I Am The Game's Villain Chapter 724: [Final Event] [Blood Moon Festival] [6] Amael’s Parting Words To Freyja

On the second day of the Blood Moon Festival, while Sancta Vedelia and the two vampire kingdoms roared with wild celebrations and crimson-lit nights, Utopia remained... calm. Detached.

There was no grand festivity here—at least nothing that could compare to the chaos and revelry spreading through the vampire lands.

The Blood Elves did mark the day, though in a far quieter way. A few minor ceremonies, a faint glimmer of red lanterns, a whisper of old stories under the moonlight. Yet their hearts weren’t in it. Even now, above all else, the Blood Elves still worshipped Freyja, their divine mother, despite the taint of vampire blood running through their veins.

On the other hand, the Dark Elves and High Elves couldn’t have cared less. Some even detested the festival entirely. After all, the Blood Moon Festival was a celebration of the vampires’ origin—a race said to have been created by Merithra, a goddess who was famed for her cruelty.

It was no secret that many Blood Elves despised that truth. Though their lineage bore traces of vampiric blood, they still saw themselves as Elves above all—proud, graceful, and eternally bound to Freyja’s light.

Eight centuries had passed since Utopia was officially founded, and over time, it had transformed into a secular haven—a realm devoted entirely to the Goddess Freyja. The Utopians saw themselves as the true worshippers, the ones who had preserved her faith in its purest form.

There was, however, a stark difference between the Elves of Utopia and those of Sancta Vedelia.

While the Elves of Sancta Vedelia still revered Freyja, their devotion was divided—they also worshipped Eden, perhaps even more fervently. In Utopia, though, Freyja reigned alone. To them, she was not just the Goddess; she was the Goddess—their one and only divine figure.

This separation of faith wasn’t something that happened overnight. Centuries ago, when the Holy Tree of Eden was used by the Humans, they took it as a sign. They believed Eden himself had rejected and abandoned them. So they turned away from him entirely, casting all their faith upon Freyja instead.

It was almost ironic—Freyja, who despised Eden with all her being, now ruled over a nation that had forsaken him just as she once did. The poetic justice of it all amused her to no end.

Inside the gleaming citadel of Elyen Kiora, Freyja reclined upon her throne—a magnificent seat of silver roots and radiant crystals, carved to resemble the boughs of an eternal tree. The Goddess was stunning as ever, her golden hair cascading down beautifully framing her breathtaking face.

The past month had been brutal for Utopia. The Utopian War had ended in defeat, leaving scars across both land and spirit. Countless lives were lost, and the outer isles suffered heavily under the assaults of Sancta Vedelia’s fleets. The rebuilding had begun, but progress was slow and weary.

The battle between Amael and Durathiel had caused catastrophic damage—tearing through the heart of the capital itself. Even after Durathiel’s death, his followers had refused to yield, dragging the chaos out longer than anyone wanted. Sancta Vedelian knights took advantage of the turmoil, launching strikes against the already fractured capital.

But Freyja was not one to wallow in loss.

If Utopia had to be rebuilt, then it would be rebuilt her way. Not in the cold, rigid image Durathiel had envisioned, but in something that reflected her own tastes—graceful, radiant, and divine.

So as her architects and craftsmen reshaped the city, Freyja continued to oversee every detail of Elyen Kiora’s reconstruction though it didn’t need more but it was still not perfect in the eyes of the Goddess.

Freyja wasn’t one to lift stones or swing hammers. Her role in rebuilding Utopia was simply to command—to give orders that others would follow without question. That left her with an abundance of free time, and unfortunately, idleness was one of the few things a Goddess couldn’t endure gracefully.

Now, as she lounged upon her ornate throne, her chin resting lazily against her knuckles, she found herself drowning in silence. The grand hall was still, save for the faint hum of the crystalline lamps and the whisper of distant waves beyond Elyen Kiora’s marble cliffs.

There weren’t many things left in the world that could truly entertain a Goddess. Mortals amused her sometimes—briefly—but their emotions were fleeting and predictable. So, in moments like this, Freyja often turned to her memories.

The past was far more interesting than the present. It always was.

Her thoughts drifted to recent events—the appearance of the Holy Tree of Ymir, a phenomenon that had stirred the world’s balance, and to the peculiar Guardian she had acquired not long ago. That mortal was intriguing in a way few were. Unfortunately, he was now in Sancta Vedelia, far from her reach.

Her gaze lowered to her left arm. The emblem of the Priestess, engraved into her skin like molten gold, shimmered faintly. A delicate smile tugged at her lips.

"All Mother," she muttered softly, "I’m fairly certain even you wouldn’t have seen this coming."

The irony was delicious.

Utopia had never been part of Eden’s grand design. His plans had revolved entirely around Sancta Vedelia—a shining monument of divine order. Yet, because of wars and divisions among the Elves, a new nation had been born... one that stood entirely beyond Eden’s influence.

And now, it was her kingdom. Her realm.

A slow satisfaction curled inside her as she leaned back, golden eyes glinting beneath the soft glow of her throne room.

Utopia was unique—the only nation in the entire world untouched by Eden’s influence.

Worse still for Eden, the Tree of Ymir—Utopia’s sacred tree—was no mere imitation like the Holy Tree of Sancta Vedelia. The one in Vedelia was an echo, a reflection of the original, blessed but not true. The Tree of Ymir, however, was different. It was real—a genuine Divine Tree, kin to the original Tree of Eden itself.

It was still small, no taller than a house, but its power was real. Even in its youth, its roots pulsed with life that healed the land and sharpened the flow of mana throughout Utopia. And its growth... was fast.

Freyja had helped it flourish. As the Priestess of Ymir, she guided its energy, nurturing it with divine essence. Yet she knew that if she could reclaim her original body, sealed within the Tree of Eden long ago, the Tree of Ymir would bloom beyond comprehension.

Unfortunately, reclaiming that body was no simple feat. It was dangerous—nearly suicidal. A single mistake, a misaligned thread of divinity, and her true vessel would be destroyed forever.

All because of them.

Her eyes darkened, the faint smile fading.

The ones who betrayed her.

Freyja could never forgive them.

They had used her—used her brilliance, her divine strength—to build Sancta Vedelia, and then cast her aside when she became inconvenient. Sancta Vedelia, their so-called holy land, had been born from her vision. Eden may have conceived the idea, but it was Freyja who gave it life—the one who shaped an island where many kingdoms could coexist under a single holy tree, basking in divine harmony.

She had poured centuries of effort into it. Her heart, her power, her faith.

And yet, when the Tree of Eden began to show signs of danger, when the choice came between her and the kingdom she helped build, they didn’t hesitate. They sacrificed her.

They threw her away like an offering, a casualty for the ’greater good’.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. The sound was soft, humorless.

"The greater good," she whispered, her voice sharp as frost. "How convenient that it always means my end."

She tilted her head back.

She was a Goddess, a Princess of Ymir—a being born from divinity itself. And yet they had dared to cast her into oblivion.

No, Freyja would never forget. And she would never forgive.

They had probably known Freyja would return anyway through a Vessel. There was no way Freyja didn’t prepare herself for that. But that was never her desire. Freyja wanted her true body, the divine vessel that had once housed her power, her essence, her very soul.

"Well... Loki will bring it to me," she thought absently.

Then she frowned, a flicker of confusion passing through her mind.

Why had she said Loki—when what she had truly been thinking of was Amael?

The name carried a different weight now. The Loki she once knew was deceit and chaos incarnate, a snake that thrived on betrayal. But Amael... he was different.

He was the one destined to alter her fate from what she knew?

Freyja’s lips curled faintly, a mixture of curiosity and cynicism playing across her expression.

"I just hope," she whispered under her breath, "the great change isn’t me becoming his Queen—or his wife. That would be utterly disappointing..."

Her musings were interrupted by a sudden tremor of awareness—a pulse in the air.

A presence near the Tree of Ymir.

Her golden eyes narrowed.

No one was supposed to be there. She had forbidden anyone from approaching the Tree without her permission.

Freyja rose swiftly, the hem of her white gown brushing against the marble floor as she made her way out of the castle.

And there, beneath the pale silver glow of the moon, she saw him.

Amael.

He sat leaning casually against the small trunk of the Tree of Ymir, one arm resting on his bent knee. His gaze was unfocused, lost somewhere in thought—or perhaps in memory.

For a moment, Freyja simply watched him. He looked... different. The war had carved new shadows into his expression, new depths into his eyes. But there was something else too—an unspoken change, something she couldn’t quite define.

Did something else happen in Sancta Vedelia?

She heard briefly about what happened in the Fangoria Capital and Anasthara Dolphis. She had her own thoughts about Anasthara but she was curious about what happened to Amael.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"What are you doing here?"

Amael turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers.

"Just thinking," he said, his tone calm and distant.

"How many years do you think it’ll take before this tree reaches the size of the one in Sancta Vedelia?" He asked then.

Freyja folded her arms, stepping closer until the divine glow of the young Tree reflected softly against her skin.

"A very long time," she replied. "Unless I recover my body."

Amael let out a low chuckle, unable to stop himself.

"Still obsessed with your body, huh?"

Her eyes flashed with faint irritation.

"That is my body we’re speaking about, mortal."

"Yeah, I know," he sighed. "Trust me, I think I’m in a pretty good position to understand how precious a body can be."

Freyja didn’t answer, but her gaze lingered on him, sensing the quiet heaviness behind his words.

Near the roots of the Tree, two amber cocoons shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Their surfaces were smooth and luminous, pulsing softly with life. Though nothing could be seen within, Amael already knew who they belonged to.

Annabelle and Samara.

He turned his head toward them, his voice quieter now.

"When will they have their bodies?"

"Soon," Freyja replied. "Their creation process is nearly complete."

Amael nodded slowly, relief washing over his expression.

Good. Finally.

He could already feel the difference—the connection between him and the banshees had grown faint, nearly imperceptible. The invisible threads of their contracts had thinned almost to nothing. Now even if he died, they would remain. They would live.

Silence settled between them again. The only sounds were the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of waves beyond the castle and the Tree.

Then Freyja broke it.

"I don’t feel Harivel’s presence anymore," she said quietly. "What happened?"

Her question caught him off guard.

Amael turned his gaze toward the darkening sky.

"She’s dead," he said at last.

Freyja’s eyes narrowed, and for a brief moment, something almost like annoyance flickered through her expression—before it was quickly masked by a scoff.

"Dying inside a mortal, after everything she’s done," she muttered, shaking her head. "That’s laughable."

Amael’s lips curved into a faint smile—tired, but sincere.

"I guess you’re right," he said softly.

But in truth, there was no mockery in his heart. Only a quiet, lingering ache.

Because in the end, she had chosen to die for him.

"Thanks," Amael said suddenly, his voice quiet but sincere.

Freyja blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected gratitude.

"For what?" She asked, arching a brow.

"Viessa," he replied after a pause. "You’ve been looking after her all this time."

For a brief moment, Freyja’s expression shifted—her eyes narrowing in faint confusion. She tilted her head slightly, golden strands of hair spilling over her shoulder as she stared at him.

Viessa...?" She repeated, puzzled.

She didn’t remember him and Viessa being particularly close.

Had she missed something?

Amael didn’t elaborate. He knew she wouldn’t remember. How could she?

When Freyja had been sealed within the Tree, her divine consciousness had been fragile, scattered between life and dream. She might have sensed fragments of what happened during the Blood Moon War, but she couldn’t have witnessed it—at least, not the parts that mattered most.

If Viessa had told her stories of that time, they were no doubt one-sided—carefully filtered, leaving his existence neatly erased.

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint rustle of leaves from the young Tree of Ymir. Finally, Freyja broke it.

"Why are you here?"

Amael sighed softly and rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his hands.

"I’m the Guardian of the Tree," he said simply, meeting her gaze. "And your Guardian as well. What’s wrong with me checking on my Priestess?"

"Don’t you have better things to do?" She asked, her tone dismissive.

"I do," he replied, a fleeting shadow crossing his face.

He didn’t explain. He wouldn’t.

Because deep down, he felt it—that cold, instinctive sense of something closing in. His body, his very soul, had begun to warn him. The end wasn’t far. He could sense it like a faint, persistent ache behind his heartbeat.

He wondered, almost darkly amused, if this was how terminal patients on Earth had felt in their final days—aware of the countdown, powerless to stop it.

Imminent death.

Freyja’s golden eyes followed him silently as he stared at the ground, lost in thought.

"Freyja," he began slowly. "There’s a possibility that I..."

He trailed off, catching himself before finishing the sentence. No. He wouldn’t say it aloud.

Instead, he shifted his focus.

"Annabelle and Samara," he continued, voice calmer now. "They don’t have families or homes. When their bodies are ready... make sure they stay here, in Elyen Kiora. Somewhere safe."

Freyja didn’t reply immediately. Her eyes narrowed slightly. There was something strange about his tone.

Amael still wouldn’t meet her gaze.

"And one more thing," he added, beginning to walk away. "Focus on rebuilding the army instead of embellishing your already beautiful city. You can’t trust Sancta Vedelia—or its Heads. Anything could happen."

"WE can’t trust Sancta Vedelia."

Amael stopped mid-step, his boots scraping softly against the white stone. He turned his head slightly, glancing back at her.

"We are in the same boat, don’t forget that, Loki," she said, her tone seemingly cold. "You’re hated everywhere. Utopia is the only place that will ever tolerate you. Remember that."

"..."

Amael was surprised for a moment but then he smiled faintly.

"You’re right."