Investing in My Yandare Villainess Fiancée:Each Reward Fuels My Growth

Chapter 77: Investment 77: The Thief Beneath the House

The chamber’s golden light had dimmed considerably since Elliot’s last visit, the pedestal at its center standing empty—not because the fragment had been removed, he realized with a fresh jolt of understanding, but because it now resided permanently within him.

Which meant whoever had broken through the ancient seal wasn’t here for a crystal shard at all.

"Ah." The cloaked messenger stood at the chamber’s center, studying the empty pedestal with an expression of visible, genuine frustration. "So the boy already claimed it. That does complicate things rather significantly."

"You’re not getting anything from this house," Elliot said, descending the final steps with sword raised, Skion’s fragment pulsing warm and insistent beneath his skin.

"I wasn’t planning on it, actually," the figure said, turning to face him fully, cloak falling back to reveal features that struck Elliot as unsettlingly ordinary—a plain, forgettable face that could have belonged to any minor merchant or scribe, utterly unremarkable except for eyes that held none of the warmth a human face typically carried. "My employer’s interests have shifted rather considerably now that you’ve already bonded with the fragment."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning," the figure said, drawing a curved blade from beneath their cloak, its edge gleaming with the same sickly green light Elliot remembered from Ru’s toxic claws, "it’s considerably easier to simply take the fragment back from a corpse than to extract it from a living, uncooperative host."

They moved with a speed that belied their unassuming appearance, closing the distance in a blur that Elliot barely managed to counter, his sword meeting the curved blade with a screech of metal that sent sparks scattering across the chamber’s ancient floor.

"You’re stronger than the mercenaries outside," Elliot observed through gritted teeth, muscles straining against the force behind the blow.

"The mercenaries outside were never meant to win," the figure said conversationally, disengaging and circling with predatory patience. "They’re a distraction. A message. I’m the actual point of this entire evening."

Elliot’s stomach dropped as the full shape of the enemy’s strategy clicked into place—everything, from the initial ultimatum to the full frontal assault on the wall, had been designed to draw every capable defender away from this one, singular chamber.

"You planned this from the very beginning," he said, circling to keep the pedestal between them.

"Of course." The figure’s tone carried the faint, condescending patience of someone explaining something obvious to a slow child. "Did you truly believe an organization capable of resurrecting four Bug Lords from ash would rely entirely on fifty mercenaries and a threatening speech to accomplish its goals?"

"What I believe," Elliot said, adjusting his grip, "is that you’ve spent this entire conversation stalling. Which means whatever you’re actually waiting for hasn’t happened yet."

Something flickered across the figure’s expression—not quite alarm, but close enough that Elliot knew he’d struck near the truth.

"Perceptive," they admitted. "Though it won’t save you. My employer values patience above nearly everything else. We can afford to wait considerably longer than your family can afford to keep surviving."

They lunged again, blade weaving toward Elliot’s ribs in a strike clearly meant to exploit the same vulnerability Ru had once found. But this time, something different happened.

[Skion’s Inheritance: First active ability unlocked. Primordial Ward.]

A faint golden shimmer flickered across Elliot’s skin a half-second before the blade connected, and the strike, which should have opened him from hip to shoulder, instead skidded harmlessly off an invisible barrier with a soft, resonant chime.

The figure’s eyes widened, genuine surprise finally cracking their composed facade.

"That’s not possible," they hissed. "The fragment shouldn’t have stabilized this quickly. Not in a boy who’s carried it for less than three days."

"Guess your employer’s intelligence has a few gaps in it," Elliot said, adrenaline and relief mixing into something that steadied his grip on his sword rather than shaking it.

He pressed the advantage immediately, driving forward with renewed confidence, and for the first time since the fight began, the figure was forced onto the defensive, blade rising to parry strike after strike with visibly mounting strain.

"This changes nothing," the figure snarled, though the confidence had noticeably drained from their voice. "My employer has faced setbacks before. Losing one fragment to a lucky, premature bond changes nothing about what’s coming for this world."

"Then tell him," Elliot said, finally forcing an opening and driving his sword forward, "that he picked the wrong family to threaten."

The blade found its mark—not a killing blow, but close enough to draw a sharp, pained gasp as it opened a deep gash along the figure’s forearm, forcing them to drop the curved blade entirely.

Rather than press for a killing strike, the figure simply dissolved into the same dark mist Elliot had seen from Gion weeks earlier, reforming several feet back near the chamber’s stairway entrance.

"A temporary retreat," they said, cradling their wounded arm, voice tight with barely restrained fury. "Not a surrender. You’ll see me again, boy. Sooner than you’d like."

They vanished up the stairway before Elliot could pursue, leaving him alone in the dimly lit chamber, chest heaving, the golden warmth of Skion’s fragment finally, fully awake beneath his skin.

He stood there a moment longer than he probably should have, replaying the figure’s words. Waiting for something. Not the fragment—that much was clear now, since it had already bonded to him before they’d even breached the wall. Which meant whatever they’d truly come for was still somewhere ahead of him, still unfolding, and he’d wasted precious minutes down here chasing a decoy clever enough to nearly convince him otherwise.

He forced himself to move, taking the stairs two at a time, sword still drawn, dread mounting with every step back toward the surface. Whatever the enemy had truly been waiting for, he had a sick feeling he was about to find out exactly what it was.

Above him, faintly, he could still hear the distant clash of steel and mana echoing down from the courtyard—the true battle, he now understood, still raging on without him.