I Am The Game's Villain Chapter 716: [Blood Moon War] [57] Elizabeth

"Rucain is dead!"

"The Regent King is dead!"

"Fight back, everyone! We can win this war!"

The cries rang out one after another, echoing through the battlefield like a chain reaction. As soon as Rucain fell, the shockwave of that moment spread across the field. The soldiers who had been running for their lives stopped in their tracks, their eyes widening with disbelief — and then, with renewed courage, they turned to face the monstrous abominations before them.

The Resistance had finally found their light—or at least, the illusion of it.

Honestly, they should have kept running. Those things weren’t about to die that easily. But hey, let them have their moment.

I sighed slowly, looking down at Trinity Nihil, still humming faintly in my hand.

As expected, there were consequences for forcing divinity into something not meant to hold it. The weapon trembled, and even without words, I could feel its resentment toward me.

"Yeah, yeah. You’ll get over it," I muttered while putting it away.

I turned my attention to Amaya.

Up above, the sky was split open — a massive portal, bleeding red light. Streams of blood flowed upward in defiance of gravity, spiraling into the vortex. She wasn’t done yet. Judging by that blood ritual, she was preparing to summon something... much bigger.

And if that thing came through?

Sancta Vedelia would fall—without question.

My gaze dropped back down to her.

The ground trembled. Two of her giant abominations emerged before me. Countless crimson eyes blinked across their bodies, oozing thick blood that dripped and hissed when it hit the ground. The massive central eyes on their faces locked onto me, filled with something that almost resembled intelligence.

But I didn’t stop. My focus was only on her beyond them.

"Amaya," I called out.

No answer.

Instead, blood gathered around her—spiraling until it formed a solid crimson sphere, sealing her within.

I clenched my teeth and dashed forward.

The giants swung their grotesque limbs, but I was already airborne. Landing on one of their heads, I met that unblinking eye beneath my feet.

"You can’t kill me, Amaya," I said quietly.

They didn’t even try to. Their movements lacked intent, almost mechanical—guided by Amaya’s unconscious will rather than malice.

I stomped down hard, using the recoil to propel myself forward—straight toward that swirling orb.

Without hesitation, I plunged in.

And immediately, the world shifted.

Darkness swallowed everything. The battlefield, the screams, the sky — all gone.

I felt weightless, like I was floating in ink. The silence was suffocating... until something touched me — a single droplet of blood against my skin.

Then, I fell.

The world inverted, and I crashed down into a crimson lake, its surface rippling beneath me.

"Amaya," I called again.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then, faintly a whisper.

Soft. Fragile. Almost like a sigh.

I turned toward the sound and began to walk, each step sending gentle ripples across the blood.

And then the whisper multiplied.

Countless voices rose around me—all feminine, all identical, echoing and overlapping until it became an eerie, haunting blend.

It wasn’t just Amaya anymore.

It was all of them.

The voices of every Vampire Witch.

"What are you doing here, Darling?"

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

I turned around, but there was no one. Only the endless, rippling red lake beneath my feet.

Then I saw a reflection.

No, not a reflection... a memory.

The surface of the lake began to shimmer, and before I could react, something tugged at me — hard. My vision blurred, my balance broke, and I felt myself falling, spiraling down through the blood-red surface into darkness.

When I hit the ground, the world shifted again.

I was standing in a town, quiet and misty, with cobblestone streets glistening beneath pale moonlight.

Valachia.

Or at least... it felt like Valachia. But not the one I knew. The architecture was older, the streets narrower, the air thicker. This was centuries ago even before the Blood Moon War, five hundred years, maybe more.

The memory or whatever it was pulled me toward a small wooden house near the edge of town.

Through the walls, I drifted inside, weightless, unseen.

A family of three sat around a modest table: a father, a mother, and a lively young girl with bright eyes and black curls. They laughed softly, shared bread, and passed a single candle between them to keep the darkness at bay.

It looked peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Because I could feel it that wrongness beneath the warmth.

The scene shifted.

The father rose, taking a half-loaf of bread in one hand and a small lantern in the other. Without a word, he descended into the basement, each creaking step echoing like a heartbeat.

The air grew colder.

Damp.

Even from where I stood, I could sense the chill sinking into my bones.

When he reached the bottom, the man lifted the lantern. Its light flickered, revealing movement—a small figure huddled in the corner.

She flinched at the sudden brightness.

A girl, no older than ten.

Her long, tangled purplish-black hair hid most of her face. Her frame was frail, her skin pale and starved of warmth. She wore only a thin, torn dress, and her crimson eyes glimmered faintly through the strands of hair, trembling as they lifted toward him.

Her lips parted. The sound was broken, weak.

"F— Father..."

The word seemed to wound him—not with guilt, but disgust. His expression twisted as he threw the bread straight at her face.

"...!"

She didn’t even cry out. Just recoiled.

"I told you never to call me that," he spat, disgusted. "You’re no daughter of mine. You’re a monster."

He turned away briefly, muttering under his breath, then pointed at the bread with the lantern.

"Eat."

The girl’s small shaking hands reached out for it. That’s when I iron shackles biting into her wrists, stained with dried blood.

She ate silently, eyes wet but empty.

When she finished, her father stepped closer.

He grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her toward a bucket beside the wall. The lantern’s light trembled as he set it down beside them. Then he reached into his coat... and pulled out a knife.

The girl’s eyes turned fearful.

"Fa—"

She didn’t finish. The blade sliced into her wrist, and a raw scream tore from her throat as blood spilled freely, dripping into the bucket below.

The man’s face was cold. Detached. He didn’t flinch at her cries, didn’t even look at her. He just worked methodically—cutting, collecting, repeating.

Each time the wound closed knitting itself back together by her natural regeneration; he reopened it, carving deeper, faster.

Her small body trembled violently, her voice breaking as she begged, whimpered, pleaded for him to stop.

But he didn’t.

For ten long minutes, the basement echoed with her cries—the sound of flesh tearing, blood dripping, and a father’s silence.

When one arm ran dry, he grabbed the other.

And started again.

The bucket was half-filled when the little girl finally collapsed.

Her frail knees hit the cold stone floor, her hands trembling as the knife slipped from her father’s grip. Her breathing came in shallow gasps, crimson eyes half-lidded as tears slid silently down her pale cheeks. Blood still trickled from the last cut, mixing with the pool beneath her.

Her small body swayed once and then went still.

That’s when the door creaked open.

"Father?"

The second girl stood in the doorway, younger than the one on the floor. Her long dark hair was neatly tied, her skin warm and unblemished, untouched by cruelty or darkness.

For a brief moment, the man’s expression changed. The coldness vanished, replaced by a tender smile so genuine it almost looked like another person entirely. He quickly wiped his bloodstained hands with a rag and crouched before the new arrival.

"Selene, my dear," he said gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face, "I told you not to come down here. It’s cold, you’ll catch a chill."

His voice was light, affectionate, completely at odds with the knife lying near his feet and how he acted earlier.

Selene’s eyes wandered past him, drawn to the figure trembling in the shadows.

"Elizabeth?" She whispered calling to her chained sister.

The girl on the ground lifted her head weakly. Her crimson eyes were hollow and shimmering met her sister’s for a heartbeat.

"Hya!" Selene gasped, clutching her father’s sleeve in fear. "Father!"

The man immediately wrapped his arms around her, soothing his frightened child.

"It’s okay... it’s okay, my dear," he muttered softly, patting her hair. Then his gaze flicked coldly toward the chained girl in the corner.

"Oh, sweetheart did that little pest scare you again?"

Footsteps echoed behind him.

The mother stepped into the dim light, crossing her arms with visible annoyance.

"Honey, take Selene upstairs. She shouldn’t be here," the Father said.

"Of course," the Mother nodded.

"Mo... Mother..."

Elizabeth’s weak voice came again.

The woman froze, then turned sharply. The gentle expression she’d worn for her younger daughter vanished in an instant.

Her eyes burned with pure disgust.

"Who’s your mother?" She said dryly, before turning away.

Elizabeth’s trembling gaze followed her—lingering on the sight of Selene’s small hand, gently held by their mother’s. The light from the lantern caught their silhouettes as they disappeared beyond the doorway.

And then the light was gone.

The father turned back, expression empty once more. He picked up the bucket, its surface rippling with his daughter’s blood.

"You’d better regenerate quickly," he muttered coldly. "We’ll need a full bucket tomorrow, useless thing."

Elizabeth lowered her eyes. She didn’t answer. She just sat there, silent.

The man walked out, closing the door behind him with a slow creak. The last sliver of light disappeared.

"N–No... please..."

Her voice was fragile, trembling and pleading.

No one answered.

Only the sound of her quiet sobs filled the silence.

And then, the vision shifted.

I saw how it began.

When Elizabeth was four years old, her father had discovered the miraculous nature of her pure blood—how it could accelerate the ordinary regeneration of vampires, rejuvenate skin, make a man feel stronger and younger. At first, they had drawn it gently, disguising cruelty as care. But when the pain became unbearable, when Elizabeth began to resist—the kindness vanished.

At six years old, she was locked away.

Every day since, the same ritual repeated.

Her voice echoed faintly through the shifting haze of memory:

"H–Help me..."

"Please..."

"Father... it’s cold..."

"Mother... I’m scared..."

I felt something twist inside me. Rage, yes—but deeper than that was a hollow ache, a helplessness that gnawed at me.

No amount of power could change this. It had already happened.

Now, she was twelve.

While Selene celebrated her birthday upstairs her sister bled below in the dark. Tonight, the blade had found her arms again, carving into the same flesh that had already healed a thousand times.

But she no longer screamed.

She no longer begged.

The tears came without sound, her crimson eyes dull and unfocused.

Cold. Lonely. Afraid.

That was all she knew.

I stepped closer. My heart pounded as I reached out instinctively, uselessly, and extended my hand toward her.

But my fingers passed through her face like smoke.

It was only a memory.

That’s what I told myself.

And yet—

"W–Who..."

Her voice broke the silence.

My eyes widened.

Elizabeth’s gaze—those same hollow crimson eyes—lifted, staring straight at me.

That shouldn’t be possible. She couldn’t see me. Not here. Not in this illusion.

"Elizabeth," I whispered.

Elizabeth’s crimson eyes widened.

"W–Who?" She whispered again, turning her head slowly. Her gaze sliced through the darkness, those eyes could see what others couldn’t yet even so, she saw nothing. Only shadows. Only emptiness.

"I’m here with you," I said quietly.

My voice echoed faintly across the crimson lake of memory, threading through her consciousness.

And so, I stayed.

Even as the years began to pass in a blur of visions, the moments shifting like pages torn from a nightmare I remained by her side.

By the time she turned fourteen, the world above finally took notice.

The King of Valachia, along with his soldiers, came to the house. They discovered the truth.

Justice was swift.

Her parents were executed on the spot. The girl who had lived in darkness for a decade watched the scene unfold from the basement floor—her expression hollow, her body trembling but her heart long since numb.

When the door creaked open, sunlight touched her for the first time in years.

Elizabeth blinked against the brightness. Her steps were slow, uncertain, as she climbed up and out. The bodies of her parents lay across the floor lifeless and twisted but she barely looked at them. There was no strength left for hatred or sorrow.

And then she saw her.

At the entrance of the house, sprawled in death, lay Selene her sister. The beloved daughter. The one they cherished until their final breath.

Something flickered in Elizabeth’s gaze—a strange calmness, cold and quiet.

The King, a man in gilded armor and crimson robes, knelt before her. His smile was warm, almost fatherly.

"You’re free now, child," he said softly. "What’s your name?"

Her eyes drifted to her sister’s corpse once more.

And when she finally spoke.

"Selene."

The King chuckled.

"Selene, then. Come with me," he said, extending his hand. "I will give you everything you need. Comfort, safety... but in exchange—"

His gentle smile twisted.

The vision warped again.

Now we stood in a dungeon, beneath the royal castle.

Elizabeth hung from chains, her body pinned to a cross of black steel. Dozens of needles pierced her skin, glowing faintly as they drew blood through thin tubes that pulsed with crimson light.

Compared to that damp cellar, the room was warm; clean, even. But the cruelty was the same.

Behind glass, nobles and scholars watched intently, whispering notes, sipping from crystal cups filled with the very blood being drained from her.

Elizabeth didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.

She simply stared into the distance, empty and hollow as if her soul had already fled.

I stepped closer, reaching toward her.

This time, my hand didn’t pass through. I felt her cold skin beneath my palm, trembling faintly at the contact.

Elizabeth shivered.

"W–Who are you..." She muttered, her voice fragile.

"Darling," I whispered.

She blinked, lips parting.

"Da...rling?" Shee repeated softly, as though tasting the word.

"I’m here with you," I told her again.

The world shifted once more.

Elizabeth was older now sixteen, her beauty matured but her eyes unchanged, still red and lifeless. The King stood before her, smiling with vile hunger.

"She’s grown beautifully," he said, licking his lips. "Bring her to my chambers."

Servants moved quickly. They washed her, dressed her in silk, and led her into the royal bedroom.

But that night... things changed.

When I looked again, the room was painted in blood.

The King’s body lay shredded, unrecognizable, torn apart from throat to abdomen. His heart was missing, his insides scattered across the carpet.

Elizabeth stood in the center, her figure trembling but smiling faintly, blood dripping from her fingertips.

She raised her hand to her lips and licked her fingers, eyes half-lidded in eerie calm.

"She killed the King!"

"Kill her!"

Soldiers stormed in, weapons drawn.

Elizabeth turned her head slowly, regarding them with mild curiosity making them all shiver in sheer fear.

And then she whispered:

"Darling."

The word left her lips softly, almost lovingly—the same word I’d spoken to her in the darkness.

"Where is my Darling?"

The soldiers hesitated.

"What is she saying?!"

"Who cares?! Just kill her!"

"Wait— what about her blood?! We can’t just—"

"Capture her, idiot!"

Those were their last words.

That day, the Vampire Witch was born.

But Elizabeth’s tale didn’t end with her revenge. Death came for her again—and again. Each time she sought to return, she bound herself to vessels, forcing her soul into other shells. Each time, she lived anew.

And each life ended crueler than the one before.

"What are you doing, Darling?"

Elizabeth’s voice drifted softly beside me, her presence materializing in a crimson mist.

The Original Witch, timeless and perfect.

I didn’t turn toward her. "Looking at your memories," I said.

"That’s not good... I didn’t want Darling to see them again."

I finally faced her, brow furrowing. "How is that even possible?"

"Memories are passed through blood," she explained, stepping closer. "Every Vampire Witch inherits them—the pain, the rage, the love. Everything carries over between the last and the next."

My eyes narrowed. "Then... am I the reason you—"

She cut me off, her lips curving faintly. "No. I did whatever I wanted, for myself. For my vengeance, Darling. You wouldn’t have come into my