I Am The Game's Villain-Chapter 639: [Event] [The Beauty And The Beast] [19] Braham And Ralf

"Shit! Nyr!"

Rodolf shouted out his eyes darting between me and Roda.

"Stay close," I said calmly.

Rodolf threw me a sharp glance, but it was Roda who snapped. "How can you stay so calm?!"

The blinding light flared around us like a collapsing star, swallowing everything in white. I turned my eyes toward her with a faint smile.

"Would you rather I cry and scream along with you?" .

She grimaced, lips pressed into a tight line, but said nothing more. The moment hung for a heartbeat—then the world spun violently.

There was a rush, like being pulled through a funnel of air and mana, and then—

-Thud!

I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of my lungs by the cold, unwelcoming stone beneath me. Moments later, I heard two more impacts.

Rodolf and Roda crashed down beside me in a heap, groaning. We didn’t waste a second—scrambling to our feet in unison.

The air seemed heavy with mana. The low sound of machinery buzzed in the background, joined by the rhythmic click of keyboards and the mechanical wheeze of cooling fans. The space we’d landed in resembled a tech lab, but something about it felt... off.

The stone walls were jagged and dark, giving the room a cavernous, underground quality. Unlike Medusa’s sterile and clinical laboratory, this place felt raw—untamed. It was more like a bunker or the lair of some clandestine organization than a facility.

Which, honestly, wasn’t too far from the truth.

Dozens of people in dark uniforms moved through the room with indifference, as if our sudden arrival meant nothing to them. That’s when I realized: we were in a cage. A dome-shaped magical barrier shimmered faintly around us, made of complex mana circles.

Outside the barrier, slumped on the floor, was the addict we’d seen before. He lay unconscious, limbs twitching occasionally, eyes fluttering. Next to him stood the other man—the one who’d grinned at us just before the teleportation. He was still smiling, like this was all just a game he was enjoying far too much.

-BAM!

A sharp crack broke the uneasy stillness. Rodolf had slammed his fist into the barrier wall beside me, making it ripple like disturbed water. But it held firm. The mana circles didn’t even flicker.

"Damn it!" He groaned through clenched teeth. "I should have seen this coming!"

I shrugged, brushing some dust from my shirt. "On the bright side... we made it, didn’t we? We’re right where we wanted to be."

Rodolf turned and glared at me, eyes blazing. "Yeah, locked in a cage! Real brilliant plan."

Roda was standing stiffly beside him, arms crossed observing silently around.

I stepped forward, reaching out to touch the barrier with my palm. "Could be worse," I muttered.

That’s when the footsteps echoed.

Everyone in the lab froze. The clicking of keyboards stopped. The drone of conversation faded. One by one, heads turned toward the source of the sound.

A man approached—tall, broad-shouldered, with slick black hair and yellow eyes that almost glowed. A jagged scar cut across his face, running from his temple to the corner of his mouth.

He pushed a wheelchair in front of him.

There was no need for introductions. I knew who he was the moment I saw the scar.

"Braham..." Rodolf growled, fists pressed against the barrier, his voice low and full of hate.

Braham smiled in response. His hands gripped the handles of the wheelchair casually, like this was just another routine stroll.

The young man seated in the chair looked barely alive. Skin clung tightly to his bones, as if he’d been starved for weeks. His cheeks were sunken, eyes hollow. Every breath he took seemed like it might be his last.

Must be his younger brother.

"How many years has it been, Rodolf? Roda?" Braham asked with a smile.

Roda stiffened beside me. Her posture tensed, betraying a flicker of discomfort beneath the mask she wore. He’d recognized her—despite the disguise.

"You both seem to have grown up a lot," Braham added, letting out a quiet, humorless chuckle.

"Shut up, traitor!" Rodolf barked, his fists clenching at his sides. "How dare you slither through the Kingdom, peddling those filthy pills, after everything it gave you? After it fed you and gave you a place to call home?"

"Fed me?" Braham’s smile vanished in an instant, his eyes darkening. "Now that’s a lie so ridiculous it borders on comedy."

He took a slow breath, straightening his back slightly.

"From the moment I could crawl, I was fighting to survive—fighting for my life and Ralf’s. Every bite of food, every day of safety, we earned ourselves. It wasn’t Beatrice who saved me. It was me."

Rodolf ground his teeth audibly. "Mother adopted you. She gave you everything. A home. A name. She treated you as her own."

"I never asked for any of it," Braham replied coldly, his fingers brushing back the frail hair from the young man’s brow in the wheelchair. "All I ever wanted was to protect Ralf. And Beatrice—your perfect, gracious mother—never let him set foot inside the castle."

His gaze sharpened as it locked on Rodolf.

"She gave you more than enough to care for him," Rodolf said. "A mansion. Status. The resources of a high-ranking noble. She trusted you."

"Perhaps," Braham said. "But that was never enough."

At that moment, a faint movement stirred in the wheelchair. Ralf—slowly opened his eyes, groggy but smiling faintly as he looked up at his brother.

"Brother..." He muttered. His voice was weak, fragile. "Sorry... I think I overslept again."

"Don’t worry about it," Braham said, his voice softening as he leaned down beside him. He motioned with his chin toward the cage. "Look who came to visit."

Ralf turned his head slowly and blinked. His sunken eyes widened slightly in recognition.

"...Rodolf?"

Rodolf’s expression twisted, his glare faltering as something unreadable flashed across his face. Regret? Guilt? Pity? It was hard to tell.

"Ralf..." Rodolf muttered. Then, after a pause, his voice turned sharp again, "Are you the one running the pill business?"

Ralf’s head dipped slightly. He looked down, a mixture of shame and weariness clouding his features.

"I am," he admitted. "I started it."

"Why?!" Rodolf’s voice cracked with disbelief, stepping forward only to be stopped by the glowing mana barrier.

Ralf took a moment before answering, his hands gripping the sides of his chair as he wheeled himself closer to the shimmering wall between them.

"There’s a deep sickness in Fangoria, Rodolf," he said. "More than in any other kingdom across Sancta Vedelia. The divide between the talented and the untalented—it’s unbearable. Those born without strong mana are treated as trash. They’re discarded, used, exploited."

He glanced away, as if searching for words that could bridge the gap between them.

"If not for Braham... I wouldn’t be alive right now. You know that. You know what my condition is. My body can’t retain mana, can’t generate enough to survive. Without external sources, I’d be dead."

"That’s not a reason to destroy other people’s lives!"

Roda, who had remained quiet until now, finally stepped forward, her words trembling with anger.

Ralf turned toward her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Recognition followed closely after—perhaps it was the sound of her voice.

"Roda...?" He muttered, almost disbelieving.

Her fists were clenched tightly at her sides. "These pills you’re handing out—they’re ruining people, Uncle. They’re not saving anyone."

Ralf sighed slowly, shaking his head. "We gave people a way to fight back. People who had nothing—no power, no recognition, no place in society. This was their chance."

"A chance?" Rodolf scoffed from the side, his voice tinged with disgust. "Look at what those ’chances’ did to them. They’re not warriors—they’re addicts. Hollowed-out shells. Broken."

Braham stepped forward as he came to stand beside Ralf. "That’s still better than rotting away in some gutter—no food, no honor, and no hope," he said sternly.

I’d had enough of their self-righteous excuses. "You can spare us the sanctimonious nonsense, Braham," I said, stepping in and cutting across his moralizing tone. "No one’s buying it."

Both Braham and Ralf turned to face me. Ralf’s expression tightened, his brow furrowing just slightly, but Braham’s eyes twinkled with a familiar condescension.

"What I want to know," I continued, fixing my eyes on Braham, "is why you joined Behemoth. What did they offer you that was worth selling your soul?"

Braham let out a dry chuckle and turned to face me fully, folding his arms. "Amael Olphean... or should I call you Edward Falkrona? Word around Sancta Vedelia is that you’re even more despised than we are these days."

"Maybe," I replied with a wry smile, "but at least I haven’t sunk so low that I’ve become a plaything for Ante Eden and the Iris Project."

He arched an eyebrow. "And betraying your birthplace? That doesn’t weigh on you at all?" he said.

I narrowed my eyes. "Whatever you and your little cult are planning—it’s not going to happen. Navas is dead. Medusa too. You’ll be next, and your twisted dream of resurrecting Behemoth ends here. You don’t even have all the Horns."

For a heartbeat, Braham’s smirk faltered. Then he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, "So it was you... I had my suspicions. Still hard to believe you pulled all that off alone."

"That was the point," I replied with a scoff, letting the satisfaction slip into my tone. "Let you stew in doubt. Keep you guessing."

His smile returned—smaller, colder—as he reached toward a table beside him. His hand closed around a remote, and he lifted it without breaking eye contact.

"Unfortunately for you," he said, pressing a button, "none of that matters anymore."

A low hum followed, and a holographic projection sprang to life in the middle of the room. It flickered for a moment, then stabilized into a live newsfeed from Zestel.

[Zestel Attacked!]

The headline screamed at me from the holographic display, the bold red letters sending a jolt of adrenaline through my veins.

I blinked, once, twice—hoping I’d misread it.

Then the newscaster’s panicked voice followed immediately:

"We’ve just received shocking reports—the Royal Palace of Zestel has come under attack by an unknown group! Their motives remain unclear, but let us all pray... that the Crown Prince is safe."

Braham clicked the remote again, silencing the broadcast.

"Nikolas will bring me the final Horn soon enough."

"You bastard!!!"

Rodolf’s fists slammed into the transparent barrier once more.

"Are you seriously going to drag innocent people into this madness?!" Roda snapped at him furiously.

Braham didn’t even blink. "I don’t have the luxury to care about others anymore," he said. "Behemoth will rise again. Nothing else matters."

"No—You can’t do this!" Roda cried out, visibly shaken now. Her voice trembled, but not with fear—with horror.

In her original timeline, they’d failed. Only two Horns had ever been assembled, and the nightmare had ended before it began. Maybe that’s why she was so panicked now. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

But here? Here, Braham was close. Too close.

"I can," Braham said. Then he turned toward us—toward me. "I don’t have anything personal against you two," he said with a quick glance at Rodolf and Roda. "But you—Edward Falkrona—this is where your story ends."

I took a slow breath, feeling the seething pressure in my wrist where I’d been quietly gathering Wrath.

"We’ll see about that," I muttered.

And then I let it all go.

-BOOOOOM!!!

A powerful explosion ripped through the room as my Wrath surged forward in a devastating wave. The mana barrier trembled violently, lines of stress flickering across its surface until it finally cracked... then shattered like glass under a hammer.

Without hesitation, I lunged through the gap.

My fist flew forward, aimed straight for Braham’s face—but just inches from impact, his hand shot up like a blur of shadow and caught my punch mid-air.

Our gazes locked.

"Show me what you’ve got, Samael’s Vessel."