I Have 10,000 SSS Rank Villains In My System Space Chapter 389: Celestia

Her?

Celestia?

The mere suggestion that she might hesitate, be assessed, judged, or even cautioned, triggered a sharp, primal reflex within her. Her chin rose almost imperceptibly, and her shoulders pulled back into a rigid posture, as if her very skeleton rejected such a notion. She locked eyes with his crimson gaze, unyielding, regal, and poised. Though a treacherous, faint tremor pulsed beneath her skin, she refused to let it betray her expression.

Does he believe I wouldn't dare? The thought sliced through her mind like a razor. He thinks I’ll retreat?

Her pride would never permit it. To her, pride was not a fickle emotion; it was an architecture, a firm foundation, the essence of her being. She was forged to command, to dominate, to tower above the rest without a shudder. To falter before him, or anyone, was a notion she found inconceivable. To be intimidated or repressed by another was a boundary she would never tolerate crossing.

Yet, deep beneath that insurmountable pride and the competitive fire burning in her breast, something else agitated her with quiet, stubborn persistence. It wasn't a lack of faith in her own power, nor was it the fear of defeat; it was something far more destabilizing.

It was uncertainty.

Not concerning whether she could end him, or he could slay her—that was a matter of raw strength that didn't matter right now.

No, that wasn't the issue.

It was uncertainty regarding whether he would genuinely take her life.

That was the fissure in her resolve. It was the source of her profound unease.

She simply found it impossible to bridge the gap between the Razeal she remembered and the individual standing before her. He was the boy from her youth. The one who had walked by her side, traded barbs, and shared laughter. He was the one who had once regarded her with a warmth greater than anything she had ever experienced. She was intimately aware of their shared past. Regardless of the choices she had made, the clinical decisions she had justified, there had once been a genuine bond.

She, herself, could never desire his death.

The mere thought constricted her chest.

Even in the past...

When she operated under the impression that he had perished—when he failed to return—she could not even categorize how she dealt with it. She recalled those agonizing months. The agonizing silence of uncertainty. The fruitless, desperate hunts. The creeping, dark realization that he was truly gone. She had borne that burden in secret, never manifesting it to her mother nor any other soul. It was a suffocating, silent trauma tucked away under her armor of pride.

He vanished because of me.

That was the truth she never dared to utter.

And upon his return, when she beheld him living, she felt relief—genuine, overwhelming relief. Though she never displayed it, as was her nature.

But then again...

Instead of words, she offered a gesture far more telling. She lowered her head to him. She offered an apology. For someone of her standing, that act alone was monumental. From that moment on, she had backed him repeatedly, even when it jeopardized her safety, proving she was willing to gamble politically for his sake.

Like, for instance...

Against Maria. Against Arabella. Against the Virelans. During his holy duel, she openly informed him of her support. Even if he arrived at the brink of defeat, she was determined to shield him from suffering—even when such an intervention was objectively unwise.

It was an act that could have completely shattered her authority.

She stood by him against the Virelans despite the strategic folly. She humiliated Arabella in the arena, utilizing her imperial bloodline suppression to force the return of the stolen essence. She even sanctioned his entry into the Eternal Hold, risking her mother's disappointment and exposing herself as potentially weak to the four ducal houses observing the judgment.

Despite the optics.

Despite knowing it undermined her stature.

Despite knowing the ducal families would perceive it as a softness of character and mistake him for her Achilles' heel.

She did it regardless.

For him.

Were these not sufficient proof?

Proof that she had repeatedly chosen him? That she stood firmly at his side?

And now...

Now he stood before her with those blood-red eyes and declared he would take her head.

For her.

For Maria?

At first, she dismissed it as mere theatrics—the dramatic posturing of a wounded man. But as she held his gaze, the facade collapsed. There was no mockery in his eyes, no lingering affection masked by rage, and absolutely no hesitation.

He meant every word.

Or even if it wasn't about her, or whatever his reasoning might be...

The intent to kill her?

He genuinely meant it.

That realization struck her deeper than any physical blade could.

Her platinum eyes shimmered faintly. Not with weakness—never that—but with a sudden mist gathering at the edges. Her irises grew unusually brilliant, refracting light like glass. A fine sheen of wetness coated her eyes, giving them a haunting shimmer. Yet, not a single tear fell.

And none ever would.

She would sooner decapitate herself than allow a tear to trace a path down her cheek. It wasn't about him witnessing it, or anyone else for that matter; it was about her internal recognition. To cry, in her philosophy, was to surrender. It was exposure. It was weakness. And weakness was the one thing she loathed above all else.

Her heart ached, shattered by his words, but she would never grant that pain the dignity of a tear.

The silence between them congealed, becoming something almost physical, a pressure field tightening around them. The wind itself seemed to go still. Even dust hung suspended in the air, refusing to settle.

Sofia stood at the perimeter of this invisible boundary, gripping the unconscious Maria, her sharp gaze darting between the two protagonists.

Truthfully, she had never witnessed Razeal in such a state—composed, terrifyingly steady, and immovable. She never imagined he would go so far as to threaten a war with an empire for Maria's sake, given how he normally conducted himself. It felt profoundly unnatural.

The atmosphere between Celestia and Razeal was volatile, a singular misstep away from absolute catastrophe.

Then, suddenly...

“Very well... I won't,” Celestia finally said.

Her voice remained level, though her eyes betrayed her. They flickered, if only slightly, while she met his stare. She gave a sharp nod, twice, with a haste her pride would usually forbid.

“A wise choice,” Razeal replied.

His expression remained stagnant—no relief, no satisfaction, no overt triumph. He merely acknowledged the submission. If she had actually driven that blade into Maria, the situation would have reached a point of no return. Truthfully, he was mildly stunned that she backed down at all. This was Celestia, after all—the girl who, at ten years old, had surgically severed her own emotions because they were inconvenient. She was the mistress of abandoning sentiment for cold strategy. For her to stall, reconsider, and retreat after being challenged felt entirely inconsistent with his memory of her.

Regardless, it served his interests.

Engaging her in combat at this moment would be catastrophic.

He desired no war. Not yet.

Harming the imperial princess—even if he were capable of it—would draw the full fury of the empire upon him. It wouldn't be hushed up; it would be a public, strategic, and political disaster. It was the sort of conflict that would dismantle all his blueprints. He required recognition, credibility, and influence that transcended borders to rewrite his destiny. If he went to war with the empire, lives would be lost, and his reputation would vanish, labeled as the instigator of an unjust war.

And...

Only a fool would incite such a conflict in his current position.

He was no fool.

Taking such an action would be antithetical to his future ambitions.

It would be monumentally stupid.

Yet, this led to another question he preferred not to entertain.

If strategy were his primary objective, why had he adopted such an uncompromising stance regarding Maria?

He could have merely issued a warning to Celestia. He could have snatched Maria and fled. He could have neutralized Celestia without threatening to end her. He could have navigated the situation with a dozen more cautious, political maneuvers.

Instead, he had chosen to draw a line in the sand immediately.

Why?

Why was he so eager to issue such a threat against her?

Honestly, he couldn't say.

Whatever Maria represented, however complex and undefined his feelings, one truth remained: she was his person. In his direst hour, when monsters overwhelmed him and he lacked the time to mend, she was the one who had stood between him and death. She had protected him. She had nearly lost her life in the process. He could still vividly recall her collapse, the spilling of blood, the desperate scramble.

Beyond that, there was another factor.

Had he allowed her to perish before his eyes, without raising a finger, how would he differ from the likes of Celestia or Selena? Hadn't they done the same, sacrificing him to suit their selfish motives? He refused to see his reflection in them.

That was a threshold he refused to cross.

He would not mirror their behavior.

Even if he could justify it with logic, even if it was politically sound or simplified future variables, he would loathe himself.

At the same time, a new layer of complexity emerged.

Why had he never taken Celestia's life before?

Why had he never fully committed to erasing her or Selena despite everything he suffered? Was it restraint? A lingering, unwanted attachment? A petty pride, refusing to stain his hands with such trivial matters? Or was he unconsciously searching for an excuse every time he held back?

There was no clear answer.

The truth unsettled him.

He simply didn't know.

Perhaps he was conflicted. Perhaps a part of him remained impulsive, emotional, and driven by trauma. He had observed lately that his decisions no longer stemmed purely from cold logic. They increasingly aligned with instinct, with raw emotion, with something darker and sharper than pure reason.

Was it the influence of the vampire blood?

Or was it simply who he was now?

He didn't know. He only knew that when he witnessed Celestia draw that blade, something deeper than thought reacted instantly.

That uncertainty haunted him.

In any case, he offered no further words. Silence was preferable. To push her further would only invite chaos. He began to pivot away.

“I won’t do it,” Celestia suddenly called out from behind. “Do you want to know why?”

He faltered.

Slowly, he faced her once more.

“Because you were the one who articulated it,” Celestia began, her voice steadier than the tremor in her eyes suggested. She held his crimson gaze, unyielding, even as the crystalline moisture made her platinum irises shine with an unnatural intensity. “I want to avoid a fight between us. It isn't because I fear the end. It isn't because I lack the courage for a conflict.” Her chin tilted upward as she clarified this, pride still manifesting in her posture. “I simply refuse to create complications for you. Or between us. I... I have no desire to hurt you. Nor do I want you to harm me. I never wish for such a day to arrive.” Her voice thinned at the final syllables, but she forced the words out, nodding as if finalizing a pact. “That is the only reason I am withdrawing.”

Razeal watched her in silence.

No hint of warmth. No change in expression. His face remained a mask, his crimson eyes distant and firm. A faint tension tightened his jaw, though whether it stemmed from containment or indifference was impossible to discern. He offered no reply. Truthfully, he wished to avoid this interaction entirely. conversing with her stirred something caustic within—a sensation akin to disgust, a cold reminder of wounds he preferred to keep cauterized. He began to turn away again.

“Why did you do it?” Celestia shot out suddenly. Her voice was sharp, urgent, arresting his movement.

He paused, irritation flickering across his features as he peered over his shoulder. “Do what?”

“You understand exactly what I’m asking.” Her brow knit together, her eyes trembling more violently now. “You didn't have to say it. You didn't need to threaten my life.” Her voice cracked despite her attempt to smooth it. “Why go that far?”

“Is that it?” Razeal replied flatly, genuinely perplexed by her line of questioning.

“Oh, come off it.” She let out a sharp breath, frustration cutting through her sorrow. “You don't need to play this game. We both know perfectly well that if you had simply requested it, I would have complied.” She gestured vaguely in Maria’s direction. “Whatever it was. If you had asked with grace, I would have obliged. Why treat me that way?” Her voice dipped, raw and wounded. “It hurt me. You realize that? I’ve done my best to make it clear I still value you. Why are you acting this way?” She looked at him with genuine confusion and pain, all arrogance stripped away.

Razeal finally grasped it.

He merely shook his head. “Perhaps because I genuinely meant it,” he said with chilling calm. “Why should I care about your feelings? Have you forgotten what you did to me? Do you truly believe I have no desire to see you suffer?” His gaze sharpened. “What fantasy world are you inhabiting? You act as though our history is a blank slate. Wake up.” His voice flickered with bitterness. “I haven't acted against you yet only because I lack the necessary power. But one day, I will be strong enough to make you regret everything. That is a promise.” His eyes swept over her face, noting the lingering trace of smugness she had worn earlier—the misguided confidence that because of their childhood, she remained untouchable, special to him. He found it impossible to believe someone could be so delusional. “And cease this notion that there is still ‘something’ between us. There isn’t.”

Celestia pressed her lips together. The moisture in her eyes pooled, refusing to spill. She shook her head slowly, as if attempting to deny his reality. “When... when will you let this go?” she asked softly, her voice heavy with unabashed sadness. She made no attempt to conceal it. The usual facade of composure she wore like a suit of plate armor was cracked, and raw vulnerability bled through the fissures.

“What is it you mean?” Razeal asked, tilting his head with genuine bewilderment.

“This self-laceration,” she replied, her voice gaining a fragile, intense quality. “When will you end it? All you are accomplishing is your own destruction.” She inhaled shakily. “I explained my reasoning. I apologized for the mistake I made. You know deep down that you can understand my selfishness, and you know—surely you know—it was never my intention to cause you harm.” Her eyes pleaded for acknowledgment. “I know you recognize that I still care. I have demonstrated it every chance I’ve had since your return. I have tried to make you feel it.” Her voice wavered but didn't break. “If I didn't care about you, I wouldn't have lowered myself. I had no other reason to. I tried to show my regret... how much I despise my past actions. That very day, when I bowed my head to you.”

She took a step closer, not out of aggression, but with earnest desperation. “You grasp the magnitude of that, don't you? When I bowed my head to you? You know my nature. You know I would sooner lose my head than lower it for anyone. I have never bowed to a single soul. Not even my mother. Not ever.” Her breathing quickened, pure emotion coloring her tone. “You are the singular person on this earth I have ever done that for. And you are the only one I ever will.” Her platinum eyes, wet and unyielding, locked onto his crimson ones. “You should understand the weight of that, shouldn't you?”

Celestia’s gaze narrowed, still glistening with those stagnant tears. She held him in her stare, a silent plea for him to witness what words failed to convey. The wetness in her irises shimmered, begging for him to see.

“An apology? A bow?” Razeal echoed, his voice flat, devoid of mercy, fueled by undisguised mockery. He raised a hand and canted his palm at an exaggerated, theatrical angle, rotating it as if measuring the exact degree of her effort. “You performed this,” he said, angling his palm down in a shallow, dismissive dip. “This is your definition of bowing your head? You barely shifted your chin. Your neck didn't even move, let alone your back. And you expect me to view this as a sacred gesture?” His disdain crackled. “Do not mislabel arrogance as humility. It wasn't.”

Celestia flinched—not out of cowardice, but with a sharp tension in her jaw. She shook her head, rejecting his reading of the moment, and took a deliberate step toward him. All imperial haughtiness was absent, replaced by the profound hurt of being misunderstood.

“That... that is not the reality of the moment,” she whispered, her voice trembling beyond her control. “You know it wasn't a mockery.” Her eyes glistened. “If you require another apology, I will give it. If you need me to bow properly, I will. If you demand I kneel, I will gladly do so.” Her breath hitched. “I would place my head at your feet if it would convince you. But there is a condition...” She swallowed hard, creeping closer until only a single step separated them. “When I bow, I don't want you to feel pride or arrogance, but rather faith.”