A Villain's Will to Survive novel Chapter 240

Chapter 240: Sylvia (3)

Together, Sylvia and I walked through the island, and she guided me from place to place.

“That’s the curry place. Always busy,” Sylvia said.

The island looked almost Mediterranean, like something from the modern world—so much so that it felt like someone had modeled it after a postcard, with the same brilliant blue waters and the same sunlit rooftops of a peaceful town.

“Professor! Sylvia said she killed you!”

Then, Epherene's words from earlier came to my mind once more.

Because of my attribute—Villain's Fate—my death had become something of a tradition. It happened so often in different timelines that I've lost track of how many times I've died and survived again.

"That one's a gallery. An art hall," Sylvia added, her finger pointing to the small wooden building.

Sylvia said nothing more as her steps slowed, then stopped, and for a long moment, she silently looked up at me.

"... Is there something you wish to say?" I inquired.

"My paintings are in there."

“And?”

"Do you not want to see it," Sylvia asked, puffing out her cheeks like a child denied a treat.

I took in the gallery with my Sharp Eyesight, and there were no traps, no threats.

"Let’s go inside.”

“Okay,” Sylvia replied with a small nod.

We made our way to the gallery, and Sylvia reached for the door—a small one—and stepped through first.

Thud—

I stepped into the gallery and looked around at what the place offered in its collection in silence—landscapes blurred by distance, portraits heavy with thought, still lifes that didn’t move, and abstracts that did.

“What do you think,” Sylvia asked.

At that moment, I was caught in a forgotten kind of nostalgia, like dust unsettled by light. The paintings on the gallery walls—Sylvia’s work—were perfect through the lens of my Aesthetic Sense.

“You’ll be a fine painter."

Sylvia shrugged in silence.

My footsteps whispered across the gallery’s carpet as I took in the paintings—sunflowers blooming in a still life, a distant Empire’s mage tower framed in morning haze, and Sylvia’s self-portrait, her golden hair and eyes rendered onto the canvas.

“There was a time, long ago, when I too dreamed of being a painter,” I added.

"You had a dream too?" Sylvia asked, walking a step behind me.

"At some point, everyone dreams of something."

“Dream.”

“Indeed.”

At that moment, I turned to Sylvia, and she had matured like a painting, even though it had only been a year since she left the mage tower.

"Becoming a painter used to be my dream. Watching you now, I find myself looking at you with envy."

“You envy me,” Sylvia repeated.

With a quiet smile, I looked at her painting and took it in with my own eyes.

"This piece is complete—aesthetically, artistically, and in terms of popularity."

Sylvia remained silent.

“Your brushwork shows precision guided by instinct. The color palette is restrained but rich, and the way you translate what you see onto the canvas,” I added, turning my eyes from the canvas back to Sylvia. “It’s all quite to my taste.”

With a slight nod, Sylvia met my eyes before raising a new canvas and easel from nothing. Without hesitation, her brush met it, and color began to move like thought turned to shape.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

Sylvia's eyes held mine while her hand moved across the painting.

“Sylvia,” I called.

Sylvia's face popped out from behind the easel, and she said, "I have already told you not to say my name with that mouth—"

"It’s time to go back."

At those words, Sylvia’s brush paused.

“I can't go back,” Sylvia said, clearing her throat before returning to her brushwork.

"And your reason?"

"Because this island is a wave—that spreads from one point."

Something in Sylvia’s words held the faintest clue, and I found myself knowing without needing to ask.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t come,” Sylvia added.

Click.

Sylvia placed the brush aside and turned the easel, revealing what she had painted.

“You were the center of the Voice,” I said, staring at the painting of myself on the canvas.

***

The concept of a wave was a phenomenon—a vibration spreading from a center, transmitted through substance or space—meaning that the Voice was more than just sound; it was both a phenomenon and a concept.

However, the Voice longed for more—a way to exist in physical form, in ways it never could alone. For that, it needed a medium, and it found the perfect one in Sylvia, who accepted it and became the Voice’s anchor and center.

Fizz—! Fizzzzzz—!

One by one, the lights lining the darkened street flickered on, and in that golden shimmer, the crowd gathered with cheerful smiles and delighted applause, as if touched by something magical.

“Their technology is still waking up. Even a streetlight is a miracle to them,” Sylvia explained as they applauded in delight.

Being a young island, the community here celebrated even the humble illumination of streetlights, which brought heartfelt joy to its residents.

"Some of them must’ve come from the continent,” I replied.

“They’re busy because they’re after what’s left of the demon’s power buried on this island.”

“To them, it must feel like a treasure hunt."

"Yes. Grimoires, attribute tomes, forbidden texts on the undead, necromancer's robes, and more. They’re hidden all across this island. Are you interested in finding them."

"I have considered it, but I’ve come to understand that there’s no merit in power gained from a demon’s hands," I replied, shaking my head.

“Hungry,” Sylvia asked with a small nod, then looked up at me.

I looked toward Sylvia, and in her pair of golden eyes, flat as polished metal, and lips pressed into a firm line, there was no sign of emotion.

“I suppose a meal wouldn’t hurt.”

At my words, there was the faintest change in Sylvia’s eyes, trembling ever so slightly—just enough to suggest a quiet happiness.

"Okay. Follow me," Sylvia said, spinning on her heel.

I followed Sylvia as she walked down the twilight road, without saying a word.

“Sylvia,” I called her name.

At that moment, Sylvia stopped short, glaring over her shoulder with a furrowed brow, and said, “You’ve done it three times. I won’t let there be a fourth.”

“Sylvia.”

However, Deculein had never been the kind to stop just because someone told him to. Not commands, not threats—none of it worked on someone like Deculein.

“Whether you hold back or not, it is none of my concern,” I replied as I stepped in close and loomed over her. “Why don’t you go ahead and not hold back at all?"

Sylvia remained unreadable, and I kept my eyes on her, just to see if something might break through. _{freeweɓnovēl.coɱ}

We said nothing for a long time, then Sylvia broke the silence, curling her lips into a smirk and saying, "The demon won't be coming out of me."

I felt the muscles between my eyes draw together, a silent reaction to her words.

“You really did swallow the Voice, Sylvia,” I called her name, knowing full well what it meant.

“Professor! Sylvia said she killed you!”

Bang—!