I Am The Game's Villain

It was known as one of the greatest treasures of Eden—The Holy Tree of Eden. A symbol of divine grace. A living monument of sacred power. That was the common belief.
But, as with all things touched by gods, the truth ran much deeper.
The seed that birthed the first Holy Tree in the mortal world was no ordinary gift from the heavens. It was crafted in secret, forged through the union of Eden’s divine will and Freyja’s ancient spells, imbued with the very essence of Ymir—the primordial Mother from whom all things were said to originate.
Freyja, however, was never deceived by the poetic symbolism of the Tree. She knew Eden’s ambitions all too well.
The Holy Tree was never merely a sacred gift. It was a tool—a calculated move in Eden’s grand plan to spread his faith across the land.
But Freyja didn’t object. Not really.
She was a daughter of Ymir, one of the Ymir Princesses—lesser in age than the mighty Ymir Kings, yet born of the same ancient blood. She had arrived in the mortal world with purpose already carved into her soul: to assist the Kings in shaping a new world from the ashes of the old.
So she obeyed.
She took the Seed and nurtured it, letting it grow into something magnificent—a towering, radiant Tree whose roots burrowed deep into the land and whose branches reached toward the heavens. That was thousands of years ago, in an age long forgotten.
The first Holy Tree didn’t even rise from the soil of Sancta Vedelia.
Back then, during the brutal Age of Demigods—when the divine children of the gods walked the earth like giants and waged war over realms—the Holy Trees were not so rare. There were nearly a dozen of them scattered across the world. Each one a source of great blessing... and of immense power.
But such power was never left unchallenged.
Nations rose and fell in pursuit of the Trees. Blood was spilled in the name of ownership. Great wars erupted, tearing the land apart. Tribes and clans emerged, led by mortal kings who claimed divine right and sought to claim a Tree for their own. The violence was so absolute, so devastating, that even the gods could no longer turn a blind eye.
Freyja was the first to speak out.
She warned Eden of the folly in scattering so many Holy Trees across the world. The chaos it birthed could not be undone. So they changed their strategy.
This time, there would be only one Tree.
It would be planted on a secluded island, far from the war-hardened lands of the past. Freyja would choose the location herself. And with the help of a divine alliance—gods and goddesses willing to invest their own blood into a new beginning—they created Sancta Vedelia.
This island would become the cradle of a new world.
From their divine sacrifice, a new generation of races was born—not the reckless, war-born Demigods, but beings of balance. More fragile, perhaps, but filled with untapped potential. Humankind was one of the first.
And thanks to Freyja’s vision—along with the contributions of Merithra and Fenrir—other races soon followed. Sancta Vedelia flourished, a land blessed by divine harmony, with only one Holy Tree standing at its heart.
That experiment proved a success.
Eden stepped away, leaving the governance of Sancta Vedelia to the gods who had shaped it. Each became a patron of a race and worshipped as divine guides.
Freyja, the soul of the Elven peoples.
Anuket, the Goddess of House Dolphis.
Khione, the Goddess of House Zestella.
Athena, the Goddess of the Olphean House.
Fenrir, the God of House Moonfang.
And Merithra, the mother of the Vampires.
For centuries the Gods had watched. Together, from their celestial thrones and sanctified realms, they observed the unfolding history of Sancta Vedelia. Wars had come and gone. Empires had risen, burned, and been reborn in ash. And still, the gods watched.
They did not intervene directly. That was a rule etched into their divinity—a covenant born from both necessity and restraint. To interfere would be to stunt the growth of their children, to twist the path of destiny. But that didn’t mean they were indifferent.
No, they helped when they could—quietly, subtly, through whispers in dreams or boons disguised as fate. And when action was needed—when matters surpassed individual races or bloodlines—they gathered.
Their councils were rare but sacred.
These divine assemblies bore superficial resemblance to the councils held by the noble houses of Sancta Vedelia, and perhaps that was no coincidence. But where mortals squabbled in marble halls beneath the imitation Holy Tree, the gods convened around the original—the true Holy Tree of Eden.
Not the replica rooted in mortal soil, but the firstborn.
The True Tree, the one forged by Ymir herself as a gift to her son, towered in Eden’s Realm—a place bathed in shimmering gold and eternal light. This realm held all of Eden’s true treasures: the Holy Tree, the Monolith, and the Garden. Each divine artifact resided in its own sanctified space, separated by miles of celestial wonder, yet connected by essence.
The mortal world only received imitations, reflections cast like moonlight on water. Their purpose was different—tools, symbols, seeds of faith and growth. But the real Holy Tree? That was divine beyond comprehension.
It reached upward without end.
So vast was the Tree that no one, not even the fastest gods who soared through the heavens, had reached its summit. Some claimed even flying for three days straight wouldn’t bring you close to the top. And yet, high in its unseen heights, nestled within a massive hollow of living wood and divine energy, there existed a sanctum: a meeting place built for the gods themselves.
This structure, elegantly carved into the very bark of the Holy Tree, was a marvel of white stonework—seamlessly grown rather than built, its architecture curving and flowing like frozen starlight. At its center stood a circular table, gleaming ivory, inscribed with ancient symbols. At its center lay the emblem of the Tree itself, surrounded by ornate detailing.
And if one looked closely—beneath the graceful carvings and radiant finish—they would find the signature of Hephaistus, the Divine Smith. He had crafted the entire chamber and its furnishings with his own hands, pouring into it craftsmanship that rivaled even his most prized weapons.
Seven chairs encircled the table—each one a throne in its own right, but one clearly stood apart, taller, grander, more adorned.
The seat of Lord Nihil.
Of the remaining six, three were already occupied.
Anuket reclined languidly in one, her long, dark brown hair tied neatly back. Her emerald green eyes gleamed with subtle mischief beneath lowered lashes, and her golden-brown skin glowed in the room’s soft divine light. She wore a sleeveless white tunic, elegant and slim, accented by delicate golden filigree. A gleaming crown of gold and embedded gems rested atop her head.
With her chin resting against her knuckles, she exhaled in exasperation.
She turned her gaze toward the woman seated a few chairs away—impossible to ignore even in silence.
Athena.
Regal and composed, Athena sat upright, exuding an aura of disciplined grace. Her hair, a cascade of luminous gold, was swept back beneath a gleaming helmet, though the ornate headpiece did little to conceal her beauty. Her skin was flawless, pale as snow beneath starlight, and her eyes—brilliant hazel-green—shone beautifully.
"How long are they going to take?" Anuket muttered, her voice somewhere between a sigh and a grumble. "You were here first, Athena. Don’t you feel like just smashing the table already?"
Athena turned toward her, offering a patient, almost amused smile.
"It is our duty to wait for Lord Nihil and our fellow gods. Patience, Anuket."
Anuket groaned, flopping slightly in her seat. "You’re always like this—so uptight. And yet somehow that’s what makes everyone adore you." She tilted her head and gave a mock pout. "So many gods and goddesses are enchanted by you... I’m almost jealous."
"Is that so?" Athena replied, blinking once, her voice free of vanity or concern.
Anuket waved a hand in defeat. "Just—ugh, forget I said anything," she muttered, brushing her hair behind her ear.
Her gaze shifted again, this time to the third woman at the table.
Khione.
The youngest in appearance, she radiated the chill beauty of a fresh winter morning. Her snow-white hair fell in silken waves, and her eyes—frosted ice blue. To the eyes of her divine kin, she looked newly born, fragile yet immortal.
Anuket leaned forward slightly, curious.
"What about you, Khione? You want to leave with me? We could go cause some harmless chaos while we wait," she asked grinning.
Khione shifted her cold blue gaze toward Anuket. "I’m not interested."
Anuket let out a dramatic sigh, feigning offense with a touch of playful exaggeration. "So cold! You really are Laima’s disciple through and through."
"If it were that woman," rang a new voice—deep, rough, and brimming with amusement—"she wouldn’t have even bothered answering, let alone showing up to this meeting."
The air rippled, and in a flash of black and shadow, a tall, powerfully built figure materialized in one of the remaining seats. His presence radiated raw strength. Wild, dark hair tumbled over his broad shoulders and down his back, and his eyes—sharp yellow with vertical slits like a predator—glimmered with danger.
Fenrir.
With the ease of someone who cared little for decorum, he dropped into his seat and crossed his thick legs, propping them casually on the pristine table. The table carved by Hephaistus himself.
Athena’s eyes twitched.
"This place was forged with Hephaistus’s blood and craft for the gods," she said. "You should show some respect."
Fenrir threw his head back and laughed—a guttural, wolfish sound. "For us?" He scoffed. "Don’t make me laugh. The only reason that crippled old smith built this place was for you, Athena. And we all know he did it hoping he’d finally get to screw you behind that marble pillar of his."
"He finally said it!" Anuket burst into laughter, unable to contain herself.
Athena’s cheeks flushed, color blooming in her usually composed face. Her fists clenched slightly on the table.
"You disgrace the title of god," she muttered. "Hephaistus has done more to shape Eden’s Realms than you ever have."
Fenrir snarled. "Then maybe you should stop singing his praises and just bend over for him. Poor bastard might die from touching you, but I bet he’d die happy just to have a taste of you."
Athena’s lips trembled in anger, something she rarely to never shown. Still, she didn’t rise to the bait. She knew better. Fenrir thrived on provocation.
"You are repulsive."
"Oh, come now," Anuket said between giggles. . "Stop teasing her, Fenrir. You know she’s taken a vow of chastity. Or did you forget?"
She sounded amused, but there was an edge of sincerity beneath the jest. Anuket, as chaotic and whimsical as she could be, still respected and appreciated Athena.
Fenrir clicked his tongue and leaned back. "Chastity, huh? What a waste. A stupid vow for someone with a face like that—and a body to match."
His eyes roamed over Athena’s form with thinly veiled hunger, and for a moment the room’s temperature seemed to drop—though not from his presence.
Athena refused to look at him. She simply turned her face to the side, chin lifted, eyes closed. He wasn’t worth the energy.
"I see you haven’t changed at all, Fenrir. Still as loud and vulgar as ever."
A faint white glow pulsed from the central seat—the largest and most ornate of them all—and a new figure shimmered into being.
A tall man with hair like cascading threads of white and eyes as pale as his eyes. His presence silenced the room instantly.
Nihil.
His skin was almost the same snowy white as his hair, his expression carved from marble was quite stern.
Athena immediately greeted him. "Lord Nihil."
Khione gave a soft nod of acknowledgment as well.
Anuket didn’t move beyond a sideways glance. Fenrir merely grunted.
Nihil’s gaze drifted slowly across the room, settling on the one chair that remained conspicuously empty.
"Merithra," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "Still absent."
Anuket rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. "Since when has Merithra ever bothered to attend these things? She thinks sitting among us is beneath her. Typical Khaos Princess behavior."
There was clear irritation in her voice—one that many Gods shared, though few would voice it aloud. A hierarchy lingered, always. Those born directly from Ymir and Khaos stood higher, older, more divine than those born of other deities. And they made sure everyone remembered it.
Fenrir snorted. "Who cares if she shows up or not."
"And Freyja isn’t here either," Khione said suddenly. Her icy gaze turned to Fenrir, cold enough to freeze time.
The room stiffened.
It had been exactly three hundred years since the incident. Officially, it had been called a sacrifice—a noble act of salvation. But none of them truly believed that anymore. And Khione, more than any, had never accepted that story.
Athena’s eyes lowered, sorrow flickering across her features as her gaze settled on another empty chair.
"You have something to say, Ice Girl?" Fenrir growled, leaning forward slightly, menace radiating from his slitted pupils.
"Enough," Nihil said quietly.
Everyone stopped.
"We are not here to speak of the past," he continued coldly. "Our purpose is Sancta Vedelia, and Sancta Vedelia alone. As always, we gather to discuss its fate, entrusted to us by Lord Eden himself. I don’t need to remind you how vital it may become when the time comes."
At those words, the entire chamber fell into heavy silence.
But of course, Fenrir couldn’t stay silent forever.
"What is there to even talk about anymore?" He growled. "This entire pathetic war is happening because of Merithra. She’s the one who created that Witch. She brought this curse upon Sancta Vedelia—and now you’re gathering us just to clean up her mess?"
His foot slammed down from the table with a loud thud as he leaned forward. But before anyone could respond, Nihil’s voice sliced coldly through the rising heat.
"A mess?" He repeated. "Shall I remind you what you attempted with Loki, just six thousand years ago?"
Fenrir’s teeth clenched, lips curling into a silent snarl as he locked eyes with Nihil.
"You hold your seat on this council only because of Eden’s mercy," Nihil continued, unfazed. "Never forget that. Whatever transgressions Merithra is guilty of, they pale compared to what you and your father almost unleashed upon the Realms."
No one else spoke.
The memories were still raw, even after millennia. They all remembered the chaos: Samael’s fall, then Lucifer’s rebellion... and then, as if the balance hadn’t already been pushed too far, Loki’s insurrection—born of fury, jealousy, and pride.
And behind Loki had stood Fenrir.
It had been a near-catastrophe, and if Fenrir hadn’t backed down when the tides turned, he would have been annihilated by Michael. His survival had not been due to strength—but surrender. A rare, humbled retreat that earned him mercy but forever stained his name.
Anuket decided to steer the meeting back to safer waters before Fenrir exploded.
"What about the war in Sancta Vedelia?" She interjected smoothly."That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?"
Her words had weight—Fenrir was clearly volatile, and Anuket had seen enough of his outbursts to know when one was building. Besides, the lingering shadow of Freyja’s fate didn’t help matters. Many had loved her. And the Ymir Princesses had never forgiven Fenrir for what had happened.
He had crossed a line.
And he knew it.
Nihil gave a small nod bringing the council’s attention back into focus.
"The war cannot continue unchecked anymore," he said. "But it has reached its turning point. The Heroes who’ve risen from the Houses—those we’ve quietly watched over—have grown stronger, as we foresaw. They may soon be capable of confronting the Witch."
"But they’ll need help," he added, with certainty.
Anuket tilted her head slightly. "Help? I thought we agreed not to intervene. When the Blood Moon Spell first descended, we chose silence. We thought this war could be... a crucible. A trial to forge Sancta Vedelia into something stronger."
"And it still is," Nihil replied. "I’m not speaking of direct intervention. We agreed to let mortals shape their destiny."
He paused briefly. "That’s why I sent one of my sons."
Athena’s brows arched. "You sent a son?"
"He wasn’t born from a goddess," Nihil replied putting her worries at ease. "He was born from a mortal woman.."
"The Vessel of Samael."
Khione spoke.
All eyes turned toward her.
It was no secret. They all knew. None among them would dare overlook the Vessel of Samael.
Nihil nodded slowly. "Yes. He carries that burden. But he is also my son. He will act in Sancta Vedelia... quietly. Without divine interference. Without revealing what he truly is."