My Maids are All Final Villainesses

Cerys turned her head slightly, her gaze falling upon the figures beyond the crack once more. For a brief moment, she considered ignoring them completely. Her young master had already walked ahead, and she knew very well what he wanted now.

Rest.

Peace.

Silence.

Those were rare things for someone like him.

She did not wish to delay him any further.

Still, the voices had called her out directly, and their tone carried urgency that did not feel trivial. With a quiet breath, she stopped walking and allowed Clay to continue ahead.

He did not even look back.

As expected.

Her eyes softened for a moment before returning to the crack.

"What?"

Her voice was calm.

Cold.

The Warchiefs did not answer immediately.

For beings who commanded entire tribes, their hesitation was almost strange. Their silhouettes shifted behind the unstable boundary, their gazes flickering between one another as if silently urging someone else to speak first.

Cerys narrowed her eyes.

"Speak."

Her tone sharpened.

"I do not have time for this."

The pressure in her voice was unmistakable.

One of the Warchiefs finally stepped forward.

"Maid of the Young Warchief..."

He paused again.

Cerys did not respond.

She simply stared.

That silence alone forced him to continue.

"Does... does your young master truly understand what he is doing?"

Her expression did not change.

Another voice joined in, faster this time, as if afraid the first would falter again.

"We are not questioning his authority. Nor his strength. Nor his right to command us."

A third followed.

"But the power he gave... the Berserk Mode... it is not something that comes without cost."

The words began to pour out one after another.

"That kind of empowerment... it is not something even former Warchiefs used freely."

"It consumes something from the source."

"It draws from the core of one’s future."

"It weakens the path ahead."

"It is not simply a gift. It is a sacrifice."

Cerys listened without interruption.

Her gaze remained steady.

Another Warchief spoke, his tone heavier now.

"If he continues like this... if he gives such power again and again... then what will remain for him?"

"What will happen to his own growth?"

"What if one day... he realizes the cost?"

"What if anger follows that realization?"

"What if regret turns into rage?"

"What if he sees us... as the reason his path was diminished?"

The air beyond the crack grew tense.

One voice dropped lower.

"What if he kills us all?"

Silence followed.

A deep, suffocating silence.

They were not speaking out of disrespect.

They were afraid.

Not of the present.

But of the future.

Cerys stared at them for a long moment.

Then—

She laughed.

It was soft at first.

A quiet sound that barely left her lips.

Then it grew slightly, though it never lost its calm nature.

"You worry too much."

The Warchiefs stiffened.

Cerys lowered her gaze slightly, as if thinking.

"I have not been his maid for long."

Her voice carried a quiet certainty.

"But I have seen enough."

She looked up again.

"My young master..."

Her lips curved faintly.

"He is lonely."

The word hung in the air.

Unexpected.

Unfitting.

And yet, it felt true.

"He is too strong."

Her voice softened, but not in weakness.

"In a way that separates him from everything else."

She clasped her hands lightly behind her back.

"He does not seek to become stronger."

The Warchiefs frowned.

Cerys continued.

"If anything... he seems to want the opposite."

Their expressions changed.

"He acts as if strength is a burden."

She tilted her head slightly.

"As if being at the top is not something he enjoys."

Her eyes flickered briefly in the direction Clay had gone.

"As if he wants to come down."

The Warchiefs fell silent.

Cerys spoke again.

"Perhaps giving power away... is his way of doing that."

A strange stillness settled.

"He may be trying to weaken himself."

No one spoke.

The idea was absurd.

Yet it carried a strange logic.

Cerys exhaled softly.

"And perhaps..."

She paused for a moment.

"He hopes that if he becomes weaker... something or someone will finally reach him."

The words lingered.

The Warchiefs did not know how to respond.

One of them finally spoke, his voice uncertain.

"So... we do not need to worry?"

Cerys shook her head lightly.

"He will not regret it."

Another voice asked.

"And if he does?"

Cerys looked at them calmly.

"Then that is his choice."

Silence returned.

The Warchiefs exchanged looks again, but this time, something had changed.

Their fear had lessened.

Their thoughts moved in a different direction.

Then, slowly, they began to speak among themselves again.

"If that is the case..."

"Then what he seeks is not power..."

"But something beyond it..."

"Then we must adapt..."

"We must give him what he desires..."

"But what is that... truly?"

Their discussion deepened.

"Peace?"

"No. He already has it."

"Control?"

"He already holds it."

"Submission?"

"He already receives it."

"Then... challenge?"

The word lingered.

Another voice picked it up.

"Yes... challenge..."

"If he is too strong... then what he lacks is opposition..."

"But how do we provide that?"

"We cannot surpass him."

"Not now."

"Not soon."

"Then we must create conditions..."

"Conditions that force conflict..."

"Conditions that draw out stronger beings..."

"Conditions that attract danger..."

Their voices grew more intense.

"We can raise enemies."

"We can cultivate threats."

"We can stir chaos in distant lands."

"We can elevate hidden powers."

"We can bring forth those who would oppose him."

"We can search for ancient monsters."

"We can awaken sealed beings."

"We can guide powerful individuals toward him."

"We can spread his name across continents."

"We can make sure it reaches those who would challenge him."

"We can build pressure around him..."

"So that eventually..."

"Someone worthy will appear."

Cerys listened.

Her expression remained neutral.

Then she spoke.

"That could work."

The Warchiefs paused.

Encouraged.

One of them leaned forward slightly.

"There is another idea."

Cerys raised a brow.

"Speak."

The voice hesitated for only a moment.

"Is he not someone who dislikes being bothered by the weak?"

Cerys nodded once.

"Yes."

"Then... is it not possible... that he also seeks someone who will not waste his time?"

Cerys did not answer immediately.

Her silence was enough to urge them on.

"What if..."

The voice lowered.

"We destroy his reputation?"

The air froze.

"And make him the enemy of all?"

Cerys’s eyes darkened.

For a brief moment, the temperature around her seemed to drop.

A chilling presence spread outward, pressing against the crack itself.

The Warchiefs stiffened.

Even from the other side, they felt it.

That killing intent.

It was not wild.

Not uncontrolled.

But it was real.

And it was directed.

At them.

They immediately spoke again, faster now.

"We do not mean disrespect!"

"We only mean to create conditions!"

"If he becomes the enemy of all, then the weak will gather against him!"

"We will handle them!"

"We will eliminate the weak before they reach him!"

"We will filter them!"

"And only send the strongest!"

"Yes! Only those worthy of his attention!"

"We will create a path!"

"A path filled with challenges!"

"A path that leads only to those who can truly stand before him!"

Their voices overlapped in urgency.

"We understand this is difficult!"

"We understand this may fail!"

"But it is a possibility!"

"A chance!"

"A way to give him what he seeks!"

Cerys remained silent.

The pressure slowly faded.

She thought for a long moment.

Then they spoke again, more carefully this time.

"If he does not mind weakening himself..."

"Then perhaps..."

"He also does not mind being hated..."

"If everyone turns against him..."

"Then the world itself may produce someone capable of opposing him..."

"Someone who grows through that hatred..."

"Someone who rises because of him..."

Cerys exhaled slowly.

She looked once more in the direction Clay had gone.

Then she spoke.

"Do what you like."

The Warchiefs froze.

"My young master..."

Her voice carried quiet confidence.

"Can handle all of it."

Silence followed.

Then, one by one, the Warchiefs bowed their heads.

"We understand."

The crack flickered.

Their figures began to withdraw.

Plans were already forming.

Far away.

Unaware.

Clay lay comfortably across the back of his gryphon.

The massive beast moved at a steady pace, its wings occasionally lifting to glide over uneven terrain before landing again with controlled force.

The wind brushed against Clay’s face.

His eyes were half closed.

Relaxed.

Satisfied.

Not bad.

He stretched slightly, one arm behind his head.

In that strange dream... I was supposed to be a minor villain.

His lips curved faintly.

And yet... I avoided everything.

He had escaped his fate.

He had prevented his father from falling into darkness too early.

He had saved a human town.

He had taken control of the Bersuka.

He had made other Warchiefs bend.

He had dealt with the beast problem.

And through all of that...

He barely felt tired.

And I did it while relaxing.

His smile widened.

Perfect.

Then another thought appeared.

And I got myself a maid.

He glanced slightly to the side, though Cerys was not yet beside him.

Not just any maid.

His eyes softened.

Beautiful. Strong. Useful.

Then—

Berserk Mode.

Anti magic.

And that system...

He exhaled slowly.

I’ve become ridiculously strong.

For a moment, everything felt exactly as he wanted.

Then—

His brows furrowed.

That system...

The earlier silence returned to his mind.

That strange hesitation.

That lack of response.

Why did it feel afraid?

His eyes opened fully now.

The sky above stretched endlessly.

It was not afraid of me.

That much was clear.

Then what?

He tapped his fingers lightly against the gryphon’s back.

What are you hiding?

The wind continued to pass.

But this time—

Clay was no longer completely relaxed.