I Am The Game's Villain

Nearly a thousand years ago, the lands of Sancta Vedelia were plunged into a brutal war, a conflict that consumed the entire continent in chaos. From the outside, it appeared to be a war over territories and dominance, and while that was partly true, the roots of the conflict ran much deeper—into the very nature and pride of the races involved.

The war pitted the High Humans, Werewolves, Vampires, and the diverse Elven races against one another. Among the Elves, there were numerous subgroups, each distinct and proud of their heritage: the Elves, the High Elves, the Blood Elves, and the Dark Elves.

Though occasional skirmishes broke out between the Elven factions themselves, the primary clash was between the High Humans and the other races. It was a war of survival and ascension, and at the time, the High Humans were seen as the underdogs—a dark horse in a race dominated by beings with extraordinary abilities.

The High Humans were the most underestimated. Unlike the other races, they lacked inherent advantages.

The Werewolves were unmatched in physical strength, their bodies brimming with lifeforce. They also wielded control over Prana, an energy unique to their kind that amplified their strength.

The Vampires possessed unparalleled speed and an astounding capacity for regeneration. However, their strength came at a cost—they relied on consuming blood to sustain their vitality and power.

The Elves, with their innate affinity for mana, were masters of magic. Their control over mana was precise, allowing them to cast spells with quite ease.

The Dark Elves, in addition to their proficiency with mana, were naturally resistant to its effects.

The Blood Elves, a unique branch of the Elven lineage, not only excelled in mana manipulation but also possessed the ability to grow stronger by consuming blood. This allowed them to wield blood-based techniques similar to the Vampires, though without the latter's extraordinary speed or regenerative prowess.

At the pinnacle of Elven society were the High Elves. Legends claimed they were the first of their kind, direct descendants of Demigods who had once walked the land. Unlike their kin, who had evolved through unions with other races, the High Elves were considered pure, a race apart. Their connection to mana was unparalleled, so profound that it was said mana itself favored them, bending to their will and empowering them in battle.

They lived in perfect symbiosis with nature, their very presence harmonizing with the natural world. Mana Beasts—creatures highly attuned to mana—were drawn to them willingly, offering their service and protection.

The High Elves claimed Sancta Vedelia as their divine right, believing themselves to be the first inhabitants of the land. They saw the continent as their birthright, dismissing other races as interlopers or inferior beings. This arrogance fueled tensions, making the High Elves as much a political force as a military one. Their self-proclaimed legitimacy over Sancta Vedelia further inflamed the already volatile relations among the races.

At that time, their army was unparalleled—widely regarded as the mightiest force in Sancta Vedelia. For those in neighboring kingdoms, one belief reigned supreme:

The High Elves would undoubtedly emerge victorious in the war, seizing control of the Holy Tree of Eden. This sacred tree, still in its infancy at the time, held untold potential. The High Elves were thought to be invincible, a force of nature so overwhelming that even the Vampires, Werewolves, and other Elven races found themselves utterly outmatched. The High Humans fared no better; in fact, their plight was the gravest of all.

Rumors circulated like wildfire, painting a bleak future for the High Humans. Should the war reach its conclusion, few doubted that the High Humans would be left with little to no territory. Some even speculated that they might be entirely driven from Sancta Vedelia, their homeland reduced to a distant memory.

But then, in the midst of despair, history took an unexpected turn.

The appearance of the First Prophetess and the First Apostle of Nihil altered the trajectory of events in ways no one could have foreseen.

That fateful day, 800 years ago, marked the beginning of a new era.

Legends tell of the Elves of Utopia as peaceful exiles, willingly abandoning Sancta Vedelia to avoid further bloodshed among their kin. However, the truth diverges starkly from these tales of self-imposed exile.

In reality, they were forcibly driven from their homeland, a consequence of their own actions and the harsh retribution they had incurred. With no other choice, they sought refuge across the seas, finding home on a chain of islands far from Sancta Vedelia.

There, amid their mutual suffering, centuries-old animosities began to fade. Former enemies found unity in their shared hatred for the current inhabitants of Sancta Vedelia—the ones they deemed usurpers of their rightful land. It was a simple yet powerful notion: the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Through cooperation born of necessity, the displaced Elves rebuilt their fractured civilization. Each race staked its claim on one of the three major islands, carving out distinct yet interconnected territories. The High Elves claimed the northern island, naming it Elyen Kiora. The Dark Elves took the western island, naming it Humenoril. Meanwhile, the Blood Elves settled on the eastern island, Ducethira.

At the heart of these territories lay a fourth island, a neutral ground that became the center of their new civilization. They named it the City of Utopia, a haven of shared governance and unity. Towering above this city stood the Tower of Utopia, the seat of power and decision-making for the Elves' newfound alliance. Here, the rulers of Utopia convened to deliberate, a council akin to the Great Nobles' Meetings of Sancta Vedelia.

***

Within the Tower of Utopia, in a grand chamber reserved for only the highest of councils, a group of figures convened around a massive round table.

At the table's center sat two men who dominated the atmosphere with their imposing presence. Both exuded an overwhelming mana pressure.

Seated with an air of arrogance, Bakarel Digvarit, the King of the Dark Elves, lounged as though the room belonged to him. His long, muscular legs were draped over the table's edge, his chair tipped back precariously. Bakarel's dark, sun-kissed skin being his most striking feature, while his green eyes held a gleam of amusement. His greyish-black hair, swept back immaculately, framed pointed ears that marked his heritage as one of the proudest of the Elves. Wearing a smirk, he was gazing at the man in front of him.

Opposite him, Elashor Sarkian, the King of the Blood Elves, sat upright. There was no lounging or smirking—his demeanor was one of calmness, his crimson-red eyes glowing faintly. His dark brown hair, tied neatly at the nape of his neck, fell in a cascade of silky strands down his back, emphasizing the sharpness of his elongated ears..

Both rulers carried the visible strength of Monarchs.

"So, how are things going, Elashor?" Bakarel asked clearly not out of concern. He leaned further back in his chair, the smirk on his lips deepening. "Word is that you're struggling quite a bit with the Tepes Armies. Not going too well for you, is it?"

The derisive laugh that followed rang around the room, but Elashor's expression remained impassive.

Bakarel's mockery wasn't without reason. While he and his armies had been advancing steadily, carving through the territory of the Dolphis Kingdom with ease, Elashor was locked in a grueling conflict with the Tepes forces. Bakarel's victories were swift and decisive, and whispers suggested he might soon reach the Dolphian Capital itself.

But the truth of Bakarel's success was far less glorious than he liked to admit. The Dolphis King, Reiner Dolphis, had ordered his forces to retreat strategically, abandoning vast swathes of land to concentrate his strength near the kingdom's core. This left Bakarel's path virtually unguarded, granting him easy victories over scattered, ill-prepared human militias.

Elashor, fully aware of this, offered a faint, knowing smile. "I think we both know why things seem so easy for you, Bakarel."

"Oh?" Bakarel's brow arched. "And what might that be?"

"It's quite simple," Elashor replied smoothly. "You're fighting Humans. Weaklings whose greatest talent is running away. Children could defeat them. Honestly, Bakarel, you shouldn't be so quick to boast about conquering cowards who flee before you even arrive."

"How dare you speak like that to our King?!"

The man behind Bakarel, his eyes blazing with anger, instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword. His movements spoke volumes of his disregard for the title of the man before him—King or not.

"Calm yourself, Kalthaes." Bakarel raised a hand, his voice almost playful. A low chuckle escaped his lips.

He wasn't offended.

Why would he be?
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After all, it was the truth.

Victory over mere Humans wasn't something to be angry about. If anything, it was a matter of pride.

"You're correct, Elashor," Bakarel said with a smirk. "But I do hope you won't fail against the Tepes clan the way your father did five years ago."

His smirk widened, as he laughed. "If I remember correctly, it was a mere twelve-year-old girl who tore your father's heart from his chest in Valachia, wasn't it? A spectacular humiliation. But I'm sure you can do better."

Elashor's crimson eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, his hands curling into fists at his sides. That bitter memory—a stain on the pride of the Blood Elves—had haunted their clan for years. He had no intention of letting it linger beyond this war.

"...We'll speak again," Elashor said coldly, "when you've managed to take the Dolphian Capital."

Bakarel snorted dismissively, leaning back as if the matter were already decided in his favor.

"Have you two finished your childish quarrel?"

The deep voice of Grukel broke through as he entered the chamber. His cane tapped against the stone floor as he walked.

Behind him, Durathiel strode in silently. Without a word, Durathiel took his seat at the head of the room.

Both Bakarel and Elashor fell silent, their disputes momentarily forgotten.

"There will be a change of plans," Durathiel said, his gaze settling on Bakarel. "You and your forces will bypass the Dolphian Capital and march directly toward Central Vedelia."

"Huh? Why?" Bakarel frowned in confusion. "I'm on the verge of breaking Dolphis. Victory is within reach!"

"Kamarel will handle Dolphis. His forces are more than sufficient to deal with the High Humans," Durathiel replied calmly.

Bakarel opened his mouth to protest but Durathiel spoke again.

"You, King Bakarel, will take Central Vedelia. The Holy Tree must fall in our hands within the next few weeks."

There was a brief pause as Bakarel processed the order. Then a wide grin spread across his face.

"Ah, I see. You're entrusting me with the real task," he said, in a clear satisfied tone. "I'll take it down gladly then."

"Why the rush?" Elashor asked, a bit puzzled.

"Kendel Teraquin suspects something," Durathiel replied. "Before he confirms his suspicions, I intend to eliminate both him and the Teraquin armies. He's currently marching toward Zestella, aiming to eliminate their forces. I've already contacted Behemoth to deploy their own troops to intercept him there. Once Zestella's borders fall, Bakarel will bring his army down from Central Vedelia to the south—straight into the heart of the Teraquin Kingdom. Kendel Teraquin will be trapped between our forces on both sides, and he will fall."

Elashor's lips curled into a faint smirk. "So, we're really going to stab them in the back. I like it. But what about Freya? You promised Kendel her hand in marriage, didn't you? If you don't deliver, he'll know we've betrayed him and won't hesitate to turn on us."

Grukel shook his head slowly. "The moment Kendel sees Behemoth aiding their forces, his suspicions will already be half-confirmed. He hasn't forgotten the attack on Vanadias a month ago. Still, he'll continue his campaign as long as we maintain the appearance of alliance and avoid overt hostility."

"And Lady Freya?" Elashor asked.

Grukel let out a dry chuckle. "Surely, you don't believe we'd entrust Her Royal Highness to a mere Elf. No, Kendel Teraquin will never see that promise fulfilled."

Elashor crossed his arms, nodding slightly, though his expression remained a bit thoughtful. "What about the Seed?"

The room fell silent for a moment. Elashor's question wasn't born of idle curiosity—it cut to the core of their ambitions. Central Vedelia, Kendel Teraquin, Freya—they were all secondary to the true prize: the Seed of Eden.

"We already know where it is," Grukel said.

"Huh? Then why were we groveling before Kendel for it in the first place?" Bakarel was confused.

"Because it was easier to acquire through him," Grukel explained without saying more. "But now that events have unfolded this way, we'll take the Seed when the time is right. For now, we must maintain the illusion of alliance until 'she' is securely in our grasp."

Something in Grukel's tone gave Bakarel pause. He leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Wait… who is 'she'?"

"Alvara Freydis Teraquin."