Transmigrated as the Villainess Princess - Chapter 230

Chapter 230: Consumed by Darkness (2)
The room was dark, suffocating, and quiet… too quiet. The lights on the wall had long since died out, and the moon’s light, filtered through the obsidian-stained glass of the room, cast only faint silvery shadows on the black marble floor.

Rohzivaan sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers curled into his skull as if he could squeeze the thoughts away. His body was still, but inside, a storm raged violently. The ache in his chest was indescribable, unbearable, and yet it was not new.

He had prepared for this. He had trained for this. He had ripped pieces of himself out, one at a time, in the months leading up to the bond’s severance. But none of it had made him ready for the aftermath. None of it had truly numbed his heart.

Before he made his final decision, he had buried himself in the demon arts, clawing through forbidden scrolls, mastering soul resistance rituals, forcing his body and mind through infernal meditation cycles that tore him apart from the inside out.

Day after day, he would sit under waterfalls of cursed flame or lock himself in caverns filled with screaming spirits just to desensitize his soul to the sharpness of feeling. He drank potions that dulled empathy. He carved sigils into his flesh to suppress memory.

He did everything short of turning himself into an empty shell. He had told himself it was for Ahcehera’s sake. That if he could break the bond while feeling nothing, then she wouldn’t suffer either. That the cleaner the cut, the lesser the damage.

But the truth was, he had done it for himself. He was terrified. Terrified that if he hesitated, if he faltered even for a moment, the pain would swallow him whole. That he would change his mind. That the last sliver of light inside him would plead for her and shatter his resolve. And so he killed that sliver.

He looked at his reflection until the day came and saw nothing but a person imprisoned in endless nothingness, stripped of warmth and hope. And yet, when the bond was severed, when the last thread of destiny between him and Ahcehera snapped under the force of Fiorensia’s ancient ritual, Rohzivaan felt everything.

It hit him like a tidal wave of acid, dissolving all his barriers and ripping apart every wall he had built. His soul screamed, but his mouth remained shut. His heart cracked open, but his eyes stayed dry. He had trained his face to betray nothing. But inside his chambers, hidden from the world, there was no one left to deceive.

He lay flat on the cold floor now, away from the bed that offered no comfort, away from the weapons and armor that mocked him with their silence. His chest heaved as the weight of the void bore down on him. He had not cried. Not even once. But he was bleeding in every way that didn’t involve blood.

He clawed at his chest like something was trying to crawl out, like her name, Ahcehera, was branded into his bones and it was burning its way to the surface. He whispered it sometimes, so faintly that even the shadows couldn’t catch it. Not as a call. Not as a plea. But as a memorial. As a curse.

She was gone. Not in the way mortals die. Not in the way memories fade. She was gone in the cruelest, most permanent way possible. Torn from his fate. Deleted from his future. Their bond was not a thread anymore. It was ash. And in return for severing it, the universe had granted him what he thought he wanted… emptiness.

The power still coursed through his veins. The demon exercises had heightened his strength, honed his instincts, and sharpened his will. He could command armies without fear. He could face gods and laugh in their faces. But it was all hollow.

The fire had gone out. He got to his feet slowly, each movement as heavy as dragging stone. He walked across the room, trailing his fingers along the dark wall until he reached the mirror, an old heirloom Fiorensia had enchanted to show the soul, not the face.

He stared into it, and what looked back was not a man, not a wolf, not a demon. It was a void wrapped in skin. A broken thing that no longer resembled the man who once believed in love. The man who once reached out to Ahcehera and thought salvation could be found in her arms.

He had killed that version of himself. And now he was left with a corpse that breathed. There were no tears. No screams. Just silence. That was the worst part, how quiet it all was. The pain did not roar… it whispered. It did not burn. It chilled.

It sat with him like a cruel companion, reminding him with every breath that he had made this choice. For the greater good. For the survival of the realms. For a future unchained by weakness. But no one told him that strength would taste like rot. That freedom would feel like exile. That peace would mean forgetting what it meant to be whole.

Somewhere deep in his chest, a heartbeat pulsed unevenly like it didn’t know what to do anymore. Like it had lost its rhythm. Rohzivaan pressed a hand to it, and for a moment, he thought about ending it. Ending the noise. Ending the ache. Just… ending. But he didn’t.

Because even now, shattered and scorched, he had a purpose. And that purpose was to endure. To live with the consequences. To wield his suffering as a blade sharper than any fang or spell. If he could not have Ahcehera, then he would become the monster the galaxy needed. No love. No mercy. No weakness. Only war.

He turned away from the mirror and faced the door. He would not sleep tonight. There was no sleep anymore. Only the cold, and the silence, and the memory of a bond that once made him feel alive.

Now, it would be the ghost that walked beside him into every battlefield. And when he conquered worlds, when he stood atop mountains of ruin and faced the stars, they would all see it, the pain he buried, the love he lost, the darkness he chose.

They would see Rohzivaan not as a brother, not as a son, not as a mate. But as a god carved from the remnants of a man who dared to feel, and paid the price.