I Am The Game's Villain

Chapter 746: [Final Event] [Blood Moon Festival] [28] Alvara VS Cyril

”Alvara...?”

Celeste’s voice came out quieter than she intended—thin with shock, disbelief, and a touch of exhaustion.

”A–Are you okay?”

A small voice piped up from behind her then—soft, unsure. The little boy clutching her dress stuttered slightly, his eyes wide and glistening with worry.

Celeste offered him a weak smile—barely there, more instinct than comfort—and gave a small nod.

The massive blood spike pierced clean through her abdomen but before anyone could panic, frost spread across its surface in a crystalline snap. Ice sealed the wound. The pain didn’t disappear, but the bleeding stopped. That alone would keep her standing.

”As always...” Alvara said, her pale golden eyes slid toward Celeste. ”You manage to look so pathetically miserable.”

If Celeste had the energy, maybe she would’ve scoffed. She didn’t.

”What are you doing here...?” She asked clearly not expecting Alvara out of everyone here.

Alvara didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly turned her head, scanning the battlefield like someone looking for a misplaced belonging.

”...I don’t see my Love,” she muttered absently, tapping a finger on her cheek. ”Where is he?”

Celeste’s eye twitched.

”Love... you mean Amael?” Her voice cracked ever so slightly—an involuntary sting from a past she wished she could delete. Her expression dimmed soon after. ”Why are you looking for him...?”

It was obvious—painfully obvious—Celeste didn’t believe Amael was anywhere near Central Vedelia.

Alvara frowned.

”...Strange.”

Because realistically? He should’ve been here already. She had taken care of Sephira for him and though she dealt with the latter fast, Amael should have still been there already.

Unless something else got in his way.

Before she could think further—

”Well, Alvara. What a surprise seeing you here.”

Cyril’s voice glided in with a faint smirk.

Alvara’s gaze shifted to him.

She simply lifted her hand—

Cyril vanished backward in an instant as golden vines erupted from the earth like spears, snapping upward at blinding speed. The ground cracked apart violently, splintering under their emergence.

But before he could exhale—

More.

Thorned vines exploded behind him this time, sharp and coiling like hunting serpents.

His sword flashed.

Once. Twice. Ten times. A blur of strikes cutting each vine cleanly apart. Petals and thorns sprayed into the air like debris from a storm. Cyril warded off every strike easily... until—

He swung his blade in a wide blood-charged arc.

-BOOOOM!

A shockwave ripped outward, dust and debris erupting in a circular blast.

”You can’t beat me with such cheap attacks, Alvara,” he smirked.

Alvara sighed, almost bored.

The ring on her finger glowed faintly. Her white umbrella dissolved into golden motes of light, sucked into its dimension.

She raised her empty hand, fingers loosely extended.

Then summoned it.

A sword—tall, elegant, impossibly beautiful. Silver-gold forged metal glimmered like moonlight, the hilt wrapped in delicate vines of engraved golden flora. It looked more like a sacred relic than a weapon built to kill.

She raised it.

And disappeared.

-BOOOOOOM!

Steel collided so fast the air ruptured.

Cyril barely managed to intercept her strike in time, eyes blown wide in pure instinctive shock at her acceleration. The impact cratered the ground beneath them, fractures splitting outward like a spider’s web.

Golden mana roared around her in waves.

Then she moved.

Again.

Again.

Again.

A rapid storm of slashes—precise and perfectly timed. There was no wasted motion. Every swing landed where a guard would be weakest. Every step forced Cyril back just a fraction. But those fractions added up.

Shockwaves burst with every collision.

And yet...

He was stronger. Physically. In power. In raw output.

He should have been overwhelming her.

But he wasn’t.

Because she was better.

Cleaner, sharper, smarter—every strike calculated, every angle dominant. She didn’t overpower his sword. She danced around it.

Thin cuts appeared across his cheek. Then his arm. Then his ribs. Small, precise, accumulating. His regeneration flickered to life immediately—patching, sealing, healing—but Alvara didn’t react and continued.

”As expected of you!” Cyril’s grin widened, feral now. Veins lit with crimson. ”But let’s step it up!”

Blood Arts erupted.

Thick blood-forged vines lashed from behind Alvara, hungry and barbed—shooting toward her spine with lethal intent.

But before they could connect—

Golden vines surged from the earth and reacted on their own, wrapping around the blood constructs and crushing them like fragile bone.

-BOOOOM!

And through it all Alvara never stopped pushing forward.

Cyril narrowed his eyes.

”All right. Try this.”

He crashed his mana outward in a violent burst and drove his sword forward with overwhelming power.

Alvara redirected the force, parrying with immaculate timing—but even perfection has limits.

A sharp sting shot down her arm.

Her fingers trembled.

Numbness crept in.

Cyril seized the opening, lunging in to grab her—

Her face twisted like she had smelled something rotting.

”Don’t touch me.”

-BOOOOOOOOM!!

Golden mana exploded outward, blinding and vast—paired now with roaring Prana that shook the air itself.

Cyril shot backward, skidding across cracked stone, coat tearing at the wind.

Before he could reset his stance—

Multiple massive golden summoning circles ignited around him, floating in perfect formation.

One...

Two...

Four...

Eight...

Then—

The plants hungered.

Monstrous, carnivorous, razor-toothed flora burst out of the circles, colossal mouths opening wide like divine monsters awakened from starvation.

The carnivorous plants didn’t wait for permission.

Their jaws snapped wide, each one a gaping maw lined with rows of serrated teeth—then light ignited deep within their throats. Golden energy condensed into burning spheres, crackling with raw Prana.

The first beam fire—a column of searing light that tore through the air with a high-pitched shriek. Cyril twisted aside, coat flaring as the blast scorched past him and obliterated a section of a house behind. Stone vaporized into superheated ash.

But there was no pause.

The second plant fired. Then the third. Then all eight erupted in a coordinated barrage—beams crisscrossing, overlapping, creating a lethal web of golden destruction that gave Cyril no room to breathe.

He weaved through the first volley, boots scraping stone as he ducked low. A beam grazed his shoulder, burning through fabric and flesh in an instant. His regeneration kicked in, sealing the wound even as another shot forced him to roll sideways.

And through the chaos, through the roaring light and the smoke and the heat Alvara moved.

She closed the distance in a heartbeat, sword flashing in a downward arc aimed straight for his throat. Cyril’s instincts screamed and he brought his blade up just in time steel shrieked against steel, sparks of mana erupting between them.

But she was already pivoting.

Her sword flowed like water, redirecting mid-swing into a brutal side slash. Cyril blocked again, but the impact rattled his bones. Before he could counter, another Prana beam roared past his head, forcing him to lean back and Alvara capitalized instantly.

Her blade licked across his ribs. Shallow. Clean. Blood sprayed.

”Tch—!”

Cyril gritted his teeth, blood mana surging. Crimson tendrils erupted from his back like living whips, lashing toward Alvara from three angles at once fast and brutal.

Alvara didn’t flinch.

Golden vines burst from the earth beneath her feet, intercepting two of the tendrils mid-strike and crushing them into mist. The third she deflected with her sword, the clash sending a shockwave rippling outward.

But Cyril wasn’t done.

More tendrils. Dozens now. They multiplied like a hydra, snaking through the air, coiling around debris, launching from unpredictable angles. One wrapped around her ankle which she severed instantly. Another grazed her shoulder, tearing fabric and drawing a thin line of blood.

Her expression didn’t change.

She stepped forward.

One of the carnivorous plants fired again—the beam carved through the storm of blood tendrils, vaporizing several at once. Cyril cursed and summoned a blood shield, absorbing the impact with a deafening crack.

Alvara was already there.

Her sword descended like judgment, striking the shield dead center. Cracks splintered across its surface. Cyril reinforced it with more mana, veins glowing brighter but she struck again. And again. Each blow methodical, each strike aimed at the exact same point.

The shield shattered.

Her blade cut through, slicing clean across Cyril’s forearm. Blood sprayed. His grip faltered for just a fraction of a second and that was all she needed.

She twisted her wrist, redirecting the momentum of her blade into a lightning-fast thrust aimed at his chest.

Cyril jerked backward, but not fast enough.

The tip of her sword pierced his shoulder, punching through muscle and scraping bone before she withdrew in a single fluid motion.

He roared, blood mana exploding outward in a violent burst. The shockwave threw her back a step just enough space for him to regain footing.

”You’re good,” he said, grinning through his bloodied teeth. ”But you’re still weaker.”

Crimson light flared around him like a storm. His wounds sealed almost instantly, flesh knitting back together. He raised his sword, now coated in writhing blood constructs that pulsed with violent energy.

He lunged.

-BOOOOM!!

The clash was thunderous.

Alvara met his strike head-on, their blades colliding with such force that the ground beneath them cracked and buckled. Shockwaves rippled outward, dust and debris exploding in every direction.

Celeste immediately protected the boy in her arms while watching.

Cyril pressed harder, pouring raw power into every swing. His strikes were heavier now, more aggressive, each one meant to overwhelm through sheer force. He forced her back—one step, then two—his grin widening as he sensed victory creeping closer.

But Alvara’s eyes remained cold.

She parried another strike, redirecting it just enough to avoid the full impact, then slipped inside his guard. Her sword moved in a blur—a rapid sequence of thrusts and slashes aimed at joints, tendons, weak points.

One cut across his wrist. Another along his thigh. A third grazing his neck.

Each wound was shallow, but they added up. His regeneration was fast, but it wasn’t instant. For every wound he healed, two more appeared.

Another Prana beam screamed past, forcing Cyril to split his attention. He deflected it with a blood construct, but the distraction cost him.

Alvara’s blade flashed.

-SPURT!

She sliced clean through his left hand.

Blood erupted. His fingers still gripping a dagger tumbled to the ground, severed cleanly at the wrist.

Cyril staggered, eyes wide with shock by the weird movement of her sword. His regeneration surged, flesh already bubbling and reforming, but she didn’t give him the chance.

She stepped in close—dangerously close and her sword became a whirlwind.

One thrust. Two. Three.

Each strike punched through his defenses, piercing his abdomen in rapid succession. Four. Five. Six.

Her movements were surgical. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Blood poured from Cyril’s torso, his face twisted in disbelief as his regeneration struggled to keep up.

Ten.

Eleven.

Her final thrust drove deep, the blade sinking into his gut with brutal finality before she twisted and withdrew.

Cyril gasped, blood spilling from his lips.

He hadn’t even bothered dodging and smirked right after.

His eyes flashed crimson. With a flash of crimson, he channeled his mana into his leg and kicked taking Alvara by speed.

-BAM!

Alvara’s eyes widened as his boot slammed into her ribs with enough force to shatter stone. The world blurred. Air rushed from her lungs. Her body shot backward like a meteor, crashing through debris and skidding across the battlefield before slamming into a crumbled wall.

Dust exploded outward.

For a moment, everything went still.

Cyril stood hunched, blood dripping from his torso, his regeneration working overtime to seal the eleven holes punched through his abdomen.

”Not... bad,” he muttered, spitting blood.

Alvara pushed herself up from the collapse of broken stone and shattered earth.

One hand pressed firmly against her stomach, slender fingers digging into the fabric as pain rippled through her in slow waves.

For a moment, she simply breathed.

It felt like years since something had struck her body with enough force to truly hurt. Probably against Elizabeth.

Yes, she was powerful—feared even—but her physical body was still that of a High Elf.

Elegant and refined but shockingly fragile beneath it all.

When her gaze drifted downward, her expression twisted—not because several of her ribs were fractured, not because each breath felt like broken glass—but because her once immaculate dress was now painted in blood.

Red and ugly.

”...I really cannot allow My Love to see me in such a state,” she muttered, mortified.

”ALVARA!!”

Celeste’s scream tore through the dust and smoke.

Alvara reacted purely on instinct.

She blurred around, sword screaming out of its arc at lethal speed—

—and stopped.

One inch.

One single trembling inch from a man’s neck.

Her golden eyes widened.

No... not just any man.

Kendel Teraquin.

Her older brother.

”H–How...” She whispered, disbelief choking her voice.

Then her gaze sharpened, wary, guarded—

But she never got the chance to act.

Before her mind even formed a thought, Kendel’s fist drove into the same spot Cyril had struck.

Alvara tried to hold on—she really did—but her body betrayed her. Pain detonated outward like a shockwave. Her legs buckled. The world blurred.

Kendel Teraquin did not pull his punch.

”K—Kendel...” She breathed, eyelids growing heavy.

Consciousness slipped from her like sand through an open hand.

He caught her gently before she hit the ground.

”HEY—!!” Celeste shouted, already surging forward, magic sparking around her—

”Take her away,” Kendel cut in.

Celeste froze.

Kendel looked down at Alvara, his thumb brushing aside the messy strands of green hair from where they clung to her cheek. Slowly, carefully... like handling something precious as she was to him.

”...I’m sorry, Freydis,” he whispered.

Then, with a quiet motion, he hoisted his unconscious sister into a princess carry and turned, placing her into Celeste’s arms.

”Take her to the Tree. Somewhere safe,” Kendel said.

”But—”

”Now,” he repeated, sharper this time.

His gaze shifted, locking onto Cyril.

Celeste swallowed, tension knotting in her throat. She forced a nod and turned, retreating with the unconscious Alvara cradled in her arms, the small boy following close behind.

”I’ll come back!” She called over her shoulder.

But then—

Her eyes caught it.

Her grandmother’s body.

Collapsed. Still. Lifeless.

Celeste staggered.

Her steps faltered halfway.

Trembling fingers tightened against Alvara’s sleeve as shock bloomed wide and cold in her chest.

Just then, gentle green vines unfurled from the earth, embracing Melfina with sacred tenderness. They wrapped around her fallen form until she was cocooned in a cradle of blooming leaves and flowers.

Celeste looked toward Kendel.

Nodding gratefully, then she ran.

The moment she disappeared from sight, Cyril dusted his shirt and let out a low chuckle.

”Well, well. And here I thought you might finally see reason, Kendel.” He stretched his arms wide. ”You refused me then. You refuse me now. So tell me... why are you here?”

Kendel already knew about the plan.

He always had.

And if he broke out now, on the final night of the Blood Moon Festival...

Then this day was never an accident.

Kendel’s eyes fell to the ground.

To Alvara’s sword.

He knelt, picked it up, and rose.

”I cannot wash away my sins,” he said quietly. ”But I can still protect my family’s future.”

Cyril burst out laughing—a grating, ugly sound. ”Regret? You? After everything?” His face twisted, disgust peeling away the humor. ”That’s the most pathetic thing you’ve ever said, Kendel.”

Kendel didn’t answer.

He simply looked away.

”...!”

Without warning—

A violent gust of wind slammed into Cyril like a storm erasing coastline.

-BOOOOOOM!!!

”UGHHH!” Cyril grunted, staggering as the wind tore into him. It cut like razors—hundreds, thousands of tiny razor-thin blades carving lines across his arms, his torso, his face. Blood misted into the air.

He forced himself upright, swinging his sword to split the assault and snarling forward through the chaos.

A silhouette emerged through the shredding wind.

Long silver hair flowed behind her like moonlit silk caught in an unseen current.

Mismatched eyes—two different shades of cold green—glimmered coldly.

”Death is the only ending for you, Cyril,” she said. ”I hope you’re prepared.”

Cyril smirked, wiping blood from his cheek.

”Aerinwyn, huh?”

***

”Are you kidding me...?”

The words growled out of my throat before I could stop them— edged with genuine irritation.

Because of course this would happen. Of. Course.

Hovering smugly in front of me was Earth—or whatever the hell his current dragon transformation wanted to be called now.

His entire body radiated molten gold, flames licking off his scales like sunlight forged into a furnace. Wings stretched wide, proud, dramatic—almost sparkly—because subtlety clearly wasn’t part of the package. And right across that stupid reptilian face was the widest, most punchable smirk I had ever witnessed.

If that was the only problem, maybe I could’ve dealt with it.

But no.

Because when I slowly dragged my eyes around me.

Surrounding me.

Encircling me.

Were several dozens or maybe hundred of them draped head to toe in dark, midnight blue robes. Their faces either hidden beneath deep hoods or accessorized with cold, unreadable masks.

Ante Eden.

All of them.