I Am The Game's Villain

Chapter 816: Blood Wedding [1]

Central Vedelia had not suffered such a catastrophic disaster in eight hundred years.

Death, blood, and destruction had descended upon the heart of Sancta Vedelia on a scale without precedent in living memory. The damage done to the Capital was immense, but stone and marble were not the only things left burnt and broken. Far worse were the people who had been there that night, the ones unfortunate enough to witness the Blood Moon with their own eyes and survive long enough to remember it.

After only a week, the number of casualties had already risen beyond twenty thousand, and even then the count continued to climb with each passing hour. More bodies were being recovered from the ruins. More fragments of bodies, too ravaged to identify, were still being discovered beneath shattered streets, collapsed structures, and blackened debris. Some families had received the horror of confirmation. Others had not even been granted that much. There were still countless dead who could not be named.

The attack, and the betrayal of Cyril Magnus Raven that had triggered the chain of events leading Central Vedelia to the edge of annihilation, came to be known by one name alone:

The Blood Wedding.

A night that had been meant to shine as a sacred celebration, the wedding of the new Prophetess of the Holy Tree of Eden, had instead become one of the darkest days in all the history of Sancta Vedelia. What should have been remembered as a night of blessing, unity, and divine favor was forever stained into something monstrous.

For days afterward, the city had known no silence.

Wailing carried through the streets from dawn until deep into the night. Fathers mourning sons. Mothers mourning daughters. Brothers, sisters, children, husbands, wives, everywhere the sounds of grief echoed between damaged walls and half-collapsed homes. The fortunate ones, if such a word could still be used, at least had bodies to bury. They had something to kneel beside, something to hold one final vigil over. But many others had not even been granted that cruel mercy. Their loved ones had vanished into ruin, their remains left unrecognizable, torn apart, or most likely burned to ash by that dreadful purple fire that had raged across Central Vedelia on that terrible night.

It was not merely a massacre.

It was a night that had traumatized an entire city.

Those who survived did so with trembling hearts, many falling to prayer in the aftermath, giving thanks to the Holy Tree, to Eden, and to every god still believed to guard Sancta Vedelia. Survival itself had come to feel like something miraculous, almost shameful in its randomness, and many did not know whether to weep for the dead or for the fact that they themselves had been spared.

In the days that followed, the authorities of Central Vedelia moved quickly. Measures were taken at once to stabilize the city, to begin clearing the destruction, to restore order, and to offer comfort wherever comfort was still possible. Yet even as the work of rebuilding began, fear spread beyond the Capital. The surrounding Kingdoms of Sancta Vedelia had been deeply shaken by an attack carried out at the very center of their faith, so close to the Holy Tree itself. Anxiety turned swiftly into outrage, and outrage demanded explanation.

Explanations were given.

And two names were placed before all Sancta Vedelia as the chief authors of that night’s devastation.

The first was obvious: Cyril Magnus Raven, the groom of the Prophetess, who had turned against all present, attempted a coup, and sought to seize the Holy Tree itself.

The second name was Edward Falkrona.

That name already carried enough hatred across Sancta Vedelia. He was known as the man who had sided with Utopia during the Utopian War, who had stolen the Seed of Eden, and who was now married to the Utopian Princess, Freya Ruvelion. Already despised, already feared, his infamy now deepened into something darker. With the Blood Wedding, his name was fixed even more strongly into the blackest pages of Sancta Vedelian history.

The authorities had, of course, carefully altered the full account of Edward Falkrona’s involvement that day. What they did make certain to emphasize, however, was his responsibility for the purple fire, the same dreadful fire that had claimed several thousand lives and reduced whole sections of the City to ruin.

One could even say that Edward was placed more prominently at the center of the disaster than Cyril himself, despite the fact that it was Cyril Magnus Raven who had used the Blood Moon Spell. That imbalance was hardly accidental. The authorities of Sancta Vedelia could not openly shoulder the blame or plainly admit the gravity of their own mistake in choosing Cyril Magnus Raven as the Prophetess’s groom. Still, they could not conceal his involvement entirely either; it had been far too visible, and there was only so much that could be hidden from the population. So in the end, they told the truth only in part. They acknowledged Cyril, but pushed Edward Falkrona to the forefront instead, a foreign criminal, already infamous, and one who had been sent to Sancta Vedelia by the Kingdom of Celesta under the pretext of rehabilitation.

The reports were written with cunning care, described in such a way that any ordinary reader might come away believing Edward Falkrona had been the true instigator of the Blood Moon Spell and the responsible of the entire catastrophe. It was never stated so directly, but everything in the narrative leaned heavily in that direction. And it worked. The proud people of Sancta Vedelia were always more willing to direct their hatred toward a foreigner than fully condemn one of their own, especially when that one was a royal. Thus Cyril, and above all Edward, were cast as the great villainous figures of the Blood Wedding, and almost overnight their names were elevated among the darkest criminals in the history of Sancta Vedelia, placed alongside monsters such as the Vampire Witch and Deborah Dolphis.

And as for how that dreadful night had ended, the tale given to the people was one of heroism.

It was said that Central Vedelia had prevailed. That the Prophetess, the Apostle of Nihil, and the heroes sent by the Kingdom of Celesta, including the Apostle of Lumen, had stood together valiantly and defeated the enemy, bringing an end to the horror before all was lost. That was the story repeated in the streets, in official halls, in letters sent across the realms, and in the accounts prepared for history.

One might have questioned certain discrepancies. One might have noticed that some details did not quite align.

But such things hardly mattered when only a handful of people knew the fuller truth, and when that truth was far less useful than the narrative required to steady a shattered Capital and hold Sancta Vedelia together. The city needed clarity more than complexity. It needed villains, heroes, and an ending strong enough to contain its grief.

Yet before rebuilding could truly begin, mourning had to come first.

Healing, however incomplete, had to be given a place.

That was why, within a single week, a structure was raised in Central Vedelia.

Nihil’s Memorial.

A solemn monument built in the form of a temple, erected to honor the tens of thousands who had died in the Blood Wedding. It stood not merely as a resting place for grief, but as a wound carved into stone, a reminder of the dead, of the terror of that night, and of the price Sancta Vedelia had paid beneath the Blood Moon.

And then, at last, a week later, a commemoration was announced before the Memorial in Central Vedelia. The people were called to gather there, to stand together before the monument and mourn the dead in a shared and collective grief.

For that occasion, every Head of Sancta Vedelia, along with the realm’s great figures, was expected to be present. They would stand before the people as a display of unity despite the sorrow that had befallen them all. It was meant to be one of those rare moments when royals, nobles, every race, and even the humblest commoners would be brought together in the same place, joined not by celebration but by suffering born from that terrible night.

All were asked to wear white as a symbol of unity in mourning.

By early morning, even before sunrise, a crowd had already begun to gather before the Memorial. Knights were already stationed throughout the area, keeping the crowd orderly and under control as more and more people arrived to take their places in front of the great structure.

Meanwhile, the Heads of Houses, rulers, and royal families were to assemble more slowly within the Memorial itself.

Most of them had arrived the previous night in order to attend the ceremony at dawn. It was not only because none of them could afford the indignity of arriving late to such an event, but also because the crisis in Central Vedelia demanded more than mourning alone. As soon as the ceremony ended, another gathering between the Heads and rulers of Sancta Vedelia was to take place. The tragedy of the Blood Wedding had left too many wounds, too many unanswered questions, and too many political consequences for them to depart after mere words of grief.

***

In one of the mansions owned by the King of Dolphis in Central Vedelia, the Dolphian royal family had already gathered. They had arrived only a few hours earlier, with just enough time to prepare themselves before the commemoration.

In one of the rooms on the upper floor, John stood alone.

He was dressed in a white suit, a formal one, as required for the ceremony held in memory of those who had died during the Blood Wedding of Central Vedelia. White, the color chosen to represent mourning through unity. White, meant to soften grief into dignity.

Yet there was nothing soft about the expression on his face.

Standing there in silence, John looked difficult to read. His gaze was lowered, his features still, almost too still, while one hand held a letter that had already been unfolded and read more than once.

After the Blood Wedding, when John had returned to the hotel where he had been staying in Central Vedelia, he had found a stack of letters waiting for him.

All of them had been written by Amael.

Even now, John did not know when Amael had found the time to write them, nor when he had managed to leave them there. But it had clearly been done with purpose. Each letter had been addressed to a different person, each entrusted to John so that he could deliver them to the names written upon them.

And among them, of course, there had been one for him.

He held it now.

[

If you are reading this letter, John, then there is a very good chance that I am dead.

Honestly, if I had somehow survived in the end, the first thing I would have done would have been to burn all these embarrassingly dramatic letters, especially this one.

So if it is you reading this right now, then yes, I am probably no longer alive. If I had to guess, I likely died on that damned wedding day.

Since I am dead anyway, I suppose I can finally tell you the truth.

I received a prophecy from Claudia.

In it, I saw my own death.

Let’s just say the prophecy made things rather clear for me much earlier than I ever let anyone realize.

Afterward, I tried not to think about it too much. I told myself I could resist it somehow, fight against it, maybe even change it. But deep down, I already knew I probably couldn’t. That is also why I kept it hidden from you, and from everyone else.

Because really, what would it have changed?

It would only have caused more fear, more pain, more anxiety for you and everyone around me. And knowing you, you would have told Layla first. And knowing Layla, she would have come here immediately and stayed by my side until the very end, doing everything possible to make sure I did not die.

But prophecies are dangerous things to interfere with.

Trying to forcefully change them can bring consequences even worse than what they originally showed. I did not want to take that risk with you, with Layla, or with anyone else. Because I knew that if I told the truth, you would all try to do something. You would interfere. You would try to save me.

And maybe that would only have made everything worse.

So I stayed silent.

If there was even the slightest chance of changing the prophecy, then it had to be by my own hand and mine alone.

But if you are reading this letter now, then I suppose I failed.

I know you must be pissed off, John. That I hid this from you. That I chose not to trust you with it. But there was no other way.

If someone had to die, then it should only have been me, just as the prophecy showed.

No one else.

You should not regret any of it, John. And more than that, you should not torment yourself over it too much.

It was a prophecy. If it came to pass, then maybe it was always meant to happen. Maybe I really was fated to die, just like Edward did at the end of the Second Game.

Which, honestly, feels very unfair, considering I never did even half the terrible things that version of Edward did to earn an ending like that. But then again, nothing in any world has ever really been fair, has it?

If fairness existed, my family would not have died back on Earth. You would have grown up with decent parents. Shayna would still be alive too. But that is reality. It does not care about fairness. All we can do is fight against it, and sometimes, even that is not enough.

I suppose I am proof of that.

Because no matter how much I wished to live, no matter how much I wanted to stay here with Layla, with all of you, with the people I came to love and who somehow loved me back… in the end, I still died.

Still, I will take responsibility for it.

I chose to come to Sancta Vedelia. I chose to interfere with the Game. I chose to involve myself with the people who were only supposed to be characters in a story. And in the end, even when I had chances to run, I stayed.

Could I blame that on fate? On destiny? On some invisible force pushing me to remain until the very end?

No.

That was my decision.

I stayed because I could not leave. I stayed because I wanted to see things through to the end. I stayed because I wanted to make sure the people I loved in this world would survive.

Running away, hiding somewhere far from Sancta Vedelia, only to later hear that all of you had died while I was safe somewhere else… I would rather die a thousand times than live with that.

So if my death bought your lives, if it meant you, Celeste, and the others were able to keep living, then I can accept it.

Gladly, even.

Anyway, I have probably already spent too many words trying to justify myself, and you are likely getting more annoyed the longer you read this. But I needed you to understand one thing.

This is not over.

The Third Game will come next.

And I need you to watch over what happens when it does. I need you to make sure that whatever is supposed to go wrong does not happen. Otherwise, everything we went through, everything we suffered for, everything I died for… it will all have been for nothing.

It has to end well this time.

So I am counting on you.

I know you will do what is necessary.

Things started badly between us, maybe worse than badly, but over this last year you became something I can say without joking for once: you became a real brother to me.

Someone I could trust enough to turn my back on without a single doubt.

Someone I had to hide my death from exactly because I knew what he would try to do if he found out.

Someone I could entrust with these letters.

Someone I could entrust with the future.

Someone I could entrust with a world that still holds people I love… including your sister.

I already wrote a letter for her too.

And to be honest, I am very worried of how she might react.

So I am asking you, seriously this time: explain things to her properly. Stay by her side. Do not let her do anything reckless or stupid because of me.

Tell her I am sorry I could not keep my promise.

And tell her I meant it when I made it.

Tell her to move forward. Tell her she still has a family. Tell her she can still love, still live, and still find happiness.

Even if, selfishly, I hate writing those words.

I can admit that to you at least: I really do not want her to move on.

But as you told me many times, I did not deserve her.

And if I had truly deserved her, if I had really been worthy of standing beside her, then I would not be lying dead somewhere after breaking my promise to her like some pathetic idiot.

So watch over her for me, John.

Though knowing what a ridiculous sister-obsessed bastard you are, you were going to do that anyway.

Still, I mean it. Do not let her make any foolish decisions.

And while I am at it, I should say this too: keep an eye on the others for me.

I am not going to start listing every single name, because that would probably irritate you even more, and I have already done enough of that in this letter. But you know who they are. You know the people I care about. The people I love.

Just… watch over them when you can.

That should be enough.

Anyway, I think this is where I should stop.

If I keep writing, I might never actually end this letter, and then you would be stuck reading my thoughts forever, which sounds like a punishment even you do not deserve.

So let me say this one last time:

Do not drown yourself in grief. Or anger. Or guilt. Or whatever it is you are feeling while reading this.

Mourn me if you want. Curse me out if it helps. But do not waste too much time crying over someone who is already gone. Focus instead on what is still here. On what still matters.

And more importantly than anything else.

Be happy. Live well. Enjoy your life, brother.

]

John stared at the letter for a long moment, his red eyes moving over the same lines again and again. His thumb pressed harder against the page, creasing it slightly as his hand tightened around it.

His jaw clenched.

Then tighter.

Until he was biting down against his own trembling lip.

He read the final lines once more, and all it did was leave him with that same terrible emptiness spreading through his chest.

He was dead, wasn’t he?

John had reread the letter countless times over the past week, stupidly, pathetically hoping that he would simply appear out of nowhere and make all of it meaningless. That he would walk in with that irritating face of his, laugh at the dramatic nonsense he had written, and snatch the letter back before setting it on fire himself.

But he never came.

All John had left was that letter.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?

-BOOOM!!

With a kick, John sent the nearby wooden bedframe flying across the room. It shattered apart in an explosion of splinters and broken beams before crashing hard against the wall, the impact driving fragments deep into the stone and leaving a jagged crack spreading through it.

His breathing turned rough.

He wanted to burn the damned letter.

To reduce it to ash and never look at it again.

His hand trembled, fire threatening to gather at his fingertips, but he could not do it. No matter how badly he wanted to destroy it, he could not bring himself to let the flames touch the page. So he only stood there, staring at it, that unbearable lump lodged in his throat, the sharp sting in his eyes growing worse with every passing second.

-Thud!

The door swung open.

Amelia stepped inside in panic.

Dressed in white for the commemoration, she froze the moment she saw him standing there with his back turned to her. Even from where she stood, she could see it immediately: the tension in his body, the slight trembling in his shoulders, the letter still clenched in his hand.

She knew what it was.

She had already seen Celeste with one like it when she had tried, helplessly, to reach out to her.

One of Edward’s letters.

For a brief moment, Amelia said nothing. Her chest tightened painfully at the sight of him. She had never been especially close to Edward, not in the way Celeste had been, not in the way others had. But this past week, the two people she cared for most, Celeste and John, had both been breaking in front of her, each in their own way, and she had been powerless to do anything about it.

There were no words for this.

Nothing she said could undo death.

Nothing she said could fill the space he had left behind.

So instead, she crossed the room quickly and wrapped her arms tightly around John from behind, holding him around the waist as strongly as she could with her smaller body.

“I’m sorry…” She whispered.

Her voice shook on the words.

Tears threatened her again, but she fought to keep them back.

John did not move.

He did not turn around.

He only stood there rigidly in her arms, the letter still crushed in his hand, his whole body trembling with anger and grief.

Amelia held him tighter.

“I’m sorry, John,” she whispered again, pressing herself stronger against his back.

Because there was nothing else she could do.

Nothing, except stay.