I Became The Novel's Biggest Antagonist

Panic surged in Gwenyra's chest as she realized he was about to walk out. Without thinking, she reached out, her hand grasping his sleeve.

When Ivan's eyes swung back toward her, Gwenyra felt a chill run down her spine, as if he might strike her down right then and there. Instinctively, she yanked her hand back.
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"M–My apologies."

"..."

"Just a minute, please," Gwenyra asked again, this time forcing herself to meet his cold gaze.

Ivan turned around. Though he wasn't making a move to sit down, he gave her the time she'd requested.

Gwenyra shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny but rose to her feet, bracing herself.

"I–I heard," she began, her voice faltering for a moment, "that men from Camelot are being called to enroll in the army. I've also received letters from neighboring towns… they're all saying the same thing."

She paused. It didn't take much to understand what it all meant, but the weight of it frightened her—frightened her for her people.

Yes, they had been enrolled but none of them had the choice to refuse. All capable men were forced to enroll but the worse was that it was for a cause that didn't concern them.

This wasn't a war for Camelot, or even for Britannia. It was for Gevurah. And yet, men all over Britannia were being dragged into it.

During her walks through town, people had stopped her—some desperately, some quietly terrified—asking her about the conscriptions. But what could she tell them? She had no answers. No power to change anything.

At the very least, she needed to understand why.

"Kukuku," Mikhaim chuckled from where he'd lounged lazily in a nearby chair. "Should we congratulate you for not being blind, Princess?"

"..."

"Yeah, we're going to war. Soon. Against Unadora."

"U–Unadora…" Gwenyra gasped, her eyes widening in shock.

Unadora. The kingdom to the south. A neighbor they'd always shared a peaceful relationship with—or at least, they had until now.

"But why?" She asked, her fists clenching tightly. Sadness flickered across her face, but she couldn't let it stop her from demanding answers.

"Why?" Mikhail arched a brow, amused by her naivety. "Don't you know what our goal is, Princess? After these months spent with us"

"Spreading Seraphiel's Faith," Gwenyra replied automatically.

"Exactly." Mikhaim smirked. "Britannia is just the first step. Unadora is next. After that, we'll move on. One by one, until the entire Holy Continent is under our control."

"Th–This is madness!" Gwenyra snapped in disbelief.

She could hardly comprehend it. Conquering and controlling an entire continent? The sheer scale of it was absurd. Maddening.

And yet, here they were.

"Madness, you say…" Mikhail's tone darkened as his eyes narrowed. "You saw it for yourself, didn't you? How we burned Camelot to the ground. How we crushed your so-called strongest knights without breaking a sweat. Even your proud father—wielding that vaunted sword of his—couldn't so much as scratch Ivan. And you think this is impossible for us?"

"T–That's not what I mean," Gwenyra said trying to find the right words. "You don't understand. If you keep waging war against peaceful kingdoms, the entire world will see you as a serious threat. Armies from every corner of the globe will rise against you…"

"Oh?" Mikhail tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And you're hoping there's someone out there strong enough to take us down?"

"I–I'm not hoping for anything," Gwenyra fumbled, her words coming out in a rush. "I'm just… worried about my people. Is it really worth it to conquer kingdoms that haven't done anything to provoke you?"

"Nothing?"

Gwenyra's head snapped toward Ivan.

His expression was unreadable as he finally spoke. "I've seen children burned alive for praying to Seraphiel," Ivan said, his voice was as always toneless and sending her goosebumps because of frightening it seemed despite its softness.

"For thousands of years, my people have faced nothing but persecution. Towns wiped off the map, not a single stone left standing. Men slaughtered. Children groomed, sold as slaves. Women and children raped, burned at the stake, alive. Experimented on like animals. Two thousand years… and nothing has changed."

As Ivan spoke, he began to walk past her, his voice devoid of emotion despite the horrors he recounted.

Gwenyra bit her lip hard, struggling with what he said. She'd heard whispers, faint murmurs about the persecution of Seraphiel's followers, but she'd never imagined it could be this monstrous. She'd never personally had anything against those who worshipped Seraphiel, but the truth was undeniable—most of the world treated them as outcasts, monsters, less than human.

Ivan stopped in front of Mikhail, who silently handed him a black knife. The blade was sleek and ominous, its surface so dark it refused to reflect even the faintest glimmer of light.

Turning back toward Gwenyra, Ivan inspected the blade for a moment before advancing on her.

Gwenyra instinctively stepped back. But Ivan moved like a shadow—fluid, silent, and swift. In a single step, he closed the distance between them, the knife gleaming in his hand.

"...!"

Gwenyra's heart raced as she stumbled backward. Ivan's sudden movement froze her in place, and before she could react, the blade was thrust toward her face.

She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the sharp, searing pain of its strike.

But… nothing came.

When she dared to open her eyes, she found the knife's tip hovering just an inch away from her left eye.

"Just like that…" Ivan murmured, his dark eyes locking onto Gwenyra's blue ones. "A five-year-old boy had his eyes taken out by a Priest of the Holy Church. His mother, who tried to save him, was raped in front of him, and he could only hear her screams before she was killed. After that, the boy was burned alive alongside his mother. Do you remember, Mikhail? I assume you do."

"I do," Mikhail answered, his smile fading. "He was my brother, and she was my mother."

Gwenyra froze, looking away, her body shaking.

"Every member of my Legion has suffered at the hands of your people. Each of my people has endured pain from yours, including knights from Britannia, without a doubt. My people will continue to be killed and raped," Ivan said, staring at Gwenyra's turned face.

"I…apologize…for everything you and your people have endured," Gwenyra stammered. "I condemn all these actions…all of them. I respect Seraphiel and all their followers as they are, but—"

Ivan stepped back, removing the knife and tossing it to Mikhail, who caught it.

"B–But… there are innocent people too," Gwenyra said, looking at Ivan.

"My mother was innocent," Ivan interrupted. "And she was violated in front of me. I remember it vividly," he continued, extending his hand with his Stigma swirling above his palm. "They made me watch. They wanted me to hear it, but they didn't want to hear me, so they cut out my tongue and stabbed my throat with a knife they had heated. They didn't want me to escape, so they also severed my arms and legs."

"..." Gwenyra opened her mouth but couldn't find the words, her eyes glistening slightly as her fists shook.

"I watched it again. And again. Over and over. When they were done with my mother, they moved on to the other mothers. They forced me to watch for days and nights. I wanted to die, but they wouldn't let me. Their so-called 'Holy Water' kept me alive just enough to endure it. How many days did it last, Mikhail?" Ivan glanced at Mikhail.

"Seven days," Mikhail answered with a laugh. "After that, we were broken enough for their experiments."

"Exactly," Ivan nodded slowly, his gaze distant as the dark tattoos etched on his chest, back, and arms pulsed faintly. "Seven days. Then they wanted to... violate my sisters and Ludmila before experimenting on them. I told them I'd trade my days for theirs and demanded they release them. How long did my sisters and Ludmila suffered, Mikhail?"

"Fifteen days," Mikhail replied without hesitation.

"Fifteen days." Ivan's eyes were locked on the swirling patterns of his tattoos, as if searching for something hidden in their motion. "Mikhail stayed with me after that. We were their favorites."

"'Favorites,' sure," Mikhail scoffed, crossing his arms. "But I was out after a month."

"And me?" Ivan asked.

Mikhail hesitated before answering. "Six months. It took six months until your father found us."

"Six months. It felt like six centuries. When I couldn't take any more, they used me to summon a devil. I wonder... what were they trying to achieve?"

"Does it even matter?" Mikhail chuckled.

"No," Ivan admitted, the faintest smirk flickering across his lips before disappearing. His fists clenched, and the glow of his tattoos shattered like shards of light.

"You called it madness, Pendragon Princess."

Gwenyra's gaze shifted to Ivan. He turned to meet her eyes—dark and glistening—and a single tear slipped down her cheek.

"It is madness," Ivan said quietly. "Mine."

He stepped closer. Reaching out, he took Gwenyra's cross gently into his palm, cradling it as though it were fragile.

"I will spread Seraphiel's faith across this world," he whispered, "even if it means reducing every last country to ash. And I will slaughter every man, woman, and child who dares to stand in my way."

"...!"

Gwenyra's breath froze as she stared into Ivan's black eyes. For a brief moment, she glimpsed the endless void behind them—bottomless, consuming. This wasn't cruelty or ambitions, she realized. It was something far beyond that.

He raised his gaze, his eyes meeting hers.

"May Seraphiel bless us with her light."