Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop

29 – Wintersin’s Second Prince (1)

Vlad scratched his head, squinting at the growing crowd outside the church.

"Huh... Is this Monday already?" he muttered, the confusion evident on his face.

Burn, standing beside him, raised an eyebrow.

"What does it have to do with Monday? It's not Monday, but Thursday," he pointed out, his tone tinged with amusement.

Vlad shrugged. "That's weird. The villagers usually come on Mondays."

"So, this is a routine, then? They come every week to threaten to burn the church?" Burn asked, his expression a mix of disbelief and suspicion.

"Yeah, sorta like a tradition," Vlad replied, nodding as if it made perfect sense.

"Hey, you're treating this too casually, old man," he remarked, sweatdropping at Vlad's nonchalant attitude amidst the chaos unfolding before them.

As the mob gesticulated wildly, their collective indignation was thick enough to cut with a rusty greatsword.

They surged forward, a tidal wave of old grievances and new pitchforks, the noise level escalating as if someone had told them the church was hoarding the last remaining bread on earth.

Then the leader stepped forward, mounted nobly on a stallion that looked like it had just stepped out of a fairy tale. Clad in armor so shiny it could have doubled as a solar panel, he was the epitome of medieval chic.

Clearly, his wardrobe screamed, "I'm here not only to control these peasants but to look dazzling while doing it."

With a flourish that could only have been practiced in front of a mirror, he signaled to his aide—a less-dazzling mini-me.

This aide, atop his horse which undoubtedly was the runner-up in the 'finest stallion' category, took a deep breath. His armor wasn't as eye-catching, suggesting perhaps he wasn’t as important of a person compared to the other guy.

"SILENCE!" he commanded, his voice booming with unexpected authority. It was the kind of shout used to scare off bears or silence an orchestra of squabbling toddlers.

Miraculously, the mob's volume dropped from uprising-frenzy to library-quiet in a heartbeat. Pitchforks paused mid-thrust, torches stopped mid-swing, and a hush fell over the crowd, their expressions frozen in a comical tableau of suspended rage.

The aide looked momentarily disappointed, his eyes flicking to his leader for a sign of approval. The leader, maintaining his poise, nodded subtly—a silent acknowledgement that screamed, "Good job, but let's not make a habit of outshining the boss."

Burn turned toward Vlad after seeing everything, tilted his head as his curiosity tickled, “Do they always come with knights every Monday, too?”

He couldn’t help but be amused, watching Vlad suddenly adopt a more somber expression—as if the appearance of knights was the secret ingredient needed to spice up his usual Monday drama. This vampire… would he start showing his true self?

“I can’t remember. Did they always bring the knights…?” the man in black robe tilted his head, mirroring Burn. He mused, his tone suggesting he was trying to recall whether it was knights, or circus performers who last stormed the church.

“You senile…!” 

"ENOUGH! You demon worshipers… quit your act and surrender the people you brainwashed!" he bellowed, his voice dripping with the kind of dramatic fervor usually reserved for soap operas.

The aide's accusation flew through the air like a misguided missile, landing squarely in front of Vlad and Burn, who were standing somewhat heroically—or foolishly, depending on one's perspective—in front of the church. 

Burn turned to Vlad, his eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. 

"Ohh, right, you brainwash people?" he asked, his tone suggesting he wouldn't be entirely surprised if Vlad pulled out a manual titled 'Brainwashing for Beginners'.

Ultimately, Burn remained puzzled by this old man. He seemed like an unreliable narrator in a story, portraying himself as a senile old vampire—yet shrouded in secrets.

But, something felt amiss.

The church, despite its gloom and peculiarity, was a peaceful haven for vampires—well, for the unusual vampires who worshiped God.

It wasn’t at all a gathering of suspicious…

Well, they WERE suspicious.

But they weren’t dangerous…

They were. They were LITERALLY vampires.

“Pffft—” Burn almost burst out laughing, but suppressed it just in time with his stone cold face.

Anyway, Burn had no stake in their ‘traditions’ of discontent nor any desire to sway the outcome of their fervent, albeit ‘routine’, standoff. His objective was singular and far removed from the political or social intricacies of village life.

He was here for the witch.

Burn's