I Have 10,000 SSS Rank Villains In My System Space Chapter 5: System Functions

Regarding the individual they discussed, he remained quietly positioned in the corner, methodically stripping off the dark robe that enveloped him. Concealing his identity was pointless now, as the entire arena had already come to recognize him regardless.

Damn my fortune, he muttered inwardly, while a sleek set of black garments materialized upon his frame. They exuded an air of sophistication and aristocracy, though distinctly unlike the attire of other nobles. Not everyone's fashion mirrored the same, resembling styles from an entirely foreign culture.

And why should it not?

This ensemble consisted of a deep black informal tuxedo featuring an extended blazer, lending him an allure of captivating elegance and polish. The design hadn't even emerged from this realm. It originated from the previous world Razeal inhabited, which he had painstakingly reproduced here.

Now, before anyone judges his peculiar choice, assuming thoughts like 'That getup must hinder combat' or 'How stifling does that appear?' let's clarify one thing.

It's not as if he had idle time on his hands and crafted it merely for amusement.

Far from it.

The entire affair stemmed from that accursed system.

The very same infuriating system that demanded:

[A villain must possess impeccable style. Your mere presence should radiate sophistication. Thus... don attire befitting a villain.]

Truthfully, it was draining. Only Razeal understood the immense difficulty of fashioning this manually from recollection, to mimic a pattern from a bygone world.

Replicating each phase of the blueprint and fabrication without any guide...

Such tremendous labor... all for mere apparel.

The attire was refined sufficiently that, in ordinary situations, the spectators already fixated on him due to the prior turmoil would have cast a few curious looks his way.

Regrettably, the atmosphere didn't permit such distractions at present.

Rather, the whole arena buzzed with low conversations, their gazes intermittently drifting toward Razeal.

'He's still breathing? Incredible...'

'Frankly, I hoped they'd executed him long ago. But being a Duke's heir carries its perks. Even after attempting to assault someone, you emerge unscathed.

That was solely due to Miss Luminus's lineage. Though she's an heir to a Ducal house too, her family opted to resolve the matter discreetly with the Virelans. I've heard the compensation the Virelans offered was substantial... though the specifics escape me.

It was fortunate for him that Miss Luminus hadn't been selected as the Saintess at that point. Had she been, with the Church of Light's fury backing her, even House Virelan would have been compelled to yield.

'Hey, keep it down. You'll get us all in trouble if anyone overhears.'

Whispers abounded.

From common folk to nobles and even distant viewers. Everyone in attendance exchanged secretive words, despite the obviousness hanging in the air.

After all, Razeal Virelans stood as the most reviled figure across the empire, and that likely wouldn't change.

To such an extent that parents warned their offspring, 'Go to sleep, or the vile Razeal will come for you.'

He's gone. I'm certain this time. How did he endure...? Where could he have concealed himself? No trace for five years.

Where had he vanished to? And even supposing survival, the nerve to show up here?

Few cared about Razeal's method of infiltrating the Academy Trials. Yet they ought to. Securing entry to this elite institution demands exceptional credentials—a special endorsement, remarkable feats, or an official summons from the faculty.

Admission is that arduous. Security measures are formidable. No casual entrant allowed, especially with the perilous knowledge disseminated here that could threaten rival empires.

Debates and conjectures ignited fervently among all. At last, the restless crowd found a subject igniting disputes in every circle.

In the midst of it, Razeal merely exhaled deeply. He shook his head yet stayed mute, despite catching every utterance.

He wasn't aware—nor was anyone—that these folks, feigning subtlety in their murmurs, projected loudly enough for all to hear. It seemed they no longer cared about discretion.

'Attention, everyone!!'

At last, a firm, authoritative voice resounded, thundering so intensely it nearly grated on the eardrums. Mana essence, auditory waves, and surrounding atmosphere had all been harnessed to magnify it.

That declaration silenced every voice—from elites to plebeians and elevated observers alike. Every focus shifted to the arena's heart.

A petite platform of white marble ascended.

Atop it... stood Headmistress Selvara.

Her mere aura quelled the gale of chatter. A statue of stone and resolve, she towered, her silver uniform billowing in the light as if the sun yielded its brilliance to her. The stone pedestal underfoot throbbed subtly with age-old runes—restrictive, unyielding, supreme.

She lifted a single hand. Quietude descended like an edict to the winds.

Then, her words emerged—not boisterous, but infused with command that pierced flesh and spirit.

'Welcome.'

Selvara proceeded, acting as though no disruption had occurred.

'Today, you gather as candidates for the Academy Entrance Trial. You've been observed. Evaluated. Judged. Your presence here stems not from luck, but from merit.'

She utterly disregarded the earlier disturbance, treating it as irrelevant to her or the event. Not one mention was made. As if it bore no significance.

And maybe her commanding presence, or the profound importance of the occasion, compelled the assembly to hush. Even the heated gossip and covert slanders about Razeal dissolved into oblivion.

For in this instant, her forthcoming statements overshadowed all else.

Her eyes scanned the arena. Calculating. Steadfast.

'I won't belabor the evident. This is the Gate of Trials. I assume all are adequately readied, and if you arrived without preparation... if the challenges beyond remain unknown to you, then hear this:'

Her inflection grew icier.

'you are unfit.'

A brief silence.

'However,' she stated, her voice slicing sharply, 'if through sheer will, one navigates the unforeseen and prevails, if they triumph over the unanticipated... then maybe they surpass those who merely prepared.'

Soft murmurs stirred in the crowd once more, yet none ventured to voice them.

Selvara stretched a gloved arm toward the majestic obsidian gateway at her rear. The Gate of Trials. Its facade gleamed like liquid midnight in daylight, with archaic etchings subtly undulating on the rock.

'To succeed,' she declared, 'collect one hundred elemental cores. That's the baseline. No fewer. Achieve it, and the Academy's doors shall welcome you.'

Her tone held steady. It required no elevation.

'For those craving excellence—superior quarters, elite mentors, abundant supplies—your status hinges on exceeding that number with additional cores.'

She allowed the implication to resonate.

'And for aspirants to the Royal Classroom... the requirement is unequivocal.'

Her gaze sharpened, keen as fractured crystal.

'One thousand cores.'

A profound stillness enveloped the throng, as if the globe itself suspended breath.

Then her demeanor eased—not with kindness, but with decorum. The poise of a sovereign addressing her assembly.

'Now, I extend gratitude to the esteemed guests gracing us today. The Roy.... (and it kept going)* Your attendance elevates this trial.' Finally concluding

No words of motivation. No cheers or solace for the anxious newcomers, quaking with fear to put it mildly.

She nodded faintly. Not a submission. A gesture of poised recognition.

'May the deserving ascend. Let the Gate of Trials unlock now.'

All others absorbed the Headmistress's address with intense focus, clinging to each syllable amid faces of wonder and strain. Save for one particular individual.

One figure lingered motionless, devoid of focus—not from respect, but immersed in a wordless tirade against the malevolent force chained to his essence.

Internally, Razeal fumed. No, he vented (profanely).

'You twisted, faulty fragment of damned code...'

His mouth stayed shut, but his mind seethed with bile.

'A lengthy tuxedo. For a battle trial. That's your notion of 'villain style'? You truly believe this portrays me as a fitting antagonist?' Are you insane?! Fellow villains receive overpowered abilities, lethal rays, divine-killing blades—heck, even narrative shields. And me? You bestowed fashion flair?! What do you accomplish besides issuing pointless directives anyway?'

'Ever witnessed your own futility, your constant issues.'

A faint exhale passed through his nostrils as he twitched his fingers discreetly.

A shadowy, see-through panel materialized before him—chill, ebony pane with dim crimson symbols throbbing along the borders.

' SYSTEM INTERFACE - STANDARDS OF A VILLAIN '

System Type: Cursed Binding (Irrevocable)

User: Razeal Virelan

Alignment: Rejected by Fate

Status: Alive (Unfortunately)

' Description ': You were never destined for heroism. The cosmos itself abhors you. Radiance shuns you. Providence defies you. Yet... you endure. You incarnate the anomalous—a spike jamming fate's gears. Spurned by the skies, welcomed by obscurity. The deeper the world's disdain, the mightier you grow. It won't cease pursuing you until your end. And it will despise you.

Oh, the pursuit endures. For your foe isn't mortal. It's existence itself. Anticipate mishaps teetering on farce—trip over fruit rind into molten rock. Or a predator's jaws. Or simultaneously. Label it misfortune if you like.

But truly... it's the cosmos fulfilling its duty. Seeking to obliterate you

' System Effects '

1. Rejection of Light (Passive Curse)

– Cannot acquire or employ any Light, Holy, or Pure-element techniques or Even swordsmanship even any martial skills.

– All light-aligned beings inherently despise your being.

– Absolute hostility from everyone.

2. Dark Resonance (Innate Affinity)

– Draws in and harmonizes with Dark, Cursed, or Forbidden energies.

– Acquires taboo practices instinctively.

– Beasts and tainted beings might regard you as ally... or submit or may just be enemy of you?.

3. Eternal Prideful (Passive)

– You cannot tolerate insult. Ever.

– Absolute Arrogance

– Must assert dominance when challenged.

– Failure to do so will result in System-Enforced Punishment™. (Severity: Hell-tier)

4. Absolute Dark Genius

– Your command of dark arts is unparalleled.

– If you deem yourself second, existence will falter in objection.

– Your grasp of cursed, shadow, and forbidden sorcery accelerates horrifically.

5. Absolute Love:

–Feelings persist indefinitely, unshaken by time or reason

– Boundless affection; immune to limits or restraint

– Deep attachment may evolve into fixation or obsession

This is utter nonsense. None of these so-called 'effects' merit labeling as enhancements or aids. They're maledictions, every last one. Like a cruel jest from destiny.

And should you deem me unjust, bide your time. That 'dark affinity' nonsense? The 'dark faction' drivel? All pointless. Utterly pointless. For this realm—nay, this whole cosmos—embodies nothing but pristine light faction. No dark sorcery, no shadows, no accursed incantations. Zilch. The archetypal 'Chosen One' tale world? All luminous, all sacred, all pristine. Darkness? A legend here. A farce, perhaps in distant lands, but he doubts availability and truly, scant opportunities.

In essence, I've been burdened with every conceivable setback from a system, and the compensations meant to balance it? Valueless, just curses.

[Host, why the sudden petulance today? You haven't griped like this in ages... Are you merely anxious over gaining a new ability, fearing you won't have cause to berate me henceforth? Truly, that's childish. Mature, host.]

The system's retort reverberated in his psyche, laced with scorn as if it comprehended him intimately, as though it could divine his musings. Which, candidly, it couldn't. Though it yearned to.

Razeal's tirade halted abruptly. I just wish that feature proved genuinely beneficial, given your boasts over the past five years. The sole reason he refrained from altering your tone to something repulsive like a lovesick croon or a childish girl's lilt, or transforming the interface theme from this somber, haunting motif to a saccharine, infantile pink, or perhaps a perpetual rainbow motif, was his restraint.

°_°

The system sensed his essence quiver from the ferocity of the maledictory phrases unleashed.

---