I Have 10,000 SSS Rank Villains In My System Space Chapter 3: Victory

The blade hurtled towards his throat with blinding speed, perilously near.

Razeal's current form lacked the strength and swiftness to dodge such an assault. The immense force sliced a path through the atmosphere, poised to cleave skin from skeleton. Mere two inches separated him from demise.

And then, a click resounded.

The crisp clash of steel against steel boomed like thunder over the hushed grounds.

Razeal's grin broadened.

The collision's power whipped up a fierce gust, biting and intense. His deep violet locks whipped backward in the blast, and he smoothly retreated one step, not from terror, but in perfect timing, as though he'd anticipated this exact instant.

A colossal silhouette positioned itself in front of him now, intercepting the golden knight's attack with one hand clutching a enormous broadsword. Clad in a lengthy ebony cloak slung over one side, his stance appeared casual—one palm grasped the weapon effortlessly, the other stayed relaxed at his rear.

Flashes erupted like glowing insects as the weapons ground together.

'Killing within Arkanveil Academy's premises is forbidden,' the figure stated, his voice steady yet laden with an oppression surpassing the knight's strike. 'Sir Radiant Knight... you surely recall the regulations.'

The knight in golden plate didn't reply right away. His sword stayed engaged, but his luminous gaze beneath the visor tightened.

The protector before Razeal refrained from glancing his way. Such a look was unnecessary.

He fully understood the identity of his charge and the reason behind it.

He fully understood the identity of his charge and the reason behind it.

And Razeal?

He simply remained there. Grinning.

Tch. Dorn Varkharn, the one in the dark cloak, sharpened his gaze.

This kid... he anticipated my interference, right?

Dorn Varkharn's gaze intensified. He avoided turning. No need existed. He'd already spotted it—that smug expression. It had begun to form prior to the chaos unfolding. A sly curl brimming with assured poise, akin to a cunning snare that had just activated.

Now, the youth lingered behind him. Serene. Poised and boldly assured. As though Dorn served as his private sentinel, primed to leap in precisely when needed to guard against holy retribution.

The nerve of it.

Dorn's grip shifted subtly on his broadsword's handle. Not from alarm, but from holding back.

He'd been manipulated. He recognized it, yet despite the revulsion, withdrawal wasn't an option.

A grating drag of metal pulled his focus ahead.

The golden-armored warrior, emanating might like a compact star, gradually pulled back his weapon, its sharp edge sparkling as it descended toward the earth. The point tapped the rocky arena surface with a resonant ting, and both his metal-clad fists settled on the pommel, as if his resolve required firm anchorage.

He locked eyes with Dorn, his words booming with resonant authority.

'Dorn Varkharn. Move out of the way. That offender attempted to violate the Saintess.'

The arena, which had been suspended in anticipation, released a wave of bewilderment and rising panic. Elites and plebeians alike started whispering, necks craning toward the disturbance, stares growing wide as comprehension dawned on the scene.

Shocked intakes rippled outward rapidly.

The Saintess? Tried to assault? Who would be so bold?

Detailed accounts weren't required. The strain pouring from that section of the arena suffocated the atmosphere itself. Instinct spurred movement without instruction. Observers shifted away collectively, creating a ring encircling the trio ensnared in wordless antagonism.

Then swish. Swish. Swish.

Seven—actually, eight—warriors in pristine silver plating dropped from scattered vantage points in the seating. They touched down in flawless unison, soles impacting the polished stone as their ranks encircled Dorn and Razeal like a gleaming snare.

Every one unsheathed their arms, edges sliding free from sheaths in harmonious motion. They positioned alongside the golden knight, their plating gleaming like celestial bodies in broad daylight.

The esteemed Order from the Church of Light. The Silver Knights.

Their arrival held no ritual purpose. It signaled a threat.

Then, as if casually removing a facade, he eased one pace rearward. The smirk dissolved. Replacing it emerged an innocent, wide-stared look so pristine and puzzled, it might pass for a celestial being's. A pure naivety adhered to his features.

'Me?' his expression conveyed. 'What wrong have I committed?'

The golden knight's eyes blazed from under his headpiece.

'Blasphemy.'

One term, infused with rumbling power, fractured the atmosphere.

His sacred essence burst forth, golden glow inundating the area like a newborn sun within the arena. The earth trembled under his plated boots. That force—it surpassed mere mana. It embodied mass. The mass of verdict, wrath, and holiness intertwined.

Razeal sensed the full brunt slam into him like a godly mallet.

For an instant—merely an instant—his legs wavered. His chest constricted, pulse halting.

This resembles mortality's touch. Solely from presence alone.

Yet prior to the force peaking—

Whoosh.

A breeze swept across the arena, mild yet authoritative, dispersing the overwhelming might like debris in a gale. The holy weight evaporated as though it had been illusory.

Razeal drew in ragged air.

Still breathing.

And grinning once more... Victory, he mused.

Dorn Varkharn, positioned steadfastly, raised one digit, waving it idly through the breeze like sweeping away particles. His face remained impassive, though a profound exhale slipped free.

'Sir Radiant Knight, if you please,' he uttered evenly, 'killing within Arkanveil Academy's grounds is banned. You're aware.'

The golden knight advanced, his hold firming on his blade. His declaration, akin to a herald's call, resounded once more:

'Are you opposing righteousness, Warden Dorn?' he inquired, tone laced with unyielding zeal. 'Righteousness for the Church of Light against one who once dared assault the Saintess? If that's the case, then perhaps I shall...'

The arena grew rigid. Blades vibrated. The atmosphere itself froze.

But then—

Click. Click. Click.

The distinct cadence of heels on stone reverberated through the venue like rhythmic percussion.

All attention shifted.

From the throng emerged a lady robed in purple and silver, her tresses bound in an elegant flow down her back. Each stride she took claimed territory and enforced quietude.

Her words came next, direct and resolute.

'Cease distorting his statement, Knight.'

She halted at the confrontation's edge, her stare keen as a razor through iron. 'We are in Arkanveil Academy. And you face a princess of the Empire's royalty. Do you truly wish to breach protocol and tarnish your reputation before crown and faithful alike?'

The assembly divided before her like liquid yielding to a edge.

'Vice Headmistress...' elites breathed, breaths ensnared in their chests.

'Lady Selvara.' The Radiant Knight murmured, faltering, his frame rigid with strain. Her look pierced him.

'Please,' she appended gently, yet with a sharpness outweighing his arm. 'Heed the decree. Killing upon Arkanveil Academy's grounds is prohibited.' Her eyes met his squarely. Her delivery was balanced, but beneath the controlled phrasing lurked an implied intent, hinting at permission beyond academy limits.

The sentinel's mandible tightened. He grasped it. He comprehended the subtext perfectly. Yet how could he yield so easily?

This individual—this scum—had the gall to strike at the Saintess. An abhorrent deed. An affront to godhood. As a vowed guardian, could he permit it? Forsake his holy vow?

Yet reason, stark and unforgiving, warned: One action here, and demise awaited.

He recognized inwardly, with stark precision, that any advance, any stroke, would bring swift end. Opposing him loomed not just Arkanveil's Warden, but the Vice Headmistress. Survival was impossible. He knew this vividly; even reaching that scum might cost his own skull.

But inaction would dishonor the Saintess's honor.

Passivity equaled treachery.

Silent observance equaled transgression.

His mandible locked, posture rigidifying.

He dropped into position, weapon angling, respiration halting.

His pulse quickened not from dread, but piety.

A hallowed fire urging motion, even unto self-immolation.

He shut his eyes briefly.

And in that brief span, serenity graced his visage.

A tender, devout curve touched his mouth, as if positioned not at oblivion's threshold, but before martyrdom's shrine. A voluntary offering for the Saintess's esteem. For Sacrade's purity.

He prepared.

Yet before his boot advanced, before his arm ascended—

A sound descended upon the breeze.

Tender.

Soothing.

Like a zephyr bearing holiness.

'My devoted knights, withdraw.'

It resembled less an order, more a sacred invocation in auditory form. As though existence paused to heed.

The strain evaporated instantly. The dense, oppressive ambiance that had seized the yard faded, supplanted by a tranquil ease, as if the gust itself deferred to the utterer.

A sacred aura.

Celestial.

'Your Holy Saintess...'

The warriors echoed uniformly.

Devoid of delay. Devoid of concern for reprisal from Dorn or the Vice Headmistress.

They genuflected.

Every one.

One knee to the earth, a reverent inclination for the Saintess alone. Arms descended, flats against the rock. Crowns lowered.

Veneration permeated the yard.

Their sights—all of them—ascended to the elevated level.

There, overhead, two banners fluttered gently in the draft.

One displayed the radiant emblem of the Church of Light.

The other, the imperial emblem of the Luminus lineage.

From its midst, shrouded in celestial glow, the Saintess appeared.

She uttered once.

And that sufficed.

No disputes arose, no defiance mounted.

The warriors dissolved from the yard like vapor beneath rays.

Vanished.

As if celestial verdict had concluded, and they were released by the divine.

As the final gleam dimmed, warriors fading like echoes devoured by nothingness, Razeal inclined his head faintly, his mouth's edge lifting in a haughty sneer.

He brushed his nasal bridge with forefinger and thumb. A motion so nonchalant, it nearly derided the lingering sacred essence.

Then, sans lip movement—

'Victory,' he breathed inwardly in the quiet of his thoughts.

Villey's voice exploded in his psyche like an overly enthusiastic commentator at a dramatic peak.

[I mean, I knew you grasped the statutes and natures of these folks well enough, but wagering your existence on them? That's not courage. That's teetering on madness. You were utterly hemmed in by a Grandmaster and eight Swordmasters set to sever your dome right off! I nearly glitched out observing it!]

Razeal held his response, allowing quiet to linger as he eyed the vast rocky expanse underfoot—the spot where his vital fluid might have etched legend.

'I rely on my strategies, Villey.'

His manner was subdued, meant solely for himself and the system.

'And if you won't stake your life on your own strategies, they scarcely qualify as such.'

Conceited yet anchored. No hint of uncertainty lingered—only resolve sheathed in iron.

And thus, he beamed. Not a broad smile, nor one of reprieve.

No.

It was the beam of someone aware of triumph prior to the contest's launch.

Hubris cloaked in assurance.

In his dark orbs, a spark of rebellion gleamed. A shine so assured, it neared sacrilege.

[Yes, yes... Fine] Villey grumbled theatrically. [But credit where due, Host... you possess true villainous flair. It's like beholding a raven stride into a basilica and compel the clergy to worship it.]

Razeal's gaze tightened faintly, entertained. Yet his inflection edged subtly keener.

'Simply honor your earlier pledge, Villey. Or I'll alter your tone to mimic a rodent inhaling gas, enduring eternally post my demise—so even subsequent users would suffer your plight.' Razeal whispered, his palm dropping from his nose at last. His digits formed a relaxed clench, clad in ebony leather and unmoving.

[NO NO NO! Everything's fine, everything's fine! Just your steadfast, utterly benign system here, bolstering your most shadowy pursuits with each devious remark!]

[As previously stated, your system's core capability activates fully upon crossing the Gates of Worth. That's the stipulation. I'd sooner strangle on my own equipage if fabricating—may two inches vanish, and verses of lament etched for the severance.]

A hush followed.

Razeal batted his lids deliberately.

'You possess only two inches.'

[PRECISELY. Hence why deception's impossible! WHO gambles so utterly?! HOLD ON WHAT THE HELL YOU BASTARD IT'S NOT]

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