Zaylknork sat in the dim glow of the chandelier, staring into the cracked goblet.
He really did sound cringe.
Every word that came out of his mouth lately dripped with villain-energy — dramatic pauses, unnecessary hand gestures, and a tone so pompous he wanted to punch himself.
It was like he merged with the soul of the original villain.
He buried his face in his hands. "God, I sound like one of those twelve-year-olds who roleplay as demons online. I never knew Zaylknork was this cringe too. At least the least cringe."
His voice echoed off the stone walls.
He needed to stop spiraling.
He'd already died once; dying of secondhand embarrassment wasn't an option.
"Alright," he muttered, pushing himself up.
Ho-jin. Just accept it. Your life is fully fucked. Just accept it. And find a way to maneuver your cursed fate.
Why did I even read this novel in the first place?!
He marched toward the wardrobe— a towering gothic monolith wardrobe—and flung the doors open.
A wave of glitter, leather, and impractical villain fashion nearly blinded him.
Ruffled oversized collars, dark capes with skull embroidery, shoulder pads the size of asteroids, and more leather.
He stared in disbelief. As a 45 years-old man, this… this is hell.
He picked through the garments with two fingers, like the clothes were radioactive.
One outfit even had dangling ringing chains. Why? What was the point of having audible accessories?
"Alright," he grumbled. "This should be fine."
He threw on the least offensive thing he could find — a dark coat with too many buttons and a dark cape, its inners coloured red.
He stared at his reflection in the dusty mirror.
"You look like a magician who got kicked out of a circus," he told himself flatly. "If Hyun-jin sees this, he'll tease me till his teeth falls off."
Then, squaring his shoulders, he strode out to the balcony that overlooked his cult's grand hall.
The moment he appeared, the crowd of minions erupted into cheers.
"MASTER ZAYLKNORK!"
"THE BLOOD MOON APPROACHES!"
"THE HERO SHALL BE CRUSHED UNDER YOUR—"
He raised one hand, and the hall fell silent.
Good. At least they still listened... at times.
He inhaled deeply.
"My faithful disciples…" His voice echoed, grand. "I have made… a decision."
Hundreds of robed heads tilted up, eager, trembling under his mere glorious sight.
"I—" he started, voice cracking slightly. Then he straightened his posture. "I am retiring!"
A pause.
Then everything erupted.
"...What?"
"He's gone mad!"
"Did he hit his head again?"
"Master! The concussion has returned!"
"I'M FINE!" Zaylknork barked, but the minions were already arguing.
"How can he retire? He loves evil!" Minion 1 clutched his head in dismay.
"He literally laughed for seven hours after the last crusade!" Minion 2 cried.
"Maybe he's testing us—pretending to be weak before the Blood Moon!"
Someone in the crowd raised a trembling hand. "Uh, Master? Should we at least… prepare for battle? The Hero is backed by the Queen of the Far Far Away Kingdom— Eldeloria."
Zaylknork's jaw clenched. Eldeloria. The kingdom ruled by the great Queen Felisa. She was the Queen who had banished him out of the land. And Zaylknork swore he would take over the kingdom and rule the world.
Urgh.
Another cultist piped up nervously, "At least drink some wine to celebrate your greatness, my Lord! You always do!"
"Yes!" someone else agreed. "Drink the sacred Commandaria wine we stole last raid!"
He stared down at them, watching the chaos unravel like a badly written play, and realized something with cold, sinking clarity.
They were never going to listen.
He could retire, fake his death, build a vineyard, start a goat farm — none of it mattered if these idiots kept treating him like the final boss of a D-tier anime.
He sighed again, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Zaylknork still stood at the edge of the balcony, cape fluttering, hands spread out like a man about to drop the gospel of peace.
"I have changed my ways!" he declared, chest out, voice booming through the hall. "I won't continue as the villain no more. I—need—rest." I need to get the hell out of this novel.
Why are my lines so cringy, ugh.
The crowd died down and the silence follwed.
Hundreds of cultists blinked up at him like pigeons who'd just heard their feeder renounce bread.
Then whispers started rippling through the crowd.
"He's… resting?"
"Is this code for mass sacrifice?"
"Maybe he means eternal rest!"
"Wait, is he dying?!"
Zaylknork ignored them, folding his arms. "No dying, no mass anything! I just—" he hesitated, gesturing vaguely, "want to live quietly, without hero raids, flaming swords, or whatever this tax problem is."
He looked around. "Actually, why are there taxes? Aren't we the villains? Who are we paying?"
No one answered. And they all shrugged in unison.
For the first time, he really looked at them — the disciples, the cultists, the robed idiots screaming his name every other hour.
If Zaylknork was truly evil… why were they all so loyal?
Did they not question the whole "mass blood ritual" thing?
Did they also read this novel and just collectively decide to lose their morals?
He rubbed his throbbing temples. "God, what kind of HR department did this place have…"
Then, from the back of the crowd, a clear, calm voice spoke.
"But you can't, my Lord."
The hall parted as a tall man stepped forward, robes perfectly pressed, posture so stiff he looked carved from marble. Leonard — Zaylknork's right-hand man, strategist, and apparently the only cultist with a functioning brain.
Leonard had been Ho-jin 's second favorite character for being the most normal person in the whole story. However, if he could recall correctly, Leonardo died while trying to protect Zaylknork from the power of friendship in the last arc.
Zaylknork groaned. "Leonard. Don't start."
Leonard adjusted his glasses — how he had glasses in this pseudo-medieval world, Zaylknork didn't even want to ask— and presented a stack of thick parchments right before him.
"I'm afraid it's not that simple, my Lord," Leonard said gravely. "You see, you can't retire. Not without terminating several binding contracts under the Covenant of Eternal Villainy."
"…The what?" Was this ever mentioned before in the novel?
Leonard opened one parchment, reading aloud like a smug lawyer. "Clause seventy-two: 'The Lord of Crimson Blood, upon claiming the Tower of Despair, shall maintain active villain status until death, divine ascension, or apocalypse, whichever occurs first.'"
What the hell kind of contract—?!
Leonardflipped another page. "Additionally, your demonic signature legally anchors the followers from Hell to your service. Meaning if you retire, the infernal realm will repossess them for… reassignment."
Zaylknork blinked. "Reassignment?"
"Yes, my Lord. Torture duty, lava stirring, eternal screaming. It's not a good package."
Leonard suddenly knelt, clutching the stack to his chest. "Please, my Lord! Think of your followers! You brought us from Hell itself! Where are we to go if you quit?" His voice trembled. "I'll... I'll be jobless!"
There was a sniffle from the crowd. Then another.
Within seconds, half the cult was crying.
"Master, don't leave us!"
"I still have four unpaid torture shifts!"
"I was saving up for a new robe!"
Zaylknork just stood there, staring at the absurd theater unfolding before him.
This was his life now.
"Leonard," he said flatly. "You're telling me I need… permission to quit being evil?"
"Yes, my Lord. Officially, you'd have to obtain the signature of the ruling monarch who banished you—Queen Felisa of Eldeloria."
Bingo! Zaylknork turned away from the crowd. "All I have to do is to get the Queen's signature! And proof to her I've quit the villain life for real."
Leonardo's bow deepened. His butt was raised high and both his hands flat on the floor. "Please, my lord. I have no solid hypothesis as to why you wish to quit."
Zaylknork stilled. Why are these people hell bent on working with him?
Leonard continued, his voice louder every word. "But please don't leave us jobless!"