The Villainess's Reputation [Kingdom Building]

"We eliminate or capture Edward Jola," David said with cold resolve, "and end this entire invasion."

His gaze hardened, his voice rising above the crashing surf. "To protect Lady Aurora and Young Lord Ken. we will strike now!"

The boat vanished into the mist, blades drawn, hearts steady.

The enemy vessel loomed out of the fog like a ghost galleon, its black sails half-lowered, its hull gilded with golden trimmings that shimmered faintly through the mist. sigils pulsed quietly along the edges of the ship, acting as both a small camouflage and barrier.

But the strike team had already anticipated that.

A dull thud echoed as David's boarding hook latched onto the rear railing. With smooth, fluid motions, the squad of ten from Aurora's retinue secured their ropes and began ascending the hull, silent, practiced, and focused.

They were not wearing heavy plates. Their armor was light, dull-coated to muffle noise. Their weapons were sheathed in tightly bound wraps to avoid clanging, and each footstep was calculated.

David reached the deck first.

His boots touched the wood with the gentleness of falling ash. He crouched low, hand on the hilt of his curved saber. One by one, the others followed, Emma, Rhys, two crossbow shooters, and several dagger close-combat specialists militia.

The ship was vast, built for high nobles and front-line combat. A mobile fortress draped in luxury, layered with defense spells and gilded excess.

But it was quiet. Too quiet.

"Where are the crew?" Emma whispered, her back pressed to the inner railing.

"Likely stationed on the main deck or changing formations at the bow," David murmured.

He signaled with two fingers. The group split into pairs, moving across the upper deck toward entrances below, no torches, only sunlight and fog.

Emma and David took the central stairs, descending into the lower deck hallways.

The corridors were narrow but lined with ornamental paintings and enchanted lanterns that glowed softly, casting golden halos of light. Every few feet, they paused, listening, watching, waiting.

Then, footsteps.

Three imperial soldiers approached from the far end, chatting, softly talking, unaware of the shadow moving toward them.

Snap.

A silk cord shot forward, tightening instantly around the throat of the lead soldier. Emma pulled it back as David lunged from the side, striking the second with a rapid pommel blow to the temple. The third tried to scream, tried, but the crossbow shooter behind them had already fired a silent bolt through his neck.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

They fell, one after another. Not a single noise escaped.

The team moved forward, dragging the bodies into a side compartment. David reached into the pouch at his hip and pulled out a parchment.

Ravenna's map had been very precise.

"That way. Edward Jola should be in the state chamber," he whispered.

They advanced again, past servant corridors, beneath small chandeliers, slipping behind patrols and hiding in the narrow blind spots between junior mages sensor flowers. There were a few close calls, once, they barely avoided detection by ducking into a wine cellar as a group of mages passed, debating the use of wind spells to clear the fog again.

But eventually, they reached a grand door. It bore the sigil of House Jola: a broken chain over a sinking crown.

Emma's lip curled. "The Coward's crest."

David didn't respond. He only reached for the door handle and gave a nod to the others.

Three. Two. One.

They burst through in perfect sync.

Inside the lavish war chamber, maps and wine. Velvet curtains shrouded the rear windows, and a feast lay abandoned at the side table.

Standing near the war table, cloaked in noble blue robes, panicked and pale-faced was none other than Edward Jola, former Duke of the region and now, Imperial puppet to the dead Prince Nolan.

He froze.

"Wha—what is the meaning of this?!" He screamed.

At top the Coastal Wall, Kim City, Kim Island, Kim Dukedom, Ancorna Empire

Marie took a breath and stepped back, eyes never leaving the sky. The moment was close. The sky above the battlefield was painted in hues of fog and clouded sun, where the hot air balloons loomed, hovering like watchful eyes above the advancing enemy formations. Below, the Imperial knights marched in perfect coordination, their armor catching fragments of light through the dissipating fog.

Marie's eyes shimmered faintly with divine energy as the world around her slowed.

Everything else blurred into a distant murmur, her heartbeat was loud in her ears, her breath crisp in the chilled wind, and time itself seemed to crawl. One of Her divine gifts as the saint, that allowed her to calculate motion slowly with terrifying clarity. The balloons drifted gently over the battlefield, their payloads hanging like pendulums of impending judgment.

Half were above the charging enemy troops, the other half drifting over the fog-wrapped warships below at the ocean. She studied the distance, wind current, and balloon trajectory, her mind already computing impact radius, drop delay, and timing.

Then, she moved.

Her fingers reached for the core of the fillet flower, the signal to release the payloads. One touch, and the fire sustaining the balloons would vanish, and with it, the weighted payloads would fall like divine retribution from the heavens.

But then—something shifted in her peripheral vision.

A strange presence scraped across the edge of her awareness.

Before her body could respond, her vision caught it, a flicker, a motion: wrong.

A blade, black and gleaming, cut through the air in slow motion. Her divine perception tracked it with horrifying clarity, but her body, her mortal flesh, could not keep up.

It was like watching her own death frame by frame. The dagger's tip pierced her throat.

Pain erupted through her as the steel sank in with surgical precision. A gurgled scream rose in her throat, wet, choking. Her knees buckled. The fillet flower slipped from her grasp, rolling across the stone.

Blood spilled like crimson ink down her robes.

She stumbled, catching herself against the ledge, her eyes locked on the figure stepping out of shadow.

He was dressed not as one of their soldiers, but in camouflage marked with imperial colors, blended with civilian cloaks.

His face was calm, lips curled into a smirk. In his hand, he twirled another dagger, stepping over the corpses of two militia guards who had once stood watch. He wasn't just any soldier.

He was a battle assassin.

Marie gasped for air, her vision swimming with tears and blood. Her trembling hand reached back toward the flower, but she knew it was too far.