Ascension Of The Villain-Chapter 292: Day of Reckoning

"What proof is there that these claims are not manufactured? What if this list is just made up by collecting the people who had died before sixteen years ago from the noble houses? House Ashstone has every reason to discredit the former emperor," someone claimed.

The court stirred with uncertain murmurs.

Vyan, who had remained quiet for longer than usual, finally took a step forward, his wine-red eyes gleaming under the chandelier lights. He tilted his head, a cold smirk playing on his lips.

"Ah, yes," he drawled, "I did say I'd show you a glimpse of the past, didn't I?" He pulled off one of his gloves and revealed an artifact that he took out of his pocket. He nestled it in the center of his palm. It was small, circular, made of pale crystal and old gold. It was humming faintly with arcane power.

Before anyone could even voice their doubts, Vyan was already a step ahead.

"Fear not," he said coolly, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade. "These visions aren't illusions, nor are they lies. Artifacts like this don't bend the past. The truth remains untouched within them. If you doubt that, you're welcome to consult a tower mage afterwards." He tilted his head, a half-smirk ghosting his lips. "What you're about to witness… it's all real."

The room grew stiff with anticipation. Breathless silence, a tension so thick it clung to the skin. Suspicious eyes latched onto him, trying to read between the lines. But Vyan wasn't looking at them anymore.

He was remembering.

It had been long after Benedict had taken him in, long after Ashstone had become his reluctant home, when he first found that cursed memory embedded in the artifact. And dear Goddess—he had almost vomited the first time he saw it. The sheer weight of what had happened… of what had been allowed to happen behind the grandeur of these imperial walls. The polished stone and painted tapestries were nothing but a gloss over rot.

He spoke again, quieter this time. "This memory… is of my father. Just a short one, but…"

His throat caught.

I wonder how you felt.

He hadn't meant for the words to appear in his heart, but suddenly they did. The steady rhythm of his voice cracked, snagging on something raw. A breath stalled in his chest. Just like that, his inner calm turned to chaos. A dull, agonizing twist settled in his gut.

How must his father have felt?

Xandres—righteous, kind to a fault, a man who once held so much faith in his integrity—what must it have been like for him to watch everything unravel? To stay silent, not out of cowardice, but desperation. To choose silence over truth, hoping it would protect his family. Only to witness them all slip through his fingers anyway.

His firstborn son—fourteen—struck down before his eyes. Fighting till his last breath with knights that were twice his size.

Then came the news that his youngest, barely five, had also been slaughtered. The horror didn't end there. No, the empire had saved the most brutal blow for last. His wife… she was the first to face the guillotine.

And he had watched.

They died thinking both their children were dead.

That the world had declared them monsters, criminals whose sons were devoured by the very beasts they were accused of unleashing. And the people—these people right here—they had spat on their names. Told them they deserved it.

Vyan's jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists so tight his nails cut into his palms.

How could anyone tell a mother she deserved her children's death?

How could they tell a father that his sins warranted this?

And now… these same people sat here again. Looking at Vyan like he was the villain. As if they were righteous, untouched by sin. As if justice was on their side and he was merely putting to a show to gain more political power.

It made his blood boil.

He wanted to set the whole room on fire.

But then—

His eyes met Iyana's.

A soft shake of her head. A single, slow, and reassuring blink.

It was all she did.

But it was enough.

A reminder. A promise.

She had made him swear—not in anger, not with threats—but with a gentle, aching kind of hope. A plea that came not from weakness, but from strength. That he would not shed unnecessary blood. That he wouldn't stoop to their level, even if it meant swallowing every ounce of rage that clawed inside his chest.

Back then, he had scoffed. "If they go low, I'll go lower," he'd said with venom.

And she had glared at him. Properly glared. The kind of glare that said don't you dare betray the version of yourself I believe in. Don't, at any cost, become a monster.

It made him wonder how differently he would have done things if he hadn't been grounded by Iyana. Maybe that's what led the novel Vyan on the track to self-destruction. But he was glad.

That he'd chosen this path. Chosen her—the commander with a spine of steel and a heart stubborn enough to love him through the darkness. She had forgiven so many of his sins. Made exceptions, time and again. But even she had asked this one thing: Don't spill blood if you don't have to.

And so… Vyan had made a promise.

And now, here he was. Holding back the fire. Biting down the fury. Enduring the stares, the hypocrisy, the audacity of the nobles—all for her.

That didn't mean he regretted killing the marquess. Not for a second. That man was filth. If anything, Vyan was sure Iyana understood. She hadn't condemned him for it. But she had guided him. Kept him from burning down the whole rotten world.

And so, he reined himself in.

Composed once more, he turned to the nobles. His voice returned, low but unwavering.

"My father left this in his study at home. Hoping that, one day, the truth would matter to someone. Our old butler… he preserved it all these years, waiting. Waiting for the day I would return. Waiting for this day of reckoning."

Now, they would see it. The memory that shattered a family. The moment that lit the first match in the long, winding trail of fire that led to today.

And there would be no turning away. Not anymore.

As the artifact pulsed in his hand, a soft shimmer formed above it, and then a globe of light expanded in the air, flickering once before revealing a memory from sixteen years ago.

"Will you play hide-and-seek with me?"

The voice was light, playful—belonging to a seven-year-old girl with silver hair tied neatly in a fishtail braid. Her eyes gleamed with excitement as she bounced on her heels, looking at the smaller boy beside her.

The five-year-old boy looked up at Xandres—the viewer of this memory. His wine-red eyes sparkled with unspoken hope.

A hand reached out and ruffled the boy's soft curls. "Of course, you can play with her. But be nice to her."

"Your Grace, you play with us too," the girl, Althea, insisted with a huff.

"Oh, I'm far too old for that, Princess," came the amused reply from his own mouth. "Why don't you invite your brothers?"

Althea turned her head, pout forming instantly. "I don't like them."

"Not even Prince Easton?"

Her eyes dropped. There was a pause. A flicker of something sad passed through her features—unmistakable even in memory. "He's always too busy. Studying, training. He doesn't have time for me... or for games."

"But did you ever ask him?"

"I don't need to. I already know what he'll say."

A breath. A pause.

"But—"

"Anyway!" Althea cut in, grabbing the younger boy's wrist. "Come on, let's go hide. Your Grace, you have to find us!"

"I said I'm not playing—"

But they were already gone, their laughter trailing behind like phantom echoes in a dream.

His voice called after them, "Vyan, be careful! Don't hide anywhere dangerous!"

The warning was pointless.

Time shifted.

He found Althea giggling behind a column near the garden wall, but no sign of Vyan.

The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched long across the ground.

Xandres wandered the Aurora Palace, calling for his son, checking under tables and behind curtains—everywhere a child might hide.

"Where is he?" he murmured, scanning the horizon with a growing edge of panic.

He moved toward an old door nestled at the side of the east wing of the palace—one that led to the underground. It stood slightly ajar.

Darkness spilled out.

He hesitated.

There was no way Vyan would go down there. Not after what happened last time—not after falling into that pit. His little boy had been terrified of darkness for days.

Unless...

"No, but what if he slipped and fell—" he muttered, already turning back toward the door. "I swear to Goddess, that boy can be so clumsy. I should check."

He rushed down the stairs, conjuring a small flame in his palm to light the way. The walls grew damp, the air thicker. The silence gnawed at the edges of sound.

"Vyan?" he called softly, worry beginning to tint every syllable. "Vee? Are you there? Did you get hurt?"

The stairway gave way to a long, narrow tunnel. Dust swirled with each step he took. The flame flickered.

"Vee? The game is over. Papa's here. Come out if you can hear me, son. Please."

The tunnel widened. He held his flame high, casting the shadows away. But there was nothing—just silence and stone.

Xandres sighed, breath visible in the cold air. "Right... as if my boy would be foolish enough to wander this deep in an unknown place."

He turned to leave.

Then—

Boom. Splatter.

A dull blast echoed through the tunnel. Distant. Faint. But it was there.

He froze.

His flame quivered.

Eyes narrowed, he turned back around, following the noise down the path. His boots tapped against the stone. One step. Another.

Then he saw it—a heavy iron door, barely ajar, a sliver of orange light leaking through the crack.

He crept forward and peeked inside.

What he saw—

Every part of him froze.