Failed To Abandon the Villain - Chapter 20

“…N-no, that’s not the case.”

After a tense silence, someone stammered a shaky denial.

“And who decided that’s not the case?”

Reinhardt’s eyebrow arched just as an agitated voice rose from the crowd.

From within the group of twenty or so robed magicians in the hall, a man in a gray robe stepped forward.

“While it’s not that we think you’re laughable, Lord, there are complaints,” he added curtly.

Though Reinhardt didn’t know him, this was one of the magicians Valetta had overheard voicing dissatisfaction in the library. Reinhardt’s eyes narrowed briefly before curving into a playful smile.

“Complaints?”

“Many question whether you’re truly fit to be the Master of the Tower,” the man said boldly. “There are even rumors that you once sold your body as a slave to Socoro.”

Caspellios stood by silently, unmoved even as his Tower’s Master was insulted. He was, after all, just an observer and a caretaker. He served the Tower itself—not Reinhardt. His loyalty extended only to the tower he and his eleven companions had built together, not to the man now occupying its highest position.

“My body? Sold it to whom?” Reinhardt chuckled, feigning curiosity.

“Who knows? The important thing is the existence of such rumors. If you truly wish to claim the title of our king, prove your abilities beyond doubt.”

The indifferent response only made Reinhardt laugh louder, his clear, refreshing laughter catching everyone off guard. Even the gray-robed magician who had openly challenged him couldn’t help but freeze momentarily.

“So, you want me to be your king?” Reinhardt asked, his tone light. “I have no interest in being king of bugs.”

“Bugs? What are you—”

“It’s pathetic, really. I needed authority just to tolerate the misery of being around something so lowly. What’s so great about ruling a nest of worms?”

“Are you mocking us magicians?”

The gray-robed man raised his gaze sharply, but his breath hitched as an invisible pressure crushed down on him. It felt as if an overwhelming force had wrapped around his very existence.

Reinhardt smiled faintly, and the suffocating sensation faded, leaving the man gasping for breath.

Was I imagining things? He looked up, dazed.

“Too bad. You missed your chance to guess correctly,” Reinhardt said brightly. Though his lips curled into a pleasant smile, his eyes glinted with cold detachment.

No one noticed the incongruity of the warm smile paired with icy eyes. They were too entranced by the surface-level charm of his expression.

“Ah, correction,” Reinhardt continued, snapping everyone’s attention back to him.

“‘Your last chance to live’ would be a bit more accurate.”

Before the words fully registered, Reinhardt flicked his fingers.

The gray-robed magician couldn’t comprehend what was happening before his hands flew to his throat, choking and gasping for air.

“Guh…! H-hel—”

The man fell to the floor, writhing in agony. His face, first flushing red, turned bluish-purple before blanching completely. He clawed desperately at his neck, trying to relieve the invisible grip suffocating him.

A nervous chuckle broke through the horrified silence, drawing the remaining magicians’ eyes toward Reinhardt.

Several magicians rushed to the man’s side, casting dispel spells to counter the magic, but they quickly realized it was futile. Reinhardt’s magic was beyond their ability to unravel.

“What—what is the meaning of this? My Lord!”

Another young magician stepped forward, his voice trembling as he blocked Reinhardt’s path.

“Hm.”

Reinhardt smiled brightly, his cheerful expression masking the chilling ease with which he flicked his fingers in the air.

The gray-robed magician, who had been choking moments before, suddenly gasped for air. He clutched at his throat, greedily inhaling the oxygen he had been starved of. But Reinhardt wasn’t done. With another snap of his fingers, his next victim screamed.

“Aaagh!”

Massive shards of ice pierced the shoulders of the magician who had dared to confront Reinhardt earlier. The force sent him crashing into the wall, where he was now pinned, blood dripping steadily from the wounds to form a pool beneath him.

“Hrrk! Aghhh! It hurts—it hurts so much!”

Suspended by the icy stakes, the man wailed in agony as Reinhardt let out an abrupt, mirthless laugh.

He strolled leisurely toward the gray-robed magician, now trembling violently on the ground.

“Stand up.”

Reinhardt’s posture was upright, rigid, completely devoid of the deference he often showed Valetta. It was as if his very stance was a reminder of the vast gulf between himself and the groveling figure before him.

The magician trembled, belatedly sensing the overwhelming magic radiating from Reinhardt.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Reinhardt asked, his tone calm but unmistakably commanding.

“I-I’ll get up…!”

Despite the pain from scratching at his throat, the man scrambled to his feet, his body racked with unsteady breaths. Reinhardt’s expression twisted into one of mild disinterest as he observed the pathetic display.

“Perhaps one chance was too harsh,” Reinhardt murmured, stepping closer until he stood mere inches from the man. His lips curled upward in a smile that, this time, failed to deceive.

The man understood now. Reinhardt’s mouth might smile, but his eyes never did.

“So, tell me,” Reinhardt asked softly, his voice honeyed yet lethal, “who do you think I sold my body to?”

“I-I misspoke… I spoke out of turn!”

Reinhardt’s narrowed eyes gleamed dangerously. The smile faded, his lips pressing into a flat line. He waved his hand again, and icy spears materialized, skewering the man’s limbs and pinning him spread-eagle against the wall.

“Wrong answer.”

The man didn’t even scream this time. His body hung limply, his head drooping as blood seeped from his wounds. The gathered magicians, pale and trembling, exchanged fearful glances.

Reinhardt chuckled, the sound reverberating in the deathly quiet hall.

“W-what you’re doing… even as the Lord of the Tower, this is too much—urk!”

Another magician stepped forward to protest but met the same fate: impaled by ice and left to dangle against the wall like a grim ornament.

One by one, more brave or foolish magicians attempted to speak out. Each time, they were silenced by Reinhardt’s ice spears, their bodies joining the growing display of carnage on the walls.

By the time the fourth or fifth body had been nailed into place, the remaining magicians fell silent, collectively retreating a few steps, their faces ashen with terror.

Reinhardt’s gaze swept across the room, his smile once again finding its place on his lips. But this time, no one mistook it for anything but what it truly was: the smile of a predator reveling in his dominance.

As the hall fell into an uneasy silence, Reinhardt’s eyes moved slowly, sweeping across the gathered magicians. A single drop of blood slid down his cheek and fell to the floor with a faint splatter.

“No one else planning to stand in my way?”

He tilted his head slightly, the question hanging in the air. The magicians held their breaths. Was this the fate of those who dared to block his path?

Five magicians were pinned to the walls by icy spears, their blood pooling on the floor. They were still breathing—barely—but the sight of their injuries and the sheer amount of bloodshed made the others tremble.

“Hand.”

Reinhardt extended his palm and uttered the word. The magicians exchanged confused looks, unsure what he meant.

A voice broke the silence from behind him.

“…Yes, my lord.”

Caspellios stepped forward, placing his hand onto Reinhardt’s outstretched palm.

The magicians’ jaws dropped. Caspellios, the caretaker of the Tower, known by the nickname “watchdog,” had never behaved in such a subservient manner.

“Good boy,” Reinhardt said, petting Caspellios’s hooded head as though praising a well-trained dog. Caspellios’s eyes widened in surprise but remained composed.

“You know the answer to my earlier question, don’t you?” Reinhardt asked.

“Are you referring to the person in the Sky Tower, my lord?”

Before Caspellios finished speaking, Reinhardt’s hand brushed his head once more, the motion disturbingly gentle.

“See? A dog listens better than bugs,” Reinhardt said, clicking his tongue in mock regret. “I thought it was an easy chance to save themselves, but they blew it.”

The magicians clenched their fists, frustration evident in their trembling hands. Easy? How could it have been easy to guess such an impossible question? They knew of someone in the Sky Tower, but how could they know if Reinhardt had any dealings with them?

Reinhardt turned his attention back to Caspellios. “When we first met, what did you call yourself?”

“I introduced myself as the caretaker of the Tower and the watchdog who protects this place,” Caspellios replied calmly.

“Exactly. You’re the house dog, aren’t you? It’s your job to make sure the bugs running loose in the house are properly managed.”

The description had originally been Caspellios’s own metaphorical explanation, but Reinhardt had taken it literally, treating him like an actual dog.

“My apologies,” Caspellios said in a monotone voice, bowing his head slightly.

“If I grip too hard…”

Reinhardt made a small fist, his movements deliberate and slow. His gaze swept across the remaining magicians, who shivered as though an icy wind had blown through the hall.

“And they go pop…”

He opened his hand with a sudden, sharp motion. The magicians collectively recoiled, their fear palpable.

“That would be a problem, wouldn’t it?” Reinhardt’s voice was light and conversational, but his eyes remained locked on the group of trembling magicians.

Though he spoke as if addressing Caspellios, it was clear his words were meant for everyone in the room. His smile returned, but no one found it comforting. Every magician was frozen in terror, their bodies tense and quivering.

The strangest part was that Reinhardt radiated no detectable magic. As the Master of the Tower, he should have been a beacon of overwhelming power, yet they felt none of it.

This was why many had underestimated him. But now, they realized the truth: he wasn’t lacking power. He was hiding it, like a predator concealing its claws and fangs before striking.

The belated understanding hit them hard, and they cursed themselves silently for not recognizing it sooner.