Villain Ch 1749. Unofficial Army

Allen’s jaw twitched.

“Impersonators,” he said coldly.

Red_King stared at the basin below, then back at Allen. “We need to help them.”

Allen didn’t reply.

Because he was already gone.

By the time Red_King turned, Allen was nothing more than a faint blur of movement tearing through the cursed fog like a ghost unchained.

“Damn it,” Red_King hissed, drawing his sword and sprinting down the slope. “Could’ve waited like, one second—crazy bastard.”

Allen didn’t hear him.

Didn’t care.

He wasn’t running to save Alex. Or Elio. Or that dying little squad struggling to hold the line.

No.

This wasn’t heroism.

This was curiosity.

Dark. Cold. Violent curiosity.

Because those people down there—those fifty idiots surrounding Alex and his personal annoyance Elio—they were claiming the Devil Emperor’s name. Maybe not directly. But enough. Enough to piss him off.

They weren’t just attacking for fun. No, they were branding it. Wearing the black aesthetic. Quoting corrupted system texts. Shouting lines like, “Face the Emperor’s wrath,” and “Kneel to the true power of the game.”

Allen almost laughed.

He should be flattered. Really. A whole cult of over-leveled PvPers cosplaying as his unofficial army? That was the kind of influence people paid for.

But no.

It didn’t feel flattering.

It felt insulting.

Because they weren’t strong.

Not yet.

And if they were going to wear his name like armor?

Then he wanted to test just how easily that armor could be peeled away—with a blade.

So no.

This wasn’t about saving Alex.

This was about slaughter.

Allen’s bloodlust bloomed like a flower under pressure—hot and sharp and gleeful. He grinned as he reached the outer edge of the basin, the wind catching his cloak, flicking it behind him like a war banner.

Two daggers in hand.

No Throne of Dread. No cursed glow. No Devil Emperor aura to rely on.

Just Al.

The crazy Goldborne heir.

The guy who won a world tournament with nothing but instinct, aggression, and cruel finesse.

And this?

This was his sandbox now.

He darted between shadows, one step, then another, slipping through the edges of perception until he was there—inside their line—right behind a mage channeling a damage-over-time spell toward the support team.

Allen didn’t hesitate.

His blade slid across the mage’s throat like it was meant to be there.

The guy let out a gurgle. Staggered. Crashed into a shieldbearer behind him.

[Critical Strike]

The shieldbearer barely had time to react before Allen kicked off his collapsing teammate’s back, flipped midair, and stabbed down with both blades into the shoulder joints of the armored target.

The armor cracked.

The bones screamed.

The man went down with a thud and a startled yell.

Nearby players turned.

One of them—a rogue—saw Allen and immediately shouted.

“INCOMING ATTACK!”

But Allen was already on his third kill.

He twisted, rolled low beneath a fireball, and came up under a bow user, dagger sliding under the ribcage before twisting up toward the heart.

[Armor Pierced]

[Player Skywhisper Defeated]

“Shit—it’s Al!” someone screamed from across the line. “That Goldborne guy!”

Allen’s grin widened.

That reaction?

Exactly what he wanted.

The panic that rippled across the field was almost beautiful. Like someone dropped acid into a fountain. The formation faltered, calls rang out across voice chat, and healers started pulling back as tanks scrambled to reestablish the perimeter.

It was too late.

Allen moved like liquid shadow—no wasted steps, no useless flourishes. He struck joints. He struck soft spots. He knew their patterns. Their hesitation. Their delay between macros. He could read them.

Not like an enemy.

Like a predator.

Behind him, Red_King finally arrived, skidding down the ridge with all the subtlety of a falling meteor.

“Oh hell yeah!” he shouted, leaping over a stunned DPS and cleaving their torso in half with one swing. “Now this is what I’m talking about!”

Elio, half-dazed and bleeding, lifted his head from behind a crumbling barrier. “Wait… is that Red_King?!”

Alex, his hands glowing from yet another overcharged heal, whipped his head around. “Wait, that’s—oh thank God.”

“Wrong deity,” Red_King bellowed as he dropkicked a monk into a wall. “We brought someone meaner!”

Allen didn’t even turn. He was too busy tearing through the next line of resistance.

Three players stood their ground—two tanks and one hybrid spellbreaker. Coordinated. Holding a tight defense. A little too eager.

Allen respected that.

He still broke them.

He threw a flash bomb—not magical, just pure sensory disorientation—and dove through the smoke. His daggers clanged against a shield, slid across armor, and in one fluid motion, he somersaulted over the trio and planted a dagger right between the spellbreaker’s shoulder blades.

[Assassin Bonus Triggered: Aerial Backstab – 200% Crit Multiplier]

The woman dropped.

One tank shouted, “Get formation! Hold the—”

Allen cut his throat mid-command.

The second tank didn’t even try to speak. Just charged.

Allen ducked under the hammer, dragged a blade across the back of the tank’s knee, then kicked him backward into his dying teammate.

The man wheezed, choked, and fell.

Red_King came crashing through the line right after, roaring like a madman. He smashed through two casters, grabbed one by the leg, and used him to knock another off-balance.

“YOU GUYS REALLY THOUGHT THIS WAS GONNA WORK?” he yelled, laughing as another player tried to root him with a spell.

Allen passed him in a blur. “Focus left. They’re regrouping by the shrine.”

“Already on it,” Red_King growled, charging forward again.

Down near the center, Alex screamed as he pushed another group heal through a wave of AoE fire. “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON—?!”

Elio looked like he was caught between awe and confusion. “Why is Allen here?”

Allen didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because he was too busy fighting—or holding back that cold, devil emperor grin, the one that craved blood on his blades and armor.

No titles. No throne. No burden of a role he had to maintain.

What he did just clean, efficient violence.

And a field full of bastards who dared to wear his name without paying the price.

One of the players on the enemy side pointed a shaky sword toward him. “Be careful—he’s a tournament player! Pro status!”