chin. "Oh, Roman," she said, her voice soft, almost melodic. "You’re so... naive." She tilted her head, dark hair falling in messy strands across her face. "Tell me, Lane... has your boss mentioned the Cursed Twins? The Ash Prophecy?"

Roman spat a clot of blood. "What are you babbling about?"

Nereva clicked her tongue in mock disappointment. "Pity. When you see her, ask why she sent you after this man." She cast a pointed look at Constantin, still as a statue. "There’s no such thing as chance in a grand chess game."

With a theatrical flourish, she gestured to Constantin. "Let’s go, Prophet. We’ve got business to attend to."

Constantin nodded, a near-mechanical motion, and stepped toward Nereva. His boots crunched over shards of metal and charred tentacle fragments. A heat flared in Roman’s chest, a mix of rage and confusion. He didn’t care if Constantin didn’t come with him, but feeling so lost, so clueless, drove him to the edge.

For the first time, he felt ashamed of understanding nothing.

"Damn it, Page!"

With blinding speed, he lunged at Constantin, his blade flashing as he aimed for his back. The world seemed to slow, adrenaline sharpening his senses.

But Constantin, as if he’d anticipated it, spun in a blur. With a fluid gesture, he raised a hand, and an invisible force slammed into Roman. The impact felt like a mountain collapsing on him. His feet left the ground, his body suspended, pinned by an energy he couldn’t see or fight. His muscles seized, his blade quivered in his grip, but he couldn’t move. Constantin held him, dangling like a puppet, his eyes clouded with that strange sorrow.

Nereva raised an eyebrow, her smile widening. "Really, Roman?" she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. "You’re picking a fight with us? Think that’s wise?" She stepped forward, her tentacles slowly reforming around her, writhing like snakes poised to strike. "Your boss won’t be pleased. You’re a pawn—forgotten your place?"

Roman ignored her. His eyes bored into Constantin. "What about the kids?" he spat, his voice shaky but resolute. "You thought about them? The ones you swore to protect? You’re abandoning them to follow her? To join the Dark Hand?"

A flicker passed through Constantin’s eyes, a fleeting spark, like lightning in a storm. But he said nothing. Instead, he clenched his jaw and, with a sharp motion, hurled Roman to the ground. The impact was cataclysmic. The earth split, forming a crater several meters wide. Roman crashed at its center, pain exploding through his body. He coughed, blood spraying from his mouth, but he clawed at the dirt, trying to rise.

Constantin turned away without a word. He joined Nereva, who waited with a satisfied smirk. She glanced back at Roman, still sprawled, and said coldly, "Last warning, little soldier. Interfere again, and the Dark Hand will reconsider its alliance with your boss."

Roman, gasping, looked up. He watched them walk away, Constantin trailing Nereva like a ghost.

He clenched his fists, nails drawing blood from his palms. He wanted to scream, to lunge, to fight, but his body wouldn’t obey. Pain, exhaustion, and crushing confusion pinned him down.

He sat up slowly, leaning against the crater’s edge. His eyes tracked Constantin and Nereva until they vanished. Silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the crackle of smoldering debris and the whistle of wind through twisted containers.

Roman closed his eyes. His mind raced, replaying every moment.

He opened them, his gaze hardened. He grabbed his blade, jamming it into the ground to haul himself up. "The Dark Hand, huh..." he muttered, his voice low, almost a growl. "Page, did your eyes see this?"

He wiped the blood from his face.

"The kids..."

Roman clenched his fists again.

"What a mess..."

---

Steam rose in lazy wisps, cloaking the bathroom in an almost mystical haze. Nero, submerged up to his shoulders in the hot basin, let out a sigh of pure bliss. His tense muscles finally surrendered to the soothing warmth. Silver hair, damp and plastered to his forehead, framed a smug, almost arrogant smile.

A servant, her movements delicate and precise, had just set a rotary phone back on its cradle. She bowed slightly and slipped into the shadows. Nero closed his eyes, savoring the moment.

*Nereva’s found the Prophet,* he thought, a spark of triumph dancing in his mind.

"With him, things are finally going to pick up," he murmured, his deep voice echoing in the room. A light, almost mocking laugh slipped from his lips.

He opened his eyes, his gaze drifting downward to another servant kneeling in the water. Her slender fingers traced his skin, and her warm, daring lips sent shivers he didn’t bother to suppress.

With a slow gesture, he lifted her chin, tilting her face toward him. His deep red eyes locked onto hers, which gleamed with docile yet subtly bold light. "You can do better than that, can’t you?" he murmured, a provocative smirk curling his lips. The servant flushed faintly. She leaned closer, her hands sliding up his chest, ready to climb the peak.

But a rustle of fabric broke the silence. The first servant, the one from the phone, reappeared, her expression neutral but her eyes betraying a hint of urgency. Nero raised an eyebrow, annoyed at the interruption. "Nereva again?" he asked, his voice teetering between amusement and impatience.

The servant shook her head, her tone calm but firm. "No, master. It’s a call from Zion."

Nero’s smile faded, replaced by a glint of intrigue.

He waved a hand, and the servant in the basin stepped back, sensing the moment for pleasure was on hold. Nero sat up slightly, water streaming down his chest. "Interesting," he murmured.

---

The doors of an office swung open. A man in a glossy black coat strolled in with a casual swagger. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on the bookshelves and stained-glass windows. A sly grin spread across his face.

"Well, damn, what a place!" he said, his voice ringing as if addressing an invisible crowd. "Zion doesn’t mess around, huh? This building makes my guild look like a dive bar!"

Behind a massive mahogany desk, Pilar sat still, lifting her eyes from her papers. A faint, almost amused smile tugged at her lips.

"A personality as... vibrant as yours in my humble abode?" she replied, her voice soft but laced with a touch of sarcasm. "To what do I owe the honor?"

The man didn’t wait for an invitation. He dropped into the leather armchair across from the desk, crossing his legs with practiced nonchalance. "Got any good whiskey handy?"

Pilar raised an eyebrow but kept her composure. Without a word, she leaned down, opened a drawer, and pulled out a bottle of amber whiskey, its label whispering promises of well-aged years. She poured it into a crystal glass and slid it toward him.

The man grabbed it, took a generous sip, and let out a satisfied sigh. "Now that’s the stuff!" he said, setting the glass down with a clink. "You know how to host, I’ll give you that."

Pilar folded her hands on the desk, her smile fading slightly. "Now that you’re settled, Darius Volkran," she said, her tone sharpening, "care to tell me why you’re here?"

At the mention of his name, the air shifted. Darius’s playful glint hardened. He sat up a bit, his grin vanishing, replaced by an unexpected gravity. "Don’t play coy, Guildmaster. You know exactly why I’m here."

Pilar tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Do I? Enlighten me."

Darius reached into his coat’s inner pocket and pulled out a photograph, placing it on the desk with deliberate slowness. The stained-glass light danced on its glossy surface, revealing blurry but intriguing shapes. He leaned forward, his smile returning—colder now, almost menacing.

"So," he murmured, his eyes locked on hers. "You really gonna pretend you don’t know what this is?"

Pilar stared at the photo, unmoving, her gaze inscrutable. But when she met his eyes again, a steely glint flashed in hers. Her voice, once politely measured, turned sharp. "What do you want? And spare me the theatrics."

Darius leaned back, his smile widening, but his eyes held a calculating edge. "Oh, come on. Has Zion gotten so greedy it’s hiring outlaws now?"