The Villainous Me Turned the Losers into Blackened Bosses-Chapter 80 - Nightmare 3

As Will fell backward, staring up at the sky, the dappled shadows of the trees above seemed to transform into ghostly figures, floating like a thin layer of black mist that loomed over him.

The beams of light filtering through the leaves looked like countless indistinct silver sword slashes, striking down around him.

The black specter before him had thirty shadowy, indistinguishable hands, each wielding a silver sword. Her real body was slender, her terrifying gaze hidden beneath her dark hair, as if she had crawled out of hell and was ready to drag him back with her.

This was…

The boss of the 40th floor of the dungeon “Galactic Pinnacle”—the Wraith Swordsman. Her body was a mix of the tangible and intangible, with thirty phantom-like arms visible behind her. Each arm held a silver sword, and like her body, the swords flickered between real and unreal, making her attacks dizzyingly unpredictable. She hadn’t always been such a formidable dungeon boss; after all, only ten of her thirty swords were real.

Treya, gripping her silver sword, stood back up.

Her light armor was battered and scarred, no longer reflecting her figure as it once did.

Her sword, once capable of cutting through anything, was now dulled and worn.

Her hair, once neatly flowing, had been shredded by countless blades.

Yet, she forced her eyes open, raised her silver sword, and softly recited her techniques in a cold, detached voice.

“Entark… Ninth Form…”

“Entark… Fifth Form…”

“Entark… Second Form…”

Her movements were driven purely by muscle memory, her body following the inertia of her recollections step by step.

But…

She could hear it clearly.

She could see it clearly.

She could feel it clearly.

Every strike of her silver sword, every technique she executed, often failed to connect. The phantom-like figure before her absorbed many of her attacks into its shadowy depths.

Her battered light armor and wounded arms, however, bore the brunt of the wraith’s semi-real strikes, each blow stinging her skin.

Her arms grew heavier with every swing.

Amid the flurry of blades and shadows, she found herself parrying fewer and fewer attacks.

But she still wanted to move forward.

She understood now why this Wraith Swordsman, once dismissed as a minor threat, had become so powerful. It was because…

It was because of him.

Hugh.

After leaving their party, he had joined the dungeon’s side, becoming one of its inhabitants.

It was he who had taught the Wraith Swordsman the art of blending real and illusory swordsmanship.

It was he…

Who now stood as the visible shadow behind the wraith’s thirty arms.

“Why… why do I want to move forward?”

“Why, even now, do I keep going?”

“And… and why… is my heart beating faster and faster…”

Every strike she blocked, whether real or illusory, seemed to peel away the fog that had always clouded her heart.

“What is it that I truly feel…”

“What is it that I truly desire…”

“What am I truly chasing after?”

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The awakening princess cut through the incoming sword light with a single slash.

“Now I finally understand, Hugh. I… I’ve always been watching you…”

But…

She was wrong.

That sword light wasn’t from the Wraith Swordsman—it was from Hugh, who had taken a silver sword from her hand.

With that strike, he shattered the silver sword he had once forged for her—a sword she had carelessly discarded multiple times.

It was as if, with this act, he severed the bond she had believed existed between them.

Treya collapsed to her knees, utterly drained, staring blankly at the broken blade and hilt in her hands.

“I… I don’t need your gaze. It’s… unsettling.”

Hugh returned the sword to the Wraith Swordsman’s hand. Treya looked up and saw that the hilt was identical to the one in her hand.

It was…

The hilt he had forged with his own hands.

Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes.

Her voice trembled with sobs.

Her heart clenched with pain.

In that moment, as she finally understood the emotions of “longing” and “love,” her heart was simultaneously filled with “loss” and “sorrow.”

Will tried to pick up the broken silver sword, but his hand passed right through it.

This was the cleanest yet saddest illustration from the story he had read.

It captured the moment she knelt before the broken hilt, the moment the cold princess awakened, only for her dreams to shatter.

And on the next page, her sister stormed in with her adventuring party, declaring that it had all been her scheme—to drive Hugh away from them.

The once-proud and aloof princess, who had finally realized her true feelings and desires, was rejected, betrayed, and fell from the pinnacle to the depths, never to rise again—a loser heroine.

But…

She was so pure, so earnest, and so naive.

She would seriously listen to an outsider critique her swordsmanship.

Even when told it was a trap, she would jump in because it was her sister.

When asked to wear black stockings, she obediently changed, even if it felt uncomfortable.

In a royal family like Entark’s, how could there be a princess like her?

And yet, because of that…

“Treya…”

“I want to see you become the Empress of Entark—”

The more interesting it becomes, doesn’t it?

Will woke up.

He felt something soft beneath him, warmth all around, and a hot towel on his forehead.

Then…

Treya, looking down at him with concern, came into view.

But her concern didn’t seem to be for his physical condition—it was for something else entirely.

“Will… sensei, saying things like that… if someone overhears, it could cause trouble… right?”

“Wha… what?!”

Will suddenly realized he had been dreaming about the loser heroine’s ending again. Not only that, but he had accidentally spoken his thoughts out loud.

Raising a naive, cute, and clumsy princess into a ruthless, black-hearted empress was an incredibly cool idea, wasn’t it?

Although he felt it was a bit early to share this goal with her…

After all, she was still a weak little princess who couldn’t even defeat her sister’s schemes.

But!

If anyone in the palace overheard such talk, it would draw the attention of countless dark forces. While Will didn’t mind being targeted, he didn’t want Treya to be dragged into it.

He shot up from the bed in a panic, accidentally knocking several plush toys to the floor. He quickly scanned the room for any eavesdroppers.

“My rag doll, my Dum Dum, my little pudding…”

“Sorry! I’ll clean them up later. Uh… is this… Treya, is this your bed?”

Looking around, he realized there was no immediate danger. The dark bedroom, with its curtains drawn, was cozy and warm.

He was even lying on a ridiculously soft, triple-layered princess bed straight out of a fairy tale.

“Young Master, you’re finally awake. You only fainted after bumping into Treya’s forehead.”

Eir was nearby, though she didn’t seem to have noticed Will’s earlier slip of the tongue.

“My forehead… is hard?”

Treya touched her forehead, which was perfectly fine.

“I… I’m okay. I must’ve just been out for a moment…”

Will sighed in relief and glanced at the clock on the wall. He had been unconscious for half an hour.

“We still need to practice.”

Though still a bit dizzy, he climbed out of bed.

“Let’s just pretend you didn’t hear anything.”

Treya watched Will stumble toward the door.

“Become… become… the Empress?”

She repeated the words, and for some reason…

She felt an overwhelming urge to say them again and again.