I Became The Novel's Biggest Antagonist-Chapter 182: [Flashback] [Isaac Crawford] [8]

"My, my," she said lightly, placing a hand over her chest in feigned concern. "Lord Crawford, you looked like you were having such a hard time, I simply couldn't stay still."

Her gaze flicked to the scattered swordsmen, some struggling to rise, others lying motionless amid scorched dirt and shattered stone.

Then she looked back at him.

Her smile turned coquettish, eyes half-lidded as she leaned in just a fraction.

"Did you need help?" She asked sweetly.

Isaac's expression twisted the moment he saw her smile.

"I told you to stay inside," he said.

"Is that how you thank me?" Nimue pouted, purple eyes widening in mock hurt. "I save your life, and you scold me. How cruel."

"I didn't need your help," Isaac replied.

"Is that so?" She arched a brow, amusement glinting. "Because from where I was watching, your mana was slowly slipping out of control. Whatever you were about to unleash… it felt like it was going to blow up in your face."

Isaac's eyes narrowed, a faint muscle ticking at his jaw.

He hated that she was right.

He hated it even more that she had noticed.

Of course she had. This woman was not some overconfident witch playing at war. The previous Emperor had kept her at his side for a reason. Her talent was real—obvious, infuriatingly so.

Nimue's lips curled higher as his annoyance bled through the cracks of his composure.

"How adorable~"

Isaac moved.

The long rifle snapped up with lightning speed.

"Eh—"

-BANG!

The bullet tore past her cheek, so close it snatched a few strands of her hair, the shockwave tugging at the tips as it screamed by. Nimue froze, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.

Behind her, one of the masked men who had been dragging himself up from the scorched ground jerked.

His head ceased to exist.

The bullet obliterated helmet and skull alike, spraying a fan of blood and bone fragments across the dirt. The body toppled bonelessly, limbs twitching once before going still.

"These armors and swords interfere with mana," Isaac said, already walking past her, boots crunching over charred stone and shattered masks.

Nimue blinked, then let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She cleared her throat, gathering her dignity back around her like a cloak as she fell into step beside him.

"As you might have noticed," she said lightly, as if she hadn't just had her head nearly blown off, "they're using a very rare stone called Obsidite to forge those weapons."

"Obsidite," Isaac repeated, approaching another fallen swordsman. The man lay on his back, half his body blackened by Nimue's flames, chest rising and falling in faint, ragged jerks. "Never heard of it."

"Of course you haven't," Nimue replied, tone carrying a hint of pride. "It's even more efficient than those charming little anti-mana shackles you wrapped around my wrists earlier. Obsidite doesn't just block mana—it bends it, twists it, forces it off course."

Isaac stopped at the wounded man's side.

Smoke still rose in thin tendrils from the scorched armor. The mask had cracked and fallen away, revealing a face half-melted by heat. One eye was nothing but a ruined socket. The other, bloodshot and trembling, rolled weakly to fix on Isaac's cold grey gaze.

"Yet your attack overpowered them," Isaac said, not looking at her.

Nimue puffed out her chest a little. "Obviously. I sent an overwhelming amount of mana at full force and threw it straight at them. If you push enough power through, even Obsidite's ability to deviate and dampen mana reaches its limit. You just have to crush it head-on."

Isaac did not respond.

He summoned his revolver with a flick of his wrist.

The silver-lined weapon appeared in his hand as naturally as breath.

He leveled the barrel at the dying man on the ground.

The man's remaining eye widened. His charred lips moved, shaping sounds that never became words. Fear rolled off him in waves, the one thing Obsidite could not bend or deflect.

"Is that fear I see?" Isaac asked.

The man's throat worked.

Nothing came out.

-BANG!

The shot blew the top of his skull apart. Blood and brain matter splattered across the dirt, speckling Isaac's boots and lower coat in fresh red stains. The body jerked once, then went limp, staring up at nothing with an empty, ruined eye.

Nimue walked closer, expression unreadable for a heartbeat.

Then she smiled again.

"See?" she said. "I told you, Isaac Crawford. This isn't—"

She stopped.

Because the moment she stepped within arm's reach, Isaac turned.

The revolver muzzle shifted, smooth and unhurried, until it was pointed directly at her forehead.

Nimue blinked.

"Eum…" She lifted both hands slowly, fingers splaying in a gesture of exaggerated innocence. "What are you doing?"

"Am I supposed to believe," Isaac said, voice quiet but edged with steel, "that there is a third party I somehow never heard of, responsible for this attack and for the Emperor's murder?"

Nimue tilted her head, lips tugging into a small, wry smile.

"What do you think, then?" She asked.

"It could be one of your schemes," Isaac replied without hesitation. "A desperate ploy from Charentra to escape their inevitable extinction by my hands. Create a phantom enemy, sow doubt, then run and hide behind it."

Nimue's smile broke.

Her lips twisted, eyes narrowing in genuine irritation for the first time since she appeared.

"You are truly irredeemable," she snapped. "I am not your enemy in this, Isaac Crawford. The enemy is called the Veil."

"Veil?" Isaac repeated, gaze sharpening.

"Yes. The Veil," she said, each word clipped. "They are the ones who plotted the previous Emperor's assassination. They are the ones who sent these men. They did this today. I learned of their plan to strike this town, so I moved first. I took Cateran before they could, because I expected you to come. I wanted you to see this with your own eyes."

"You baited me here?" Isaac asked.

Nimue nodded without shame, a small, satisfied smile returning to her lips.

"I wasn't certain the great Secretary himself would be sent," she admitted, "but I counted on your undying hatred for Charentra. It's your most reliable quality. As I expected, you came running." She giggled softly.

The sound was light, almost musical.

It grated on him.

Isaac's expression darkened further.

He did not like being manipulated. Not by nobles. Not by enemies. And certainly not by a witch who smiled while telling him she had used his hatred like a leash.

But he was not blind.

The corpses at his feet wore no insignia he recognized. Their weapons and armor were like nothing used by Imperial troops or Charentra fighters. Their black blades warped mana itself, and their armor devoured the impact of his shots.

The Veil.

He had never heard that name before.

No records. No whispers. No rumors.

And yet this was the first time he had seen weapons capable of bending and deflecting mana so cleanly—twisting even his bullets off their true course. That alone was enough to plant a sliver of unease in his mind.

He hated that feeling even more than he hated being tricked.

Could it be true?

He would not absolve Charentra. Not for the rebellions, not for the deaths, not for the cities they had burned and the soldiers they had butchered. Their hands were still soaked in blood.

But even he could not deny that some things had always felt… off.

The assassination.

The way Charentra had been blamed for every shadow ever since.

The ruthlessness with which the court had embraced terror—its eagerness.

If there truly was a third force using both Empire and Charentra as pieces on a board…

Then perhaps, for the first time, everything might begin to fall into place.

Isaac saw it too—the flicker of doubt in his own grey eyes, mirrored back at him in the reflection of her purple gaze.

"You're starting to see it, aren't you?" Nimue said softly. "The discrepancies. The strangeness of these last years. All those convenient plots, all those shadows that always point back to Charentra. Even you can't ignore it forever."

She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his hand—the one still gripping the revolver. She guided the barrel downward, away from her forehead, until it pointed harmlessly at the blood-soaked dirt.

Isaac didn't resist.

His mind was racing, pieces slotting together and apart again like a puzzle built on sand. Questions burned in his chest, sharp and insistent. If anyone held true answers, it was Haran. The Emperor knew more than he let on—always had. But before he stormed back to the capital and demanded them…

There was something else.

"You came here knowing these people would come," Isaac said. "Why? What's in Cateran that's worth this?"

Nimue's smile widened, a spark of genuine admiration lighting her eyes. "As expected of you, Lord Crawford. Always cutting to the heart of it. Yes—they wanted something here. Something hidden. But I already—"

The world shifted.

Both of them froze.

A low rumble rose from the earth, like the growl of some buried beast stirring awake. The air thickened, pressing down with sudden weight. Isaac felt it first—a vicious tug at his core, yanking at his mana like hooks buried in flesh.

His power, already unstable from the black swords' interference, offered no resistance.

It poured out of him.

"Ugh—!"

He gritted his teeth, one knee slamming into the dirt as pain lanced through his channels. The drain accelerated, faster than anything he'd felt before, stripping layers from his reserves in greedy gulps. His vision blurred at the edges, the world narrowing to the tremor-shaken ground ahead.

A wide, shimmering field expanded around them—translucent, rippling like heat haze over black glass. It pulsed with hunger, edges flickering with veins of violet light. Anything it touched withered: grass blackened, stones cracked, the air itself seemed to warp.

From the heart of that field, a figure emerged.

Tall. Nearly three meters. Broad as a siege gate, clad in plates of armor so dark they seemed to swallow the fading daylight. A helmet hid any face, broken only by twin slits glowing with crimson malice. Each step sent tremors through the earth, deep cracks spiderwebbing outward from its boots.

Isaac's instincts screamed.

If he let it close the distance, he would die.

Mana hemorrhaged from him faster now, his body shaking with the effort to hold even a fragment back. The instability worsened—wild surges clashing against the drain, threatening to erupt without direction. There was only one path left.

All or nothing.

He forced himself upright on one knee, grey eyes locked on the approaching giant.

"Wait!" Nimue's voice cut through from behind him.

Isaac ignored her.

He lunged forward.

In mid-stride, his hand snatched one of the fallen black swords from the dirt. The Obsidite-forged blade thrummed in his grip, rejecting his mana with violent tremors—like oil and water forced together. He snarled, clamping down with will alone, channeling gravitational force against the stone's repelling nature.

The sword stabilized.

A razor edge of warped space formed along its length—gravity and Obsidite mana clashing in unstable harmony.

He thrust it forward into the heart of the draining field.

The blade bit deep.

Isaac swung upward with all his fading strength, carving a jagged tear through the haze. Violet energies recoiled, shrieking as they parted. He hurled himself through the gap, rolling clear as the field snapped shut behind him.

Free.

He didn't stop.

Boots pounding, he closed the distance at full sprint, black sword clenched white-knuckled in his fist. The giant's crimson eyes snapped to him, tracking with unnatural focus. Its massive hand wrapped around a sword fully twice Isaac's height—black steel, etched with the same light-devouring runes.

"Isaac Crawford!" Nimue shouted again.

He ignored her again.

Ten meters.

Five.

The giant moved.

Its sword descended in a mountain-sundering arc, air screaming before the edge.

Isaac stomped his foot.

Gravitational force rippled outward, compressing the earth beneath him into a launch point. He twisted sideways in a silver blur, the blade slamming into empty ground where he'd stood. Stone exploded outward in a deafening crater, shockwaves hurling dirt and debris like shrapnel.

He slipped inside its guard.

Sword raised.

He swung with everything he had left.

-BOOOOM!!!

Black steel met black steel.

The impact rang like a felled god.

Isaac's blade cracked the giant's armor—a spiderweb of fractures blooming across the chest plate—but it held. The Obsidite edge skidded off, sparks of warped mana spraying in all directions.

Too slow to pull back.

A blur filled his vision.

The giant's free hand lashed out, fist the size of a boulder, aimed straight for his ribs.

Isaac reached for gravity—

Too late.

A glowing purple barrier snapped into existence around him, Nimue's work—translucent walls of sorcerous force etched with spiraling runes.

The fist collided.

The barrier shattered like crystal, violet shards raining down. The blow struck home.

Isaac's world exploded in pain.

He gasped blood, body launched backward like a cannon shot. Ribs cracked. Lungs burned. He hit the ground rolling, skidding through dirt and stone until friction brought him to a stop on hands and knees.

Blood dripped from his mouth, staining the earth red.

He raised his head.

Vision swimming, he assessed.

Most of his mana—gone. Sucked dry by the field. What remained was a ragged shred, volatile and thrashing, barely contained. One wrong push, and it would tear him apart from the inside.

"I told you to wait!" Nimue appeared at his side, staff in hand, expression torn between anger and worry.

"Shut up," Isaac rasped, forcing himself to his feet. Blood trickled down his chin. His coat hung in tatters, armor dented and scored.

The giant recovered first.

It rose from its crouch, crimson eyes flaring brighter. Sword raised high, the blade now pulsed with stolen black mana—glowing veins of Obsidite energy crawling across its surface like living corruption.

It charged.

Giant fireballs screamed through the air—Nimue's work—slamming into the monster's chest and legs. Explosions of crimson heat staggered it backward, armor glowing cherry-red, buying precious seconds.

Isaac seized them.

He vaulted forward, legs burning, every step a burden on his failing body. Silver light flickered in his eyes as the last threads of mana coiled in his palm.

He landed atop the giant's chest, one hand slamming down against cracked armor.

Contact.

"...!"

His body locked.

Frost raced through his veins—not cold, but memory. Goosebumps erupted across his arms. Flashes assaulted him: a younger self, ten years old, mana erupting unchecked. Screams. Fire. Over a hundred bodies reduced to ash in one cataclysmic surge. The faces of his parents, worried in the aftermath.

His arm trembled against the giant's chest plate.

"N—no…"

The monster didn't hesitate.

Its sword swung—black-glowing arc descending toward Isaac's exposed back, the air warping under its stolen power.

Nimue materialized.

She planted herself between them, staff thrust forward like a spear.

-BOOOOOOM!!!