The Scum Emperor's Redemption System - Chapter 85

Chapter 85: The Unmasked Truth (2: End of Volume One)

In another timeline, where Argider was still a man, the world treated him no better.
Magic poured from his veins like a divine river, but even his gifts could not shield him from scorn.
They took what he offered, drank deeply of his power, and left him hollow. The peasants called him a miracle-worker, the nobles called him a freak, and the kings? They called him a tool.

He gave and gave. For a while.

“Argider, another blessing for the crops?” a local lord sneered, leaning lazily on a polished cane. “Your generosity is the only reason this village hasn’t starved. Surely you’ll keep your streak of benevolence alive?”

Argider’s lips twitched into a forced smile. He raised his hand, letting tendrils of golden magic weave into the soil. Crops shot up like soldiers standing at attention, lush and ripe. The villagers cheered—for the lord, not for him.

They never thanked him.

Years passed, and the same story played on repeat: nobles jeering, peasants begging, and Argider bending under the weight of expectations. It wore at him like rust on steel, corroding his spirit. Until one day, something inside him snapped.

“Enough,” he growled, a tremor in his voice that made the air around him crackle with heat. He’d spent decades ensuring these lands thrived, only to see his name dragged through the mud. Gratitude was a stranger, and his own heart had grown cold. He was done.

It began subtly. The first village that refused to bow after receiving his magic found its fields inexplicably barren the next season. When the peasants cried out for help, Argider appeared on the hill, silhouetted against the setting sun.

“You took my gifts for granted,” he said, his voice carrying over the wind. “Now, reap what you’ve sown.”

The village burned that night.

Soon, word spread. Argider, the once-gentle giver of life, had become something else entirely.

The peasants whispered his name with fear. The nobles, once dismissive, began to quake in their boots whenever his golden magic lit the sky.

His demands became relentless: wealth, land, loyalty. And when opposition dared to rise, he crushed it underfoot.

“Bring me the dissenters,” Argider commanded one stormy evening, lounging on a throne of obsidian. His court was vast and glittering, filled with sycophants who clung to him like barnacles on a ship.

A knight stumbled forward, dragging two bound prisoners—a man and a woman. They looked up at Argider with defiance burning in their eyes.

“You’ve stolen from the people,” the man spat. “Twisted your gifts into chains to bind us. You were supposed to be a savior, not a tyrant!”

Argider raised an eyebrow, feigning interest. “Oh? And what, pray tell, am I now?”

“A monster,” the woman hissed.

For a moment, silence filled the hall. Then Argider laughed, a sharp, cutting sound that echoed like a blade across stone.

“You flatter me,” he said, rising to his feet. With a flick of his wrist, golden flames erupted around the prisoners, licking at their feet. “I’ve given this world everything, and it spat in my face. Now, I’ll take what I’m owed. Burn for your insolence.”

The flames consumed them, their screams fading into the night. The courtiers applauded nervously, but Argider didn’t care. His eyes glimmered with something dark, something hungry.

His power only grew. Castles rose in his name, forged from the very earth he once healed. Women were brought to his court, meant to entertain him, but they became little more than his playthings.
He adorned them in silks and jewels, only to cast them aside when he grew bored.
Men who defied him became slaves, forced to labor endlessly under his watchful eye.
Trust was a luxury he could no longer afford; betrayal lurked in every shadow, and he ruled with paranoia sharpened to a blade’s edge.

Even as his dominion expanded, cracks began to form in his empire. Whispers of rebellion spread like wildfire, carried by those who had nothing left to lose. And deep down, Argider knew, he couldn’t keep this up forever.

One fateful night, as he stood alone in his grand hall, a voice echoed from the darkness.

“Your reign has gone on long enough, Argider.”

He spun around, golden magic crackling at his fingertips. A figure stepped into the light, cloaked in shadows. Their face was obscured, but their presence was undeniable—power radiated from them like a second sun.

“Who dares challenge me?” Argider snarled, his voice dripping with venom.

The figure chuckled softly. “Challenge? No. Punish.”

Before Argider could react, a wave of energy slammed into him, ripping through his defenses like paper. His body crumpled to the ground, writhing in agony as the figure approached.

“You’ve abused your gifts for too long,” they said, their voice cold and unyielding. “It’s time you learn what it means to be powerless.”

With a flick of their hand, Argider felt his magic, the very essence of his being, being torn away. It left him hollow, like a vessel drained of water, and for the first time in years, he was truly vulnerable.

“No!” he roared, clawing at the air. “You can’t do this! I am a god!”

“You are nothing,” the figure said, their voice like a death knell. “Not anymore.”

And then they were gone, leaving Argider kneeling on the cold stone floor, his once-mighty empire crumbling around him.

Without his magic, the world turned against him. The peasants he had oppressed rose up, tearing down his castles and scattering his followers.
The women he had used and discarded found him cowering in a forgotten corner of his ruined throne room.

“Look at him,” one of them sneered, her voice filled with disdain. “The great Argider, brought low.”

They left him alive, but only barely. He wandered the land for years, a shadow of his former self, haunted by the memories of what he had done. His magic remained dormant, a silent reminder of his fall from grace.

One day, he swore to himself, he would rise again.

And he did.

At that very timeline, he burned the world.