Villain MMORPG: Almighty Devil Emperor and His Seven Demonic Wives

Chapter 1934: You Look Like a Disco Ball

Villain Ch 1934. You Look Like a Disco Ball

The moment they stepped past the threshold, the temperature dropped. Not just a visual filter effect, not a lighting trick—cold. It wrapped around their avatars like damp cloth. The kind of chill that made the fog outside feel like a sauna.

Inside, Eldergourne Manor looked exactly how a haunted memory should.

Peeling wallpaper stretched over towering walls like rotting skin. Velvet curtains hung in tatters, their blood-red fabric faded to rust-brown. Chandeliers dripped cobwebs like a cursed wedding veil, swaying with a wind no one could feel. The wooden floors creaked under their boots, each step echoing like a breath held too long.

It was silent.

Not just quiet—dead.

Not even ambient music. Just the faint, humming buzz of darkness waiting to be noticed.

Father^Alex shivered and let out a groan. “Ugh… I still don’t like this place.”

Allen glanced back. “You guys been here before?”

“Yeah,” Red_King said, stepping forward with his usual swagger and dragging his flaming greatsword behind him like a party favor. “A couple times. They say there’s a quest here. Secret one. Rare spawn. Not everyone gets it.”

Mastercraft nodded. “But we don’t care. We come to grind. Good XP. Decent loot. Also, the mobs moan in HD, and Alex hates it.”

Allen smirked. “Fair.”

Mastercraft turned slightly. “Also, I need materials.”

Allen side-eyed him, then looked him up and down—the ornate forge-etched gold armor, the rare purple-tier shoulder mantle with glowing sigils, the literal gemstone belt buckle.

“I thought you bought all your equipment.”

“I do,” Mastercraft said, completely unashamed.

Allen tilted his head. “You look like a disco ball.”

Alex choked a laugh.

“I look like a god,” Mastercraft corrected.

Allen gestured to his own shadowy, matte-leather rogue look. “And I look like a peasant. Even Red_King looks like your bodyguard.”

“I am his bodyguard,” Red_King added. “He pays for my subscription.”

Mastercraft grinned. “You’re all technically my subordinates.”

Allen shook his head. “This is why people hate Forgemasters.”

Red_King clapped. “C’mon. You know how this place works. Buffs, sweep, collect, move.”

And yeah—like clockwork—undead began shuffling into the hallway from behind rotted doors.

Ragged Noble <Level 212>

Hollow Housemaid <Level 215>

Spectral Footman <Level 210>

Groans filled the air. Twitching hands. Headless nobles in tattered suits dragging silverware. A maid dragging a bloodstained broom.

Alex raised his hands.

“Agility. Holy Blessing.”

They glowed gold.

Allen didn’t hesitate. He blurred forward.

Two slashes. Poison application. Roll. Dagger between the ribs of one noble. Execute.

Red_King smashed through three footmen in a wide cleave, fire spreading across the wall.

Mastercraft followed up with his forge-brand AoE—anvil strike and concussive heat burst.

Alex backed up, healing field ready. His holy light cut through the dark like fireflies in a crypt.

Within moments?

All dead.

Ash and bones.

Loot and EXP notifications came.

Red_King raised a hand. “HELL yeah. One Allen’s enough to replace three DPS.”

Allen just dusted off his cloak. “I told you I was farming. You kidnapped me.”

“We borrowed you.”

They kept moving. Room to room.

The manor stretched like a bad dream—corridors that looped on themselves, doors that weren’t there a second ago, windows that showed gardens no one could reach.

And still, they pushed through.

The grand ballroom opened first—dust-choked and massive. The cracked marble floor was scattered with shattered wine glasses, rotted petals, and torn sheet music that floated mid-air, flickering in and out of existence like memories refusing to fade. At the center, half-destroyed instruments played themselves in dissonant harmony. A cello with snapped strings. A piano with ghost-hands hammering broken keys.

And then they came.

Phantom Musician <Level 212>

Dancing Marionette <Level 215>

Hollow Maestro <Level 220>

Dozens.

The music twisted into a sharp, staccato shriek.

Allen didn’t wait.

He darted forward, a black blur against the stage of madness. Cloak whipping. Daggers drawn. His boots made no sound on the marble.

He slid beneath a twirling Marionette’s sweeping heel, pivoted behind it, and jammed his blade into the joint behind its porcelain knee. Pop. It crumbled, screeching.

Poison activated.

The effect burst outward, catching three more.

Red_King whistled. “Damn.”

Allen spun low, dodging a spectral violin bow that whistled like a blade. He kicked off the broken harp stand, launching himself over the Maestro’s lunge, landed on its shoulders—stabbed both daggers down through its ghostly eyes, then backflipped off as it burst into pale smoke.

Mastercraft didn’t move. Just watched. “I think I just fell in love.”

Alex clapped shyly. “He’s really… graceful.”

Allen snarled as he skewered the last Phantom Musician in mid-spin, his blade dragging up under its ribcage in a spiraling arc. The ghost choked on its own scream and vanished in a wisp of ash.

He turned—just in time to see all three of them standing at the edge of the room, arms crossed like judges on a talent show.

Red_King, Mastercraft, and Alex all said it in perfect unison.

“Wow.”

Allen wiped his daggers on a tattered tablecloth. “Why the hell am I the only one working here?”

Red_King raised both hands. “Hey, I wanted to see you fight. You never squad with us anymore.”

Mastercraft leaned on his hammer. “You kinda stole the show, man. I’m not wasting mana just to third-wheel your performance.”

Alex held up a thumbs-up. “You’re very efficient…”

Allen rolled his eyes, kicking a charred violin out of the way. “Next room, someone else goes first.”

The next room opened with a soft chime. No fog. No whispering. No mobs.

Just stillness.

A prayer chamber.

Massive arched windows with cracked stained glass. Wooden pews lined the center, untouched by dust. Candles still flickered. Gold-framed tapestries of angels stood unburned, elegant.

And at the center—

An altar.

Clean.

Pristine.

A golden statue of a faceless angel with wings spread wide and hands held out, palms up, as if waiting to judge or forgive.

It was… strangely beautiful.

Red_King blinked. “Wow. This room’s not messed up.”

Allen stepped in cautiously. “Why is this one so… clean?”

“Clearly,” Mastercraft said, “the mobs are religious.”

Alex stared at the glowing candles. “This… feels like a trap.”