My Maids are All Final Villainesses-Chapter 32: Fate Gathering

"Suspected of who?" Clay muttered to himself, his mind thinking what was happening.

The system’s voice echoed softly in his ears.

It’s the fate that’s suspecting the host as the host and his Maid were one of the last people the Replacement Villain met before dying.

"The last one?" Clay froze in place.

He recalled the endless hours in his room before this whole week, the moments of isolation, the careful organizing of his thoughts, the quiet waiting.

The Replacement Villain had been active, yes, but had anyone else related to him, crossed paths with him during his final moments?

Clay’s eyes narrowed as he began to think.

The more he analyzed, the more his brow furrowed. His head ached as the pieces refused to align.

Who was that Replacement Villain again? Why is he implicated?

Suddenly, he remembered someone.

Clay’s eyes finally widened in realization. It’s him. That arrogant guy beside Frazanna. The moment crystallized in his mind... the same posture, the same calm yet smug air, the way he observed everything without hesitation.

That must be the Replacement Villain who died.

Clay pressed a hand to his temple, trying to keep his focus.

But... who killed him? He could feel the tension in the pit of his stomach. It couldn’t have been my maid. Not Cy. She wouldn’t stand a chance against someone like that. She’s strong, but he’s... he’s beyond what she could handle. That thought made him wince.

Beside him, Cerys shifted uneasily, a bead of sweat sliding down her temple. She dared not speak, worried that a word might implicate her in any misunderstanding. Did I do something that troubles the young master? she thought, her heart pounding.

She killed several goblins and robbers on the way and as for the one that his young master was thinking? Of course she remembered him.

But she stayed silent, knowing that revealing herself or even acknowledging the suspicion would complicate matters further.

On the other hand, Clay felt a dull headache spreading across his forehead.

Enough of this distraction. I need to see clearly. I need to enter the palace and cut the connection so the suspicion might get lifted too.

He straightened his posture and started forward.

...

Meanwhile, at the front of the hall, Holy King Guren’s gaze did not waver.

He looked at Frazanna Goldfren and Maxwell Calloway with a steady intensity, his thoughts deeply entangled in the situation before him.

I summoned her here because... he began internally, weighing his words carefully.

He imagined the story he would tell if anyone asked, the reasoning he would present that would protect his prestige while explaining his actions.

Her fiancé wanted to annul the betrothal. He never truly desired her. By my decree, I intervene... but I must appear impartial, resolute, unshaken. I cannot let my authority appear questioned, nor can I let the court see indecision.

He studied Frazanna carefully, calculating how she would receive his reasoning.

She must understand the weight of this decision. She must accept it as though it is her choice as much as mine, even though it is guided by me.

He visualized how she would kneel, how her eyes would express respect while hiding any flicker of disappointment or indignation.

Yes... that will maintain the balance. That will preserve both honor and control.

He spoke slowly, with measured gravity. "Frazanna," he said, his voice carrying through the hall, warm yet commanding.

"I have summoned you here to address the annulment of your betrothal. The young man in question has shown hesitation, doubt, and a lack of clarity. It is not my wish to force anyone, but it is my responsibility to ensure that both honor and clarity are maintained. You must understand that this decision comes with the weight of the kingdom’s dignity in mind."

Frazanna lowered herself in a deep, respectful bow. "I understand, Your Majesty," she said. Her voice was quiet but steady, carrying the weight of obedience, respect, and acknowledgment of the king’s wisdom.

The Holy King continued.

"Inside the dungeon I checked last week, the young man saved our time for us to retreat. And his wish was to annul the marriage. As the Holy King, I wished to grant that request."

She remained kneeling, keeping her posture elegant and unwavering, knowing that her response would be observed carefully by every minister and attendant in the hall.

"But of course, if it’s not your wish, then I must take that into account as well."

Suddenly, Frazanna spoke.

"I will decide later, Your Majesty, once he’s here."

The words made everyone freeze... including the young man standing beside her.

The Holy King seemed at a loss for words for a few seconds. Then he cleared his throat.

"Okay..." he said.

Then his gaze shifted to Maxwell Calloway. He motioned toward the Imperial Eunuch standing beside him. "What is it again? Tell me clearly," he said, his voice firm but inviting clarity.

He had heard of Maxwell’s deeds, of course, but it was important to gauge his character personally.

The eunuch stepped forward and spoke with precise articulation.

He recounted how Maxwell had saved countless villages, warning soldiers of impending attacks, saving thousands of lives. He detailed each event with accuracy, the names of villages, the timing, the measures taken. It was clear, meticulous, and yet the depth of Maxwell’s influence could not be overstated.

King Guren’s eyes flicked between the young man and the eunuch, his mind absorbing each detail, calculating the gravity of Maxwell’s actions.

This is a man who acts decisively, who does not wait for commands, who values life beyond protocol.

The Holy King nodded slowly, his expression measured. "I understand the actions taken," he said finally, his voice resonating through the chamber. "And you wish for me to grant you something as well, right? Calloway?"

The king’s eyes were sharp, examining every micro-expression, every slight shift in posture or tone, weighing his sincerity.

Maxwell straightened, a mixture of determination and deference in his stance. "Your Majesty, I have a request," he said, voice steady, measured. "But before I present it, I wish to assure you that my intentions are aligned with the prosperity and protection of the kingdom, not personal gain. Every life I have saved, every warning I have issued, was for the kingdom, and my request—though significant—is meant to secure the same."

His gaze did not falter, even under the scrutiny of the Holy King.

Before he could continue, a voice rang through the hall, interrupting the moment with an unanticipated force.

"Clay Valmont has entered!"

Every head turned instinctively toward the entrance.

Ministers whispered in sharp, urgent tones, their discussions halting abruptly. Courtiers straightened instinctively, as if the air itself had shifted with Clay’s presence.

Clay walked steadily into the hall, his dark eyes scanning the room, absorbing every detail with precision. He noticed the guards, the ministers, the courtiers, and, most importantly, the key figures: the Holy King himself, Frazanna Goldfren, and Maxwell Calloway.

Each of them was observing him carefully, trying to gauge his intentions, his power, his demeanor.

He remained calm, his expression neutral, though his mind was anything but.

Suspected by fate... the Replacement Villain... Frazanna... and now the king himself.

Every move here matters. He could feel the weight of expectation and suspicion pressing down on him, and yet he did not falter.

He allowed himself to step into the golden light, to take each measured stride, signaling confidence without arrogance.

The whispers of the ministers continued, but Clay ignored them. He was focused entirely on the scene unfolding in front of him, the subtle cues of body language, the weight of each word that might come from the Holy King.

He had learned in dungeons and through countless encounters that perception mattered as much as power. One misstep could draw unwanted attention, one hesitation could betray weakness.

I must stay composed. I must observe everything, respond carefully, and act when the moment is right. His thoughts raced as he entered fully, passing between the rows of ministers.

Each step echoed in the vast hall, a steady beat, a sign of both presence and control.

Holy King Guren’s eyes followed every movement, his mind still calculating, still weighing, still trying to predict what this young man would do next.

He knew the rumors of Clay’s actions, his abilities, and yet seeing him now in person again made him flinch.

Interesting... this brat... he doesn’t respect me even a little.

The king’s gaze softened slightly, a quiet acknowledgment of potential and danger combined.

Yet he remained seated, calm, regal, as the hall itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Clay to speak, to act, or to reveal the intentions behind his measured steps.

Clay stopped a few paces from the center, his eyes briefly meeting those of the Holy King, then moving to Frazanna and Maxwell.

All eyes on me... let’s see how this unfolds.

He allowed himself a small pause, a deep breath, preparing for the web of intrigue, suspicion, and power that was about to envelop him the moment he spoke.

The hall felt electric, charged with anticipation that no one dared acknowledge aloud.

Every word spoken henceforth would carry weight, every gesture would be scrutinized, and the fate of many, including his own, would hinge on the choices made in the next few moments.

The golden light flickered slightly as the grand doors closed behind him.

The silence deepened, and all that remained was the presence of Clay Valmont standing in the heart of the Holy Castle, his mind racing, his focus sharpened, and the air around him thick with tension.

The system pinged faintly in his mind.

Ding!

Be careful.

All attention is on the host.

The host was being suspected.

Clay exhaled quietly, his teeth grinding slightly as he muttered,

"Of course I am... but let’s end this."