Transmigrated as the Villainess Princess - Chapter 244

Chapter 244: A New Direction (8)

Deep within the shadows of a forbidden continent, where no sun had ever touched the ground and no light dared to persist, a lone figure knelt before an obsidian throne. The cavernous hall was draped in silence, broken only by the subtle crackle of crimson energy floating in the air like fireflies of death.

Pillars twisted like bone spirals lined either side of the blackened hall, leading to a raised platform where the throne, carved from the remains of a fallen celestial beast, rested, emanating a pulse that distorted time itself.

The assassin knelt motionless, head bowed, face hidden beneath a veil of smoke. Her breathing was shallow, her body marred with shallow cuts and bruises, her cloak drenched in blood, not her own. She had barely escaped with her life. Her comrades had all fallen, clean kills, fast, almost surgical.

None of them had even gotten close to Riezekiel. And she had run. Not from cowardice, but by the precise calculation of knowing that a single death would serve no purpose when a report was needed more.

She dared not speak until the air around her shifted. It started as a whisper. A breeze. A sensation that the world had grown heavier, and her heart was being slowly crushed by invisible hands. From the shadows behind the throne, a presence moved forward.

It didn’t walk, it flowed, like smoke molded into a man’s frame, tall and cloaked in black robes embroidered with glowing symbols that pulsed like ancient veins. Where his face should have been, there was only a mask made of mirrored glass, reflecting her trembling form.

“You return,” came the voice, silken, deep, calm. Too calm.

The assassin’s head dipped lower. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, her voice quivering. “The mission failed.”

Silence followed. The air stilled as if the world held its breath.

“He lives?” the masked figure asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, still not looking up. “Riezekiel of the Mors Dukedom. He killed the others. I was the only one who escaped.”

The figure did not move. But a coldness began to seep through the room, like a chill laced with venom and wrath. The temperature dropped, and the assassin’s breath became visible, fogging slightly in front of her face.

“And you ran.” It was not a question. It was a statement laced with death.

“I chose survival over futile death,” she replied quickly. “To bring this knowledge to you. His combat level is not as it was during his time in the Sirius campaign. He is stronger. Sharper. His body has adapted to his return.”

The figure stepped down from the platform, silent as death. With every stride, the room grew colder. The assassin’s body stiffened as he stopped in front of her. She could feel the ancient energy ripple off of him, energy that had once torn star systems apart in a single breath.

“What else?” he asked.

“He’s begun rebuilding the Mors Dukedom,” she said quickly. “Not just as a residence, but as a fortress. The old relics are active. The bloodline seals are intact. It’s no longer just a house of ruins… It’s becoming a stronghold.”

Still, the masked figure did not speak. But the assassin could sense something beneath the mask, a smile. Cold, calculating.

“He doesn’t know,” she continued, voice steadier now. “He doesn’t know why he’s on our death list. He believes it’s because of his heritage… his alliance. But it’s more than that, isn’t it, my lord?”

The figure tilted his head, amused. “He has yet to remember.”

The assassin’s breath hitched.

“Yes,” the figure continued, stepping past her. “And that… makes him all the more interesting. Let the boy build his fortress. Let him sharpen his blades and think himself a warrior ready for war.”

He raised a hand, and the ceiling above shifted, revealing an ethereal map of the stars, each one a living pulse of fate. “The thread has been pulled. His presence stirs the old bones. But he does not yet know what he protects. Or what slumbers within him.”

The assassin dared to look up slightly. “Shall I return? Finish the mission?”

“No,” the figure said, voice a command that would bend steel. “You will not touch him again, not yet. Let him breathe. Let him believe he is safe. There are more important pieces to move first.”

He waved his hand again, and the image above shifted, planet Sirius flickered into view, then zoomed in slowly toward the central military district, where the academy glowed in white lights and protective wards.

His masked gaze rested on a particular section near the eastern gardens, where a certain woman had last been seen walking alone beneath the moonlight.

“Ahcehera,” he murmured.

The assassin tensed. “She was there too?”

“She was,” the figure confirmed. “And she is no longer what she was. She’s changing. Faster than predicted.”

The assassin dared to ask, “Do you still intend to retrieve her?”

The masked figure was quiet. Then he turned away, his cloak billowing like smoke made solid. “In time. Let her memory continue to slip. Let the light inside her fade. She’ll come to us willingly, one day.”

“But what if she doesn’t?”

The figure chuckled, low, ancient, and cold enough to still rivers. “They always come. Whether out of fear, desperation, or love… even the strongest light turns to shadow when the stars go silent.”

The assassin dropped her head again, the chill biting at her skin. She knew that laugh. She had heard it before, during the fall of the western bastion, during the betrayal of the Lunar Empire, during the devouring of the last phoenix core.

It was the sound of inevitable ruin. And when he smiled behind that mask, it meant that something irreversible was in motion. The masked figure turned one last time before fading back into the shadows behind the throne.

“Watch the skies,” he said, voice drifting like a curse. “Soon, the winds will carry screams instead of songs. And Riezekiel… will finally understand what it means to be chosen.”

The chamber returned to silence. The assassin remained kneeling until the air warmed slightly. Only then did she rise, leaving swiftly, her steps ghostly on the stone. She knew better than to linger in the presence of gods disguised as men.

Far away, across stars and systems, Riezekiel stood in the Mors war room, unaware of the fate circling his name. And Ahcehera, far in Sirius, walked beneath the garden lights of the Academy, her eyes heavy with memories she could no longer reach.

And above them both, the first demon god waited.

Smiling.