I Am The Game's Villain

"Amael... what exactly are you doing?"
Amael lay sprawled out on the grass beside his modest camp, arms tucked behind his head as if he had not a care in the world. He cracked open his silver eyes, the faintest trace of irritation flashing in them.
Of course.
Peace never lasted long.
He tilted his head slightly, staring at the figure that stood above him—a presence that shimmered like pale, untouchable light. To anyone else, the clearing was empty. But Amael wasn’t just anyone.
"Don’t you see it?" Amael muttered lazily. "I’m resting."
The figure shifted, his eyes narrowing.
Nihil.
The Holy Guardian of Eden. And not just that.
His father.
If Amael could even call him that.
"You lie there like some beggar abandoned in a forgotten forest. For what purpose?" Nihil’s tone was cold.
Amael let out a soft, humorless laugh. "For peace, ’Father’. For rest. Because whenever I’m with you—or anyone else tied to Eden—I feel nothing but pain and annoyance."
The words didn’t rattle Nihil. He simply stood there, arms folded. "Do you really think you can simply vanish like this? Hide away from the world? You are the Vessel of Samael. Your presence is vital for the future of Eden. How many times must I remind you—"
"I’m sick of it."
Nihil’s voice halted mid-sentence. His gaze sharpened. "What did you say?"
"I said I’m sick of all of it," Amael snapped, finally sitting up, silver eyes gleaming with annoyance. "Of your lectures. Of your orders. Of the endless weight Eden and his followers keep trying to chain on me. I never asked to be Samael’s Vessel."
Silence lingered for a breath, the forest wind carrying only the rustle of leaves. Nihil stepped closer.
"You have no choice in this matter, Amael. I’ve told you countless times. Your role is not one you can abandon. I did not raise you to—"
"That’s rich." Amael cut him off. "You didn’t raise me at all. Mother raised me. You only ever appeared to pester me about Eden, about laws, about my so-called destiny. A destiny where I will become nothing more than Eden’s pawn."
For the first time, Nihil faltered. His lips pressed into a thin line before he exhaled a long sigh. "I thought leaving you in Michael’s care would help you."
"Michael can screw off," Amael retorted.
Nihil’s stern façade cracked into a faint chuckle. "Are you sulking just because of a little beating?"
Amael gave a half-shrug, not even bothering to deny it. "I don’t want anything to do with Eden. Not with its rules, not with its puppets, not with anyone obsessed with it. They’re all mad. And yes I include you in that madness."
"Is that how you speak to your own father?" Nihil grimaced, his voice hardening again.
Amael’s gaze turned sharp as steel. "I only ever had one father. And it wasn’t you."
The words landed like a slap. For a moment Nihil’s composure cracked. "I truly regret not sealing Nyrel’s entirety of memories," he said.
Amael scoffed. "Sealed or not, I would’ve uncovered them. You know that. Once I get them all, I will understand everything."
Nihil looked at him, then nodded slowly. "I suppose... yes. You are my son after all. My blood runs in you."
"Don’t flatter yourself. Whatever strength I have is mine alone. If anyone deserves praise, it’s Mother."
Nihil’s eyes softened, just for a breath. "You love Belle deeply, don’t you? Then tell me—do you think it’s right to leave her behind, worried sick, in the Falkrona’s Domain?"
Amael’s mouth pressed shut. His gaze slid away, and he grumbled under his breath. The guilt gnawed at him, though he would never admit it aloud.
He hadn’t wanted to abandon her. But he couldn’t stay there either—not with Eden’s shadow looming over him, not with Falkrona’s expectations crushing him. He had needed space, if only to breathe.
"You are the heir of House Falkrona," Nihil said. "Act like it. I can track you, yes, but I cannot always be at your side. You have enemies, Amael. More than you realize."
Amael’s lips curled into a dry smile. "Enemies or not I can defend myself."
"I doubt you’ll be able to defend yourself against all enemies," Nihil said. His glowing figure flickered faintly in the sunlight streaming between the trees. "If Lucifer acts on—"
"Lucifer?" Amael cut in, raising a brow. "Isn’t he still recovering? He’d be a fool to show up here half-prepared. I’ll be fine."
He leaned back calmly, though the words carried more confidence than he truly felt. Lucifer was powerful, yes, but the great wound he had suffered more than ten thousand years ago had never fully healed. Even if the fallen King of Ymir crawled his way back, Eden’s full army would descend on him in an instant. A weakened Lucifer would stand no chance.
"You’re certainly overestimating yourself," Nihil retorted. "Try landing a proper strike on Michael before taking such a stupid stance, son."
And just like that, Nihil turned, his form dissolving into a flare of white radiance until nothing was left but the hum of the forest.
Amael glared at the empty space, silver eyes hardening. "I wonder from whom I get this stupidity from!" He shouted after him. Whether Nihil heard it or not didn’t matter.
Clicking his tongue, Amael lowered himself back onto the grass, hands laced behind his head again. "Damn it..." He muttered, closing his eyes. "Ephera... just save me from this nightmare."
Her name alone softened his features. Ephera—the woman he loved more than anything, second only to his mother. Since regaining Nyrel’s scattered memories, Amael’s mind had been in chaos. Depression, panic, nights of thrashing in his sleep because of the trauma of losing his family on Earth and then Ephera.
His mother, Belle, had wept helplessly, terrified for her son. She had begged Nihil for help.
Nihil’s solution had been as cruel as it was enticing: a promise. If Amael devoted himself completely to his role, Nihil swore he would bring Ephera back from death. Amael had accepted, desperate, clinging to that sliver of hope. It became his drive, the burning reason he endured.
But years had passed, and that fire had begun to burn him hollow. His thoughts boiled until his head felt overheated, suffocating. That was why he had slipped away to this quiet forest—a place where, for once, no one could hound him.
Or so he thought.
-BOOOOM!
The ground trembled as something crashed into the nearby pond, sending water erupting skyward in a violent spray. Birds scattered from the treetops with panicked cries.
Amael sat up sharply, silver eyes narrowing.
Of course...
Once again!
Peace never lasted.
"Again... that woman," he muttered when the spray cleared, revealing a familiar figure sprawled in the shallow water.
Lisandra.
Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath, body bruised and battered from whatever she had just endured.
Amael knew exactly who she was. He knew of Alphonse as well, and the endless war between the Arvatra Empire and the Celesta Kingdom. But none of it interested him. Their politics, their battles, their blood feuds—none of it mattered to him.
He had even witnessed Lisandra and Alphonse crossing blades like mortal enemies, only to laugh and whisper like sisters when night fell. He’d noticed, too, the secret Alphonse kept from the world—how she was no man at all. He’d caught a glimpse of her cleavage as she was about to join Lisandra in the pond. His only reaction had been a faint arch of his brow before looking away.
Their drama was not his.
He wanted no part in it.
So why, then, had Lisandra landed here of all places? Another one of their staged fights, perhaps? But why had it spilled all the way into this forest?
Amael’s eyes sharpened as his question was answered.
It wasn’t Alphonse chasing her.
From the treeline emerged a colossal figure, easily ten meters tall, the ground quaking with every step. It was shaped like a man, but its flesh gleamed like white marble streaked with gold. Four radiant wings unfurled from its back, scattering light across the clearing. Its eyes burned with an unnatural golden glow, and in its massive hand it carried a long white sword that hummed with holy energy.
Amael’s breath stilled.
Recognition flared.
"...Metatron."
The name slipped out in a low mutter.
The Guardian Spirit of the Celesta Kingdom. The ultimate safeguard of the Garden of Eden itself.
Sancta Vedelia and Edenis Raphiel had their own Guardian Spirits as well. Meant as trump cards, and protectors meant to stand only in defense of the holiest treasures in case some dangerous mortals found ideas about using them for ill intentions.
So why... why was Metatron here?
Had someone in Celesta actually awakened it?
Just to kill Lisandra?
Amael frowned.
No—Alphonse wouldn’t have unleashed something this dangerous. That meant someone else did it.
-BOOOOOOM!
The clearing erupted as Metatron’s massive blade came crashing down. Lisandra raised her rapier in a desperate parry, steel screaming as it clashed against the holy weapon. The impact tore through her stance like thunder splitting the sky. She was hurled backwards, her body slamming into the dirt with a bone-jarring crack.
A choked grunt escaped her lips as blood splattered across the grass. Her once-pristine dark blue armor split apart, shards clattering to the ground. Cuts carved across her body, and crimson ran freely down her cheek and shoulder. She pushed against the earth, trembling, but her strength was faltering fast.
Lisandra was no ordinary woman. She was a Demigod.
But Metatron had not been built for ordinary battles. It was a relic of an age when Demigods themselves ruled the world, a weapon forged specifically to subdue them. Even its existence was a grim reminder of Eden’s paranoia seeing enemies everywhere and even potentially among mortals they had created.
And while it was still bound to the level of a Demigod, Metatron stood at the very peak of that scale. Only Divinity could do something against it.
The colossus spread its wings wide, golden light flaring, and lifted its sword once more. Its blade cast a blinding sheen across the clearing as it prepared to bring judgment down on the wounded princess.
Lisandra staggered to her feet, one arm dangling uselessly, broken. The other hand clutched her rapier, its trembling tip barely steady. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, but her remaining unwounded red eye was sharp.
If this was her end, she would face it standing.
Metatron’s blade came down from the heavens themselves.
Lisandra shut her eye, bracing herself for the inevitable.
But death never came.
Instead, there was a ringing clash—an ear-splitting note of steel against steel. The force of the strike split the earth beneath them, sending cracks racing across the ground. The air trembled with the echo of the impact.
Slowly, Lisandra hesitantly looked.
And there, standing tall between her and the golden titan, was a lone figure.
Amael.