Villain MMORPG: Almighty Devil Emperor and His Seven Demonic Wives Chapter 1939: Kill Anything that Moves and Avoid Anything th

Villain Ch 1939. Kill Anything that Moves and Avoid Anything that Doesn’t

A whisper curled through the hallway like breath against skin.

"She... waits... for the supper..."

"Okay," Red_King said, breathing hard and pressing closer to the group. "Okay. This is cursed. Full cursed. No half asures."

Allen slowly sheathed his dual daggers, eyes scanning the walls.

"Let’s move."

"No plan?" Red asked.

"Plan’s the sa," Allen muttered without looking back. "We kill anything that moves and avoid anything that doesn’t."

"That’s not a plan," Mastercraft said. "That’s trauma speaking."

Allen glanced at the stained walls, the sar of ghostly prints still dripping. "Trauma works."

Another hallway. This one twisted.

At the end... a mirror.

Tall. Antique. Gold fra shaped like a screaming mouth.

It didn’t show their reflection.

Just the prayer room.

Behind them.

But... empty.

The ghost woman stood in the mirror.

And she was walking toward them.

"RUN!" Red_King shouted.

"Door!" Allen yelled.

They bolted. Down the stairs. Through servant’s halls. Past the kitchen where bloody aprons hung on mannequins. Past a spiral staircase that led to a void.

Red_King yelled, "I HATE MANOR QUESTS!"

Mastercraft yelled, "YOU VOTED FOR THIS!"

They finally slamd into a dining hall and sealed the doors.

Dark. Dusty. Candles half-burned. Food still warm.

Sothing was cooking.

Still.

Allen’s eyes narrowed.

He didn’t look scared.

Just annoyed.

"I think we found the main room," he said calmly.

Red_King collapsed into a chair. "I need a therapist."

Alex sat across him. "I need a new class."

Mastercraft sighed. "I need a refund."

Red_King groaned. "From who? Satan?"

Alex muttered, "Do you think the support ticket team for this dungeon even exists?"

Allen cracked his neck, slow and deliberate. His eyes never left the sealed iron door.

"I need to find the boss," he said coldly. "So I can kill it."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Too heavy.

Even the air held its breath.

"...Okay," Red_King said finally, "but maybe we do that without waking up every ghost in here, yeah?"

Allen turned. His voice was calm, but sharper than steel. "You want to leave now?"

"I—what? No. I’m just saying maybe we be smart about it."

"Smart is getting to the end faster," Allen said. "Less ti for the house to notice us."

Mastercraft raised a hand. "And how do you know that?"

Allen pointed upward.

The ceiling above them had more handprints than before. So fresher. Redder.

"Because we’re already guests," he said.

No one had a coback for that.

Alex swallowed. "So... where to next?"

Allen nodded to the side hallway—a place they hadn’t explored yet. "There."

"Wonderful," Red_King muttered. "Just what I wanted. More cursed square footage."

They followed him.

Leaving the bone-piled cellar behind, the group entered a narrow corridor flanked by cracked candle sconces and threadbare curtains. The carpet here was newer—less dust, no claw marks.

The kind of clean that felt unnatural in a place like this.

Portraits lined the walls—full color. Noble won in stiff collars. n in crimson robes. Children holding dolls. All smiling.

But their eyes—

Blinking.

Every ti they passed one, the eyes reset. Always watching. Always waiting.

Red_King muttered, "Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact."

Allen made eye contact with every single one.

Alex pointed. "That kid’s nose just bled."

Only one portrait was uncovered.

A noblewoman, face sared in dried red pignt. Her eyes—wrong. Too wide. Too glassy. Her lips stitched shut in black thread. But the tag on the fra?

"Lady Mariella von Reithmoor"

"Lady of the Manor. Devoted Wife. Faithful Hostess."

The air turned cold.

Alex pointed nervously. "I think... that’s her."

Allen read the na, the stitching on the mouth, the red veil. It matched the ghost from earlier—the one that scread about dinner and guests.

"Red veil. Stitched lips. Yup," he said. "That’s our hostess."

Mastercraft crouched nearby, brushing dust from an ornate plaque embedded into the wall beneath the painting. He wiped it clean, revealing.

May her feast never end.

May her guests never leave.

And may the house rember all sins.

"Wow," Red said, deadpan. "Very comforting."

"Shut up," Allen muttered. "Keep reading."

Behind the plaque, sothing clicked.

A hidden drawer opened.

Inside? A moth-eaten ledger, wrapped in dark red cloth. The title:

The Final Guest List.

Alex slowly unwrapped it. His fingers trembled.

Old, yellowed pages crinkled as he flipped.

Nas.

Nas.

Dozens of them.

Each class tag had been crossed out violently in black ink.

And the nu?

They weren’t nas of real food.

They were class tags.

Berserker

Forgemaster

Healer

The party froze.

"Okay, that’s—" Red_King gulped. "That’s us. That’s literally us."

"No it’s not," Mastercraft said quickly. "Could be—could be just a coincidence. We’re not the only ones with those classes—"

"Look at the last one," Alex whispered, turning the page slowly, hands shaking.

Nightshade Master.

The ink was fresh.

Still wet.

Allen said nothing. Just exhaled once, sharp.

"NOPE," Red said imdiately. "Nope. Nope. No way. Burn the book. Throw it. Get a priest. Log out—"

"Alex is a priest," Mastercraft pointed out.

Alex was already backing up. "Nope. Nope, I can’t handle this! I’m not that kind of priest!"

Allen glanced over his shoulder, eyes cold. "I see... So we are the nu."

His fingers curled tighter around his blades.

"They want to eat us," he said calmly. "The food is us."

A mont of silence.

Then—

[ System Quest Update ]

[ You have discovered the truth behind the ritual feast. ]

[ Objective Added: Survive.]

The torchlight flickered. Red_King stepped back toward the door. "Okay... this is escalating."

"No shit," Allen muttered.

The lights behind them flickered. A low chi rang through the gallery like silver bells dunked in blood.

Alex whispered, "Guys... the portraits..."

They turned.

The faces had changed.

All of them.

Now they wore expressionless porcelain masks—smooth, blank, and cracked at the edges.

Only one remained unmasked.

Mariella.

Red veil. Stitched mouth. Tilted neck.

Her portrait eyes tracked Allen.

Then, very slowly... the mouth began to unstitch.

One thread.

Two.

Three.

She began to smile.