I Am The Game's Villain Chapter 749: [Final Event] [Blood Moon Festival] [31] Today, A New King of Ymir Rises

“How did we reach this breaking point?!”

“I warned everyone from the start—trusting the grandson of Lazarus was a mistake!”

“The blame lies solely with the leaders of Sancta Vedelia; this is just another one of their pathetic failures!”

“Central Vedelia will not remain silent after these events!”

The hollow core of the Holy Tree of Eden rang with sharp, accusing voices. The sanctuary, usually a place of soft melodies and divine blessings for the engagement of Cyril and Celeste, was now suffocating under a thick layer of tension.

The corpses of the intruders—fools who dared to bring violence to the continent’s most hallowed ground—had already been cleared away, their existence wiped from the room. However, the stain of their actions lingered. Blood had been shed within the Holy Tree, a deed considered nothing short of sacrilege. The faint, metallic tang of iron in the air was enough to make the gathered nobility bristle with fury.

In typical fashion, as soon as disaster struck, the aristocrats of Sancta Vedelia and Central Vedelia defaulted to their favorite pastime: shifting the blame onto one another.

Their bond had never been amicable. It was, at best, a thinly veiled cold war that had only worsened following the Utopian War, when the enemy reached the gates of Central Vedelia. The Central nobles claimed the Heads of Sancta Vedelia had 'permitted' the invasion, a charge that had deepened the existing divide.

Now, with this latest catastrophe ruining a ceremony orchestrated by Alector and the other Heads, the political tinderbox was ready to explode.

“What a complete mess,” Albert whispered, a sharp exhale escaping his nose. He turned to Claudia with a weary gaze. “Any shred of confidence we had left in the Sancta Vedelia leadership has evaporated.”

“Lord Albert...”

“The majority of those Heads didn't even show their faces at this ceremony,” Albert noted pointedly. “Don’t you find that suspicious, Lady Claudia?”

“Lord Albert, the union ceremony was moved forward without much notice,” Claudia countered gently. “Now that it has been disrupted... perhaps they are simply elsewhere managing their own emergencies.”

That was the diplomatic excuse—the version for the public record.

The reality? Everyone present was well aware of how Tanya, Alea, and Reiner operated.

They harbored an intense loathing for Central Vedelia and avoided the council members—Albert in particular—at all costs. Arriving late or skipping the event entirely to avoid them was perfectly consistent with their personalities.

“Perhaps,” Albert replied, his tone making it clear he didn't buy the excuse. “Regardless, once this incident is resolved, a very stern conversation will be required.”

“Let us simply hope the boy is dealt with,” Claudia added.

Neither of them had any doubt that Cyril would be suppressed. With the Tree’s defenses restored, Albert was unconcerned with the external chaos. As long as Cyril was neutralized and the Holy Tree remained intact, he didn't care if the rest of the world burned.

After all, with Melfina and Alector stationed outside, there was little reason for worry. The two were more than a match for one rebellious youth.

“Lord Albert! Someone is coming!” a sentry shouted.

“It’s the Prophetess!”

“Grant her entry,” Albert commanded immediately.

The room fell into a sudden hush as the doors swung open.

Celeste walked in.

A wave of gasps swept through the hall.

Her once-flawless white ceremonial dress was now marred by splashes of crimson blood. Her gait was slightly unsteady as she moved forward.

She wasn't alone.

A young boy walked at her side, and in her arms, she carried an unconscious Alvara.

Celeste’s eyes briefly darted toward the back of the chamber, where her father and brother were receiving medical attention. Only after ensuring they were stable did she carefully place Alvara into a chair carved from the Holy Tree’s inner roots.

Looking closely, Alvara’s state was... unsettling.

She wasn't just passed out; she was far too motionless, appearing as if she had been forced into a supernatural slumber. This wasn't mere exhaustion. It was a calculated state. Celeste realized that Kendel had likely placed a second, deeper spell over her to ensure she wouldn't wake prematurely.

The memory of Kendel's expression flashed in her mind. During the Utopian War, she had fought and bested him, witnessing his profound hatred for those outside his bloodline. But the look he wore today wasn't that of a man who looked down on the world.

It was the face of a protective brother.

It was a side of him Celeste hadn't anticipated.

“This is Alvara Teraquin,” Celeste announced, her voice projecting through the restless crowd. “Provide her with medical care immediately. Elves only—do not touch her more than absolutely necessary... actually, do not touch her at all.”

Her voice remained steady, but the underlying threat was unmistakable.

Alvara had a deep-seated loathing for physical contact, especially from other races. If a human attempted to handle her—even with good intentions—she might wake up and kill them out of sheer instinctual disgust.

Several nobles recoiled at the warning. Following a tense silence, a few elves finally stepped toward her, clearly hesitant but knowing that the alternative—facing Tanya Teraquin’s wrath if her daughter was neglected—was far worse.

Albert walked over, softening his posture in a way he likely intended to be comforting.

“It is a relief to see you unharmed, Prophetess,” he said, offering a warm smile.

Celeste gave him a curt nod. She turned to leave, but Albert blocked her path with an outstretched arm.

“Where are you heading, Prophetess?”

“To assist in stopping Cyril,” she replied.

Albert blinked, letting out a confused laugh. “You must be joking. There is no reason for you to endanger yourself. Our forces will handle him. You have no need to worry.”

“I am not joking,” Celeste stated firmly. “His power has grown beyond expectations. Furthermore, we must break the spell he has cast over Central Vedelia.”

She tried to move past him, but a group of knights shifted to block her exit.

Albert’s tone became grave. “I cannot permit you to leave, Prophetess. You are a primary target for our enemies. Your loss would be a catastrophe.”

Celeste’s response was freezing.

“My grandmother is dead.”

The revelation hit the room like a thunderclap.

Claudia, standing nearby, let out a shocked gasp.

Celeste slowly turned her head, locking her pale, unblinking white eyes onto Albert. “I will not remain here hiding like a coward because of a title. If that is what you require from a Prophetess, then find someone else. Now, move.”

The knights in her way tensed, then immediately stepped aside, swallowing their nerves.

Albert watched her walk away, a thin smile playing on his lips. “Such fire... from the new Prophetess.”

He turned to comment to Claudia, only to find that she had vanished as well.

***

Outside the Tree of Eden, the atmosphere had been vibrating for several minutes—thunderous pulses of mana, the clash of Prana, the ring of steel, and violent gusts of wind hitting the ancient roots. The battle was loud enough to rattle the highest branches.

But gradually... the noise began to subside.

Only the sound of heavy, labored breathing remained.

“Ah... ah...” Percy stumbled back, his chest heaving. His skin was deathly pale, and sweat poured down his face as he stared at Rodolf and Cylien.

Rodolf and Cylien were in no better shape.

Rodolf, in particular, looked to be at his limit—his limbs were shaking and his breath was ragged—yet the two had managed to drive Percy into a corner.

Percy’s bloodshot eyes darted between his opponents.

He had underestimated Cylien. She was Aerinwyn’s sister, after all... and she fought with the same ferocity.

“It’s over, Percy! Surrender!” Rodolf yelled, his glare intense enough to sear.

Percy didn't answer at first, simply focusing on forcing air into his lungs as he watched them.

“Cyril is going to lose,” Rodolf added. “What do you think you’ll achieve after that?”

Percy gritted his teeth until they rattled. “You don’t understand. How could you? You spend your life playing around, Rodolf!” he barked. “Sancta Vedelia is rotting from within. Change is mandatory!”

Without another word, he charged straight at Rodolf.

Rodolf tried to prepare for the impact, but a sharp pain in his midsection delayed his reaction for a fraction of a second.

That was all the opening Percy needed.

Cylien blurred forward, her sword cutting a sharp arc through the air. Her steel met Percy’s strike, sparks flying as Prana crackled between them.

“Agh—!” Cylien’s expression crumbled as the massive force of Percy’s attack shattered her defense. The surge of Prana hit her like a ram, and after a moment of struggle, she was sent flying backward.

“You bastard!!” Rodolf screamed, his exhaustion replaced by pure fury.

He launched a kick at Percy with every ounce of his remaining strength, his foot whistling through the air.

Percy raised his arm to parry, but the moment the blow landed—

—CRACK!

Agony flared in his arm as Rodolf’s kick shattered his Prana reinforcement.

—BAM!!

“Ughh—!” Percy was thrown back, hitting the ground hard. He forced his broken body to roll, pushing himself up from the dirt—

Only to be caught in a violent cyclone.

Cylien’s wind magic.

—BOOOOM!!

The gale swept him off the ground, spinning him through the air as sharp winds carved deep cuts into his flesh. He barely had time to react before—

—BAM!

Rodolf’s fist slammed into his cheek.

Percy’s world turned white. His ears rang, and the landscape blurred as he hit the earth. His vitality was draining away, soaking into the ground.

He pressed his shaking hands against the soil, trying and failing to stand.

He coughed, splattering blood onto the grass.

When he finally looked up, he saw Rodolf fall to his knees, completely drained.

“Rodolf!” Cylien ran to support him, her face full of concern.

Rodolf waved her off weakly, keeping his eyes locked on Percy.

“You talk about the future,” he panted, spitting blood, “but you aren't even living in the present, Percy.”

Percy glared back, his vision swimming.

“Sancta Vedelia only falls if we allow it,” Rodolf said sharply. “If you were truly worried, you should have sought real answers—not started a pathetic revolt with someone like Cyril!”

He spat again.

“I did this to stop the collapse, I—”

“Lies.”

Rodolf cut him off. “You tried to murder Jefer and Roda based on that weak excuse?”

“I didn’t want to!!” Percy screamed, his voice breaking. He slammed his fist into the ground, making the earth shake. “I... I didn't want... I only wanted to protect everyone...”

“Look around,” Cylien said. “Look at the ruin you’ve brought, Percy. We can hear the screams from here. Is this your idea of protection? Destroying everything?”

Percy went still.

A heavy silence hung between them before he spoke in a hollow tone.

“It’s too late. Cyril... he’s nearly finished.”

“It’s never too late,” Rodolf said, forcing himself to stand on trembling legs. “We can still end this. And it isn't too late for you, either.”

Percy let out a dry, empty laugh. “Ahaha... I tried to kill Jefer and—”

“Yeah, and you’re going to answer for that,” Rodolf snapped, limping toward him.

Percy looked up.

He realized that, even now, he had the strength left to kill both Rodolf and Cylien. He could end them right here.

So why wasn't he acting?

Why didn't he want to?

Hadn't he committed to Cyril’s path? Hadn't he resolved to build a 'new' Sancta Vedelia?

So why, at the moment of truth, was he being consumed by regret?

He thought he had discarded his doubts, so why now...

“How pathetic,” Percy whispered, his voice dripping with self-loathing.

“Yeah, you are,” Rodolf agreed bluntly, reaching out a hand. “So you’re going to apologize to everyone, and then you’re going straight to a cell.”

Percy growled, but then his eyes narrowed.

A sudden, violent warning flared in his instincts.

“...!”

Acting on impulse, he shoved Rodolf away with all his might. The exhausted Rodolf fell backward instantly.

—SPURT!!

Rodolf hit the ground, ready to snap at Percy, until he saw the scene before him.

Percy was no longer standing.

He had been impaled.

Three long, razor-sharp blades had pierced through Percy’s back and emerged from his chest. They were positioned exactly where Rodolf had been standing a moment before.

Rodolf’s anger vanished, replaced by a freezing, paralyzing horror.

“Oh~ what a noble sacrifice.”

A mocking, casual voice broke the silence.

Rodolf and Cylien turned toward the sound.

There, sitting atop a white rectangular box, was a figure in a dark robe, his face lost in shadow. Even without seeing his face, the pure malice coming from him made their skin crawl.

Cylien froze; her breath hitched.

Her legs began to shake uncontrollably.

She had never experienced terror like this before.

“Percy!!” Rodolf snapped out of his trance and ran forward. He slid to Percy’s side as the boy coughed violently, blood pooling on the ground.

Percy was on the verge of losing consciousness—his breathing was shallow and his body was convulsing.

“Rodolf!!” Cylien screamed.

Rodolf looked up—

And saw it.

A long, dark projectile was flying straight at him with lethal intent.

But before it could hit, it was knocked aside.

A small figure had moved in front of him.

“G–Grandmother...?” Rodolf stammered, shocked.

“I am far too old for this nonsense,” Beatrice grumbled, her eyes fixed dangerously on the shadowed man.

“Stay still.”

The voice came from behind Rodolf.

He turned to find Namys kneeling by Percy, her hands glowing with healing magic, her face set in grim concentration.

Beatrice leveled her sword at the intruder. Her aura sharpened as she shifted into a combat stance.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

She harbored no illusions—she knew she couldn't defeat him.

The pressure he exerted was unmistakable.

A Demigod.

And a powerful one at that.

The figure laughed quietly.

“Where are my manners,” he said, placing a hand over his heart in a mock gesture of respect. A cruel smile was visible beneath his hood. “I am Jack Rengel. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Jack Rengel...?” Beatrice narrowed her eyes.

The name felt familiar.

Where had she encountered it before?

“Are you allied with Cyril?” she asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Jack answered with a chuckle. “I am merely an observer.”

“An observer?” Beatrice echoed, skeptical.

“Indeed.” Jack sounded entertained. “I wouldn't want to miss such a magnificent day of chaos.”

Beatrice’s eyes fell to the white box he was perched on.

She tensed.

She wasn't sure she could protect Rodolf, Cylien, and Percy if he attacked again.

Jack tilted his head, sensing her thoughts.

“I would have loved to see his face,” Jack mused, his eyes shifting to Rodolf, “when he realized one of his old friends was dead. It seems he won't have company in death after all.”

Rodolf’s face contorted. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Jack didn't reply.

Instead, both he and the white box began to float smoothly into the air.

They drifted away, vanishing into the horizon.

“You bastard!!” Rodolf yelled, moving to follow—

Only for Beatrice to seize him by the collar.

“You fool. Do you want to die?” she barked.

“But—who was that guy?!” Rodolf snarled.

“I don’t know...” Beatrice whispered, her expression filled with worry.

But one thing was certain.

That man was a threat—something far more sinister than anything she had ever faced.

Meanwhile, Jack glided through the sky beneath the blood-red dome, his smirk widening as he looked down at the box beneath his feet.

“Today, a new King of Ymir is born.”