Villain MMORPG: Almighty Devil Emperor and His Seven Demonic Wives

Villain Ch 1638. I Feel Like a Prince

The next day.

The morning sun hung high over the city, gleaming like a crown over a skyline of sculpted glass. Birds darted between lampposts, and the air buzzed with early traffic, engine purrs, and soft jazz bleeding out from a streetside café. It was the kind of morning that smelled expensive—fresh-cut grass, engine oil, and cologne mixed with warm asphalt.

Two luxury cars rolled out from the Goldborne estate’s black-gated entrance, their polished exteriors reflecting the morning light like moving mirrors. One led. One followed.

The first moved with silent grace, too smooth to make sound. Inside, behind privacy-tinted windows, sat Allen.

His shirt was neat, sleeves rolled up just enough to look intentional. A pair of tailored dark trousers. His hair brushed neatly to the side—messy in a controlled way. On his wrist, a deep black watch with a faint violet gleam ticked quietly. A gift from Shea, he remembered.

He sat on the passenger side, elbow resting against the armrest, fingers idly flicking across the edge of the leather. His gaze was half-lidded, unfocused, as the city passed by in flashes of concrete and sunlight. Not exactly brooding—just… bored.

From the driver’s seat, Kai adjusted the rearview mirror and studied his young master for a breath longer than usual.

“You okay, sir?” Kai asked, voice polite but inquisitive. “You look… displeased.”

Allen let out a quiet huff through his nose. “Nothing important.”

Kai raised an eyebrow, not looking away from the road. “Let me guess. You’d prefer your motorcycle over the car.”

Allen smirked. “Obviously.”

The car turned onto the express route, joining the mid-morning flow of expensive vehicles and self-driven public rides. Allen’s eyes drifted toward the window again. The city looked beautiful today—clean sky, light wind, people walking like nothing would ever break them.

He glanced at the rearview mirror. Behind them, the second car kept pace—sleek, tinted, reinforced. Inside were his guards.

Allen’s expression shifted, just slightly.

“I get it,” he muttered. “I can’t take the bike today. There might be reporters. And it’s a public place. The agency can’t secure it entirely.”

Kai nodded. “You’re correct, sir. The location has high civilian activity, and certain journalists have already been there.”

Allen’s gaze flicked toward the mirror again. “So the guards are necessary.”

Kai glanced at him. “You sound unconvinced.”

“I’m not used to this kind of treatment,” Allen said simply. “I feel like a prince.”

“You are kinda the same as that, sir,” Kai said matter-of-factly. “And like it or not, this is the cost of status.”

Allen leaned back into the seat. “I understand. I won’t complain.”

“Good to hear it,” Kai said with a slight smile. “I’ve stocked the mini fridge. Some refreshments—things you might enjoy.”

Allen gave him a lazy glance. “Wine?”

“Too early for that, sir.”

Allen chuckled. “Tch. Shame.”

“I included almond bars, sliced fruit, and that herbal energy tonic Madam Shea suggested. Oh—and a chilled espresso.”

Now that earned a proper smirk. “You really do know me.”

“I try,” Kai replied, smooth as the road beneath them.

Allen reached into the fridge, grabbed the espresso, and let the cool glass press against his fingertips for a second before cracking the seal. The bitter aroma of dark roast flooded the car—rich, sharp, grounding.

He took a sip.

Perfect.

Then he sighed and pulled out his phone.

Might as well kill time.

He opened the forum—his thumb flicking past the cluttered player rants, trade threads, and meme dumps—until he found the clean, gold-trimmed banner pinned at the top of the official site.

[NEW – DEVELOPER MONTAGE]

Allen blinked once, lips twitching slightly.

They actually titled it that?

Subtlety was dead.

He tapped the video thumbnail.

The screen faded to black. Then, a slow, ominous breath of music—like something crawling out of a tomb with every note.

The scene opened with a high, sweeping shot of the Cursed Crypts.

His Crypt.

The halls were shrouded in violet mist, bone towers glowing with cursed sigils. The throne chamber loomed, obsidian and angular, wrapped in serpentine glyphs that pulsed with every heartbeat of the music.

Then the throne itself—cold, jagged, high-backed like a crown forged from nightmares.

There he sat.

The Devil Emperor.

Still. Silent. One hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The other lazily draped over the armrest. Black armor glinted under flickering torchlight. His face—Allen’s face—partially masked by the glowing half-crown of runes hovering behind his head.

Then, like a spell being cast, the throne room lit with violet fire.

Seven figures materialized beside him.

The Demonesses.

His girls.

And then the music rose.

Dragons.

Players riding them, dozens at a time, cutting through the sky like sparks across a storm. The dimensional rift crackled ahead—a swirling tear of purple and silver light, devouring the clouds around it.

The devs had stitched this montage like a war hymn.

Each major guild got their dramatic introduction…

Arcana leading the charge.

Red_King’s squad diving through the side breach.

Elio flying dead-center, sword glowing, eyes focused.

Allen paused the video briefly.

Zoomed in.

Yeah. That was Elio, alright.

Tight grip. Steady form.

But still not fast enough.

He resumed the playback.

The infiltration squads.

Justice.Bringer’s crew. Warlord’s elite raiders. Stealth units meant to slip past the main confrontation and destroy the throne.

Allen smirked.

He remembered that part.

They really thought they were being clever.

The footage cut between their silent formation gliding through the lower crypt passages… and then cut again to the exact moment Bella decapitated the vanguard in a single slash.

The rest were chewed apart by Vivian’s charm traps and Jane’s undead wraiths.

A single stealth player screamed before he exploded into loot bags.

Cut to black.

Then—

Father^Alex.

The music shifted.

Strings, soft and trembling. A solemn choir swelled behind them, not triumphant, not mournful—just aching.

The screen faded into a dim battlefield lit only by ward torches and fire-spitting demons.

Alex stood in the center, cloak torn, blood running down his arm, breath visible in the cold cursed air.

He didn’t look like a priest anymore.

He looked like a warrior.

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