I Became The Novel's Biggest Antagonist

Chapter 156 [Epilogue Volume 1]: Night In Dreonah

Night had fallen over the Kingdom of Unadora. A heavy silence blanketed the land, disturbed only by the distant howls of wind sweeping through abandoned villages.

The kingdom had been forced to take drastic measures. Cities and towns on the outskirts had been completely evacuated, their people relocated to the safety of Unadora's central regions. Those who could not find shelter within the kingdom had been sent to neighboring lands, welcomed as refugees.

Fortunately, Unadora had always maintained strong relations with its neighboring kingdoms. When the call for aid came, they had not hesitated to open their gates. But their willingness was not solely out of goodwill—these kingdoms knew what Unadora was about to face.

A nightmare whispered about across the Holy Continent.

Gevurah.

A ruthless and fanatical organization, built on the twisted faith of Seraphiel's followers.

At first, few had taken them seriously. A mere cult, they had thought. Just another rogue sect preying on small, defenseless towns. The ruling powers had assumed a handful of knights would be enough to put them down.

They could not have been more wrong.

Gevurah was not just pillaging. They were conquering. And worse, they were converting.

Survivors—few as they were—returned with horror-stricken faces and broken spirits, telling tales that sent chills down the spines of even hardened warriors.

The moment Gevurah descended upon a town, all who took up arms against them were slaughtered without mercy.

As for the civilians, they were given a choice. Convert or die.

Men and women who refused were executed in front of their neighbors, their deaths used as a lesson to those who wavered. The children, left orphaned in the wake of bloodshed, were taken—dragged to the cathedrals, forced to bear the mark of Seraphiel, their minds bent until resistance was no longer an option.

It was nothing short of systematic brainwashing.

This was how Gevurah expanded.

First, they swallowed small villages—places so insignificant that the kingdoms barely noticed their loss. Then, they turned their gaze toward larger settlements. By the time the authorities realized the pattern, it was too late. Entire towns had vanished, absorbed into Gevurah's growing dominion.

At first, the rulers had dismissed the disappearances, attributing them to bandits or mere misfortune. But when the truth finally emerged, it was far more terrifying than anything they had imagined.

And yet, despite everything, they still failed to take Gevurah seriously.

Their naivety wasn't entirely their fault.

Over the past thousand years, since the emergence of the Faith of Seraphiel, countless factions had risen, claiming divine purpose, pillaging villages, and forcing conversions. Most of them burned out quickly—conquering a few towns before they were inevitably crushed by a real army, wiped out the moment competent soldiers were sent to handle them.

To the rulers of the Holy Continent, Gevurah had seemed no different.

And why wouldn't they underestimate them?@@@@

For years, Gevurah had confined its reach to small and mid-sized towns, never daring to challenge the might of a kingdom. It was easy to mistake this for weakness. To assume they were just another doomed cult biting off more than they could chew.

But that assumption had been a grave mistake.

Gevurah wasn't weak. They were patient. They were preparing.

While the world dismissed them, they had been building.

Deep in the shadows, they raised the foundations of Seraphia—their own city, their own nation. They needed supplies. They needed workers. They needed wealth to fund their military, to sustain the civilization they were forging from blood and faith.

Truthfully, their grand invasion of the Holy Continent was never meant to begin so soon.

By all logic, it should have taken another decade before they made their move. Ten more years of quiet expansion, of stockpiling resources, of growing in number and strength.

But fate had other plans.

Monsters had been born among them.

Geniuses. Prodigies. Young warriors who wielded the power of Stigma as easily as breathing. The kind of talents that only appeared once every thousand years among Stigma Holders. They were chosen, raised, and anointed as Gevurah's Legion Commanders.

But the one who truly changed everything—the one who accelerated their plans—was a man whose name would make all Kingdoms shiver.

Ivan Zakharovich Kozlow.

Ordinarily, his name should have been unknown. He did not go around boasting of his existence. But Gevurah made sure the world knew his name. They carved it into the memories of survivors, forcing them to speak it, ensuring it spread like wildfire through whispers of terror and awe.

From the moment the Council of Gevurah recognized the limitless potential Ivan possessed, they understood one thing with absolute certainty.

This was the era they had been waiting for.

There was no doubt. No hesitation.

They knew it the day he obtained his unique Stigma.

And they knew it the day he lifted Lost Paradise.

A blade of legend. The Divine Sword said to have once been wielded by Seraphiel herself in a war against the Gods. An artifact passed down among her followers for generations—untouched, unwielded, waiting for the one who could claim it.

No one had ever managed to.

Until Ivan did.

And with that, history changed.

From the moment the invasion plan was set into motion, everything accelerated at an unimaginable pace. Under Ivan's command, the Legion surged forward, their conquests swift and merciless. It wasn't long before their reputation spread across the entire world, and soon, the name Gevurah became synonymous with Ivan himself. Every survivor, every desperate escapee, whispered his name as the responsible of every massacre, the leader who painted the world in blood.

Any lingering doubts about Gevurah's ambition were erased the day they launched the first step of their conquest—an assault on the Holy Continent, beginning with Britannia.

To the rest of the world, it was sheer madness.

They were daring to attack the empire once conquered by none other than Arthur Pendragon, alongside Merlin and the legendary Knights of the Round Table—an empire that had only been established a dozen years prior.

But then—

-RUMBLE

The castle shook violently. No, not just the castle. The entire city trembled beneath an unseen force.

Gasps and panicked cries filled the throne hall.

"W-What's happening?!"

"I don't know!"

The nobles erupted into a frenzy, their fear spiraling out of control. The knights moved swiftly, trying to calm them, though their own uncertainty was visible in their stiff postures and wary glances toward the shaking walls.

Then—

Merlin's eyes snapped open.

A otherworldly hue of reddish-pink gleamed within them.

She turned to the man in white armor. Kenneth.

Their gazes met for only a second. She nodded. He understood.

Then she looked toward the King.

"Your Majesty. They are here."

King Harvin Dreonah's expression hardened. "I see... Please, stay safe."

Merlin simply nodded. "Do not leave this castle under any circumstances."

And then, in an instant, both she and Kenneth vanished.

Above the city, the two reappeared in the night sky, soaring toward the source of the commotion.

The battlefield was already set.

At the main gates, Unadora's knights and hunters had already drawn their weapons, forming a line of steel. Above them, the airships hovered in formation, their massive cannons primed and ready to fire.

And before them all, looming like an omen of death, was a massive black airship, its dark silhouette blotting out the stars.

It floated ominously at the very edge of Unadora's gates.

Gevurah had arrived.

Merlin grimaced the moment she saw how brazenly they revealed themselves.

Arrogance?

No. She knew better.

As soon as they arrived, both she and Kenneth halted midair, floating at a safe distance from the enemy airships. Below, the clatter of footsteps echoed as the Black Legion advanced in perfect formation, their numbers swelling with every passing second. Yet, neither Merlin nor Kenneth paid them any mind. Their attention remained locked on the deck of the ship, where four figures stood.

Merlin's eyes narrowed.

Teenagers.

Her grip on her staff tightened instinctively.

Among them, one stepped forward, his sharp features twisted into a smirk.

Mikhail.

"People of Unadora," he called out, his voice unnaturally amplified, likely enhanced by some spell that carried his words across the entire city. "Open your gates, bow to your knees, and embrace Seraphiel's Faith."

Kenneth let out a low chuckle. "And if we refuse?"

Mikhail's smirk didn't falter, but his gaze darkened as it landed on Kenneth's white armor—armor he clearly recognized all too well.

A Paladin.

"Then we will slaughter every last soul who refuses to kneel," Mikhail said.

Kenneth let out a laugh, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. "We'll see about that."

At that moment, a new set of footsteps rang out across the deck.

"...!" Merlin stiffened.

Kenneth, whose hand had been idly resting on his sword, suddenly felt it tremble. His fingers curled tighter as he lifted his gaze.

The knights and hunters below, though too far to see clearly, could feel it—the suffocating weight of something unnatural pressing down on them. A true fear slithered into their bones, making even the most veterans warriors shift uneasily.

"It's him," Merlin whispered, gripping her staff even harder.

Kenneth's eyes locked onto the newcomer—a young man clad entirely in black. He wore no armor, just a simple shirt and pants, as if battle was of no concern to him.

Silence fell over the battlefield as his footsteps echoed against the wooden planks. He walked past Mikhail without a glance, stopping only when he reached the very edge of the deck. Find your next read on My Virtual Library Empire

Then, finally, he looked down.

His abyss-black eyes settled on Merlin.

Only Merlin.