My Maids are All Final Villainesses

They were silent.

No one spoke.

No one even dared to breathe too loudly.

The entire battlefield fell into a strange stillness that did not belong in a place that had just been torn apart by violence.

The shattered ground stretched out in every direction, broken stone rising like jagged teeth, dust hanging in the air like a thin fog that refused to settle.

The border town walls stood damaged, parts of them cracked and chipped, while the once orderly formation of soldiers had long since been scattered by the overwhelming force of the clash.

Yet none of that mattered now.

All eyes were fixed on one place.

The spot where the Warchief had been buried.

The Captain stood frozen, his grip on his weapon tightening little by little, his knuckles turning pale as his gaze did not move even for a second.

The knights behind him were no different, their posture stiff, their breaths shallow, as if they were afraid that even the smallest movement would break whatever fragile balance had formed in that moment.

The archers above the wall leaned forward unconsciously, their fingers still holding onto their bows, yet none of them thought of drawing an arrow. Their minds were no longer on battle. They were waiting.

Waiting for something.

Waiting for anything.

Cerys stood quietly beside Clay, her eyes fixed on the ground as well, her expression calm yet attentive. Her hand rested near her side, ready, not out of fear, but out of habit. She watched with the same focus as the others, though unlike them, there was no uncertainty in her gaze.

Borzoi, standing a distance away with only one arm, felt his throat tighten.

His heart pounded.

Each second that passed felt longer than the last.

He should be dead...

The thought echoed in his mind again and again.

He should have died from that...

And yet...

Something felt wrong.

Very wrong.

The silence stretched.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three.

Each passing moment only made the tension worse, heavier, pressing down on everyone like an invisible force that refused to let go.

Then—

The ground trembled.

A low rumble spread outward, shaking the broken earth beneath their feet. Small stones began to roll, cracks widened, and dust that had settled began to rise once more.

The Captain’s eyes widened.

"He’s—!"

Before he could finish—

BOOM!

The ground exploded.

A massive burst of force tore through the surface, sending debris flying in all directions as a figure shot upward from the crater like a beast breaking free from its cage.

The Warchief emerged.

But he was no longer the same.

His body burned with a deeper red, darker than before, as if his blood itself had turned into fire beneath his skin. The veins across his arms and neck bulged violently, pulsing with a power that was far more intense than anything he had shown earlier. His breathing was heavier, harsher, each inhale sounding like a growl forced through clenched teeth.

Clay narrowed his eyes.

So that’s it...

This time, he did not stand still out of curiosity.

He watched.

He understood.

Earlier, he had allowed himself to be struck without adapting, letting the attacks land just to measure them, to feel them, to confirm the limits of what stood before him.

But now...

He had already adjusted.

He had already taken everything in.

The Warchief stepped forward.

His gaze locked onto Clay.

Without hesitation, he attacked.

His fist tore through the air, faster than before, stronger than before, filled with a force that distorted the space around it.

Boom!

It struck Clay’s face.

The impact rang out sharply.

For a moment, the Warchief’s lips curled into a grin.

This time...

This time I got him—

But then—

His expression froze.

Clay had not moved.

Not even slightly.

Not a single inch.

Not a single tremor.

The Warchief’s eyes widened.

"Wha—?"

The sensation that followed came instantly.

A cold.

A deep, chilling sensation that crawled up from the base of his spine and wrapped around the back of his head like an unseen hand.

Death.

The word formed in his mind without warning.

He shook his head.

No...

He attacked again.

Another punch.

Another strike.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each blow carried more force, more rage, more desperation, his arms moving faster, his body pushing beyond its limits as he threw everything he had into his attacks.

But nothing changed.

Clay stood there.

Unmoving.

Unharmed.

Untouched.

The feeling grew stronger.

With every strike.

With every failed attempt.

The cold wrapped tighter.

It pressed harder.

It whispered.

You will die.

"No!"

The Warchief roared, shaking his head violently as if trying to throw the thought away.

He attacked again.

Faster.

Harder.

More desperate.

Yet the result remained the same.

Clay did not move.

The gap between them did not shrink.

It widened.

With each passing second.

With each failed strike.

The Warchief’s breathing became ragged.

His vision trembled.

And the thought returned.

Stronger than before.

You will die.

Suddenly—

Clay spoke.

"Old man."

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

It cut through the chaos like a blade.

"You know you’re going to die."

The Warchief’s body stiffened.

Clay’s eyes met his.

There was no hatred in them.

No anger.

Only certainty.

"And you know something else," Clay continued, his tone lowering just a little, carrying a meaning that struck deeper than any blow. "You’re a terrible Warchief."

The words landed heavier than any punch.

"So it’s fine if you hand your people over to me."

For a moment—

Everything stopped.

The Warchief froze.

His arms, which had been swinging wildly, halted mid-motion.

His breathing slowed.

His mind—

Went somewhere else.

Memories surfaced.

One after another.

The faces of his tribe.

The ones he had led.

The ones he had saved.

And the ones he had broken.

He remembered the time when they were weak, when they were hunted, when they had been enslaved by those who wielded magic. He remembered the anger, the rage, the burning desire to break free, to destroy those who had treated them as less than human.

He had done it.

He had led them.

He had crushed their enemies.

He had raised them from nothing.

He had given them strength.

But...

What came after?

He saw it.

Clearer than ever.

The fear in their eyes.

The way they lowered their heads.

The way they never spoke back.

Not out of respect.

But out of fear.

He remembered the punishments.

The beatings.

The times he had laughed while enforcing his will.

The times he had enjoyed the power that came with being their savior.

Their leader.

Their Warchief.

He had told himself it was necessary.

That strength ruled everything.

That weakness deserved nothing.

But now—

Standing here—

Facing someone who embodied that very belief to an even greater degree—

He saw it.

He understood it.

Was this... what I became?

The thought lingered.

For only a moment.

Then—

His eyes snapped open.

"I refuse!"

His roar shattered everything.

The ground trembled again as he stepped forward, his body shaking, not from weakness, but from something deeper.

Something more desperate.

More stubborn.

More unwilling to fall.

His muscles tightened.

His veins pulsed.

And then—

His body changed again.

The red deepened further.

Darkened further.

His aura surged violently, even without mana, even without magic, the sheer presence of his strength pressing outward like a storm breaking free.

He stood taller.

Stronger.

More terrifying than before.

The air around him warped.

The ground beneath his feet cracked further.

The soldiers felt it.

Even without understanding it.

Even without sensing mana.

They knew.

He had become stronger.

Far stronger.

Borzoi’s eyes widened.

His breath caught in his throat.

"Third... phase..."

His voice came out as a whisper.

In their tribe’s legends, there were five phases.

The fifth was a myth.

The fourth was spoken only in stories.

The third—

The third was the mark of the strongest warriors.

The proof of supremacy.

The line that separated the ordinary from the absolute peak.

And now—

The Warchief had reached it.

Borzoi’s gaze turned slowly toward Clay.

Yet...

Even now...

Even after witnessing that transformation—

He felt something strange.

It’s not enough...

The realization hit him harder than anything else.

No matter how strong the Warchief became...

No matter how far he pushed himself...

It still felt like—

It was not enough.

The Warchief roared.

His voice shook the battlefield.

His feet dug into the ground.

And then—

He attacked.

With everything he had.

With nothing left to hold back.

With a desperation that refused to accept defeat.

He rushed forward like a beast that had abandoned all reason, his fist drawn back, his entire being poured into that single strike.

And Clay—

Smirked.