Novel Full Chapter 1843: Worth Dying For
Chapter 1843: Worth Dying For
Villain Ch 1843. Worth Dying For
For a while no one speak or make a sound.
Not the silence of peace, but the silence after screaming—when throats were raw, when bodies still remembered the weight of dying, when blood still smeared the stones like wet paint.
Elio’s knees gave out. His sword clattered beside him, wings twitching once before folding tight against his back. He collapsed on the cobblestones, chest heaving, the phantom ache of Allen’s blade still burning in his chest.
Around him, players slowly respawned in light bursts—some staggering, some groaning, some laughing like they hadn’t just been butchered.
The plaza stank of iron and smoke. Blood glistened between the cracks in the stone, the faint hum of vanished relics still buzzing in the air.
Then voices trickled in.
“Ah, I thought I could hold the relic until the end.”
“Damn it… just a bit more and we might’ve pulled it off.”
“Shit, I almost made it to the timer.”
Others weren’t angry at all. Some were even grinning—broad, stupid, satisfied grins.
“Man… the succubi though…” one swordsman chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck like he could still feel phantom lips. “That kiss? Worth dying for.”
“No kidding,” another mage added, still dazed. “I was strangled and kissed at the same time. If that’s how I’m gonna lose, let me die twice.”
Laughter rose, shaky, half-hysterical. It wasn’t joy. It was coping.
Elio didn’t join.
He was still staring at the cracked plaza floor, blood dripping from his chin onto the stone. His thoughts weren’t on the banter, or the humiliation, or even the relics.
His thoughts were locked on Allen.
“The tournament…” he muttered, voice barely audible.
The word hung in his head, heavy, sharp. He knew exactly which tournament Allen meant. Everyone did. The Grand PvP Tournament. The ladder every serious player watched, trained for, dreamed about. The one event where the top one hundred players across all servers clashed for supremacy.
And Allen—The Emperor—wanted him there.
Elio’s hands curled into fists. He lifted his head, scanning the wreckage, the players gathering themselves, the shadows of Allen’s harem still burned into his mind.
“How…” he whispered. His voice cracked. “How does a player kill this many? And none of us—none—could land a blow?”
He thought of every swing, every parry, every desperate move. Allen hadn’t just fought them. He’d played with them. Toyed with them like children.
’Is this why the devs made the Emperor able to level up like a player?’
His chest tightened. ’Because behind that avatar isn’t AI… it’s him. A real player.’
Not just playing the villain role. Living it.
Choosing it.
Killing players instead of monsters.
Elio’s lips twitched into a bitter chuckle. He leaned back against the ruined fountain, eyes half-closed. His body ached, his wings throbbed, his pride was shredded worse than his armor.
He couldn’t tell anyone. Not yet. If he said it out loud, they’d call him paranoid. Or worse—make him the target of ridicule.
No. He’d let Allen reveal it himself.
But the gap—the sheer gulf in skill—it gnawed at him.
He tilted his head back, looking at the sky. Smoke trails. Feathers drifting.
A shadow fell over him.
“You okay?”
Elio blinked, dragged back from his thoughts. Red_King stood there, one hand extended. His armor was scuffed, his relic gone, his expression a mix of exhaustion and blunt irritation.
Elio hesitated, then nodded. He took the hand. Red_King hauled him up with a grunt.
“Kinda,” Elio muttered. His legs wobbled, his sword hung loose in his grip.
Red_King snorted. “Kinda? You look like hell chewed you up and spit you out.”
Elio tried to smile. It came out tired, broken.
Red_King clapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon. This isn’t the first time we’ve lost. Why you wearing that face? Like your puppy just got run over.”
Elio shook his head slowly. “It’s not just that.”
“Oh, so you’re in brooding philosopher mode now?” Red_King smirked, forcing levity. “Great. Just what we need. Mister Deep Thoughts when the rest of us are just trying to laugh off the succubi’s kiss of death.”
Elio huffed. Almost a laugh. Almost. “You really think this was just another loss?”
Red_King’s smirk faltered. He studied Elio’s face—drawn, pale, eyes burning with something rawer than anger.
“You think he’s unbeatable, don’t you?”
Elio’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.
Red_King sighed, shaking his head. “You’re overthinking. Yeah, he’s strong. Insanely strong. But unbeatable? Nah. Everyone bleeds. Even emperors.”
Elio muttered under his breath, “Not him.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Red_King narrowed his eyes but didn’t press. He just dropped down beside Elio on the cracked cobblestone, sitting cross-legged like they were kids at camp instead of blood-soaked gladiators in a massacre.
“You know what I think?” Red_King said after a long silence.
“What?”
“That we got our asses handed to us by the best organized villain team in the game. That’s it. No shame in that.” He smirked faintly. “At least I didn’t die to a kiss. Those idiots are never gonna shut up about it.”
Elio’s lips twitched again. Weak smile. Bitter smile. But it was something.
“C’mon,” Red_King nudged him. “You’re still alive. That means next time, you get another shot.”
Elio didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted back to the plaza.
Another shot.
At Allen.
At the truth.
Elio clenched his sword tighter. His body trembled, his heart pounded, but in his chest burned something sharper than fear.
Resolve.
The tournament.
He’d climb.
He’d survive.
And he’d drag the truth from Allen’s lips, even if it killed him a hundred more times.
“I need to train more.” Elio’s voice came out rough, half-broken from the screaming he’d done earlier.
Red_King, still sitting cross-legged on the cobblestones, blinked at him. “…What’s with that sudden announcement? You sound like a shonen protagonist.”
Elio’s eyes hardened. “The tournament. I need to win it. I want to win it.”
Red_King tilted his head. “That sudden? You get gutted by the Emperor and suddenly you’re ready to become the main character of this whole server?”