Villain MMORPG: Almighty Devil Emperor and His Seven Demonic Wives - Chapter 1883: Parents Nightmare
Chapter 1883: Parents Nightmare
Villain Ch 1883. Parents Nightmare
The manor breathed.
The moment Allen stepped forward, the world around him shivered. The candles went out in unison, smothered by screams too high to belong to any throat.
Then the walls groaned.
Not creaked. Groaned. Like something alive, massive, had been sleeping inside them for years and was finally waking up.
The chandeliers twisted on their chains. One snapped and crashed to the floor behind them, sending glass and rusted metal flying like teeth. The fireplace belched black smoke that oozed along the ceiling like it was watching them.
The manor shifted.
Gone was the illusion of warmth, of dinner and candlelight and proper table manners.
The floor split with black veins.
The wallpaper peeled in strips, revealing screaming faces writhing just beneath the wood.
The paintings on the walls melted, their subjects’ eyes rolling as if trying to escape the canvas.
And Greg?
Greg changed.
His skin sagged off his bones like wet fabric. His limbs elongated unnaturally, stretching with pops and snaps until he towered over the table. His mouth split further than human, and inside were rows of jagged yellow teeth, too many for one man. His torso opened—unzipping like a flesh jacket—to reveal a cavern of writhing hands that clawed at nothing.
The system screamed in their minds.
[Boss Encounter: HOLLOW PARENTS – Lv. 280]
[Greg the Forsaken]
[Hollow Matron]
[Warning: Psychological Instability Detected – Initiating Mind Sync Filter (Abyssal Veil Mode)]
Then the wife stood.
She didn’t walk. She hovered. Her legs were gone, replaced with gnarled roots that dragged behind her like a wedding train woven from nerves. Her face was cracked porcelain. Only one eye remained—watching. Judging.
She hovered past the ruined table. Past Elise, who had collapsed against the wall, hands over her ears, eyes wide with terror.
The Hollow Matron spoke first.
Her voice echoed through the bones of the room.
“I gave birth to you.”
Allen’s fingers twitched on his sword hilt.
“I carried you for nine months. I bled for you. Broke for you.” Her voice was cold, motherly, and cruel in equal measure. “And this is what you give back?”
Greg stepped forward, dragging a sack of rusted chains behind him. “You need to listen to your parents.” His jaw twisted unnaturally. “We know what’s best.”
Allen’s breath hitched.
Just a little.
A little too human.
Because this wasn’t just a cursed quest anymore.
It was something filthy and familiar.
He could still hear it.
“You ungrateful little freak—after everything we did for you.”
“Look at what you’re doing to your mother.”
His grip tightened.
Vivian saw it. She stepped closer, her voice low. “Hey. You good?”
Allen didn’t look at her. “Yeah.”
He wasn’t.
But he’d kill them anyway.
The Matron shrieked, and Greg charged.
The floorboards cracked beneath his weight. Chains whipped out of his gut like tendrils, lashing for Allen’s throat.
Allen ducked. Rolled.
Sparks flew as the chains gouged the wall behind him.
Jane shouted, “Watch the ceilings—they’re moving!”
Black sludge dripped from above, bubbling and hissing. Zoe ripped down a collapsing beam with her tentacles, shielding Shea as the siren kicked the Hollow Matron’s veil clean off.
Beneath it?
Hundreds of mouths.
Not teeth. Mouths. All whispering.
“You owe us. You owe us. You owe us.”
Allen backflipped off a broken chair, sword gleaming as he met Greg’s next charge with a roaring clash. The blade bit into the man’s shoulder—but there was no blood. Just smoke.
“You never did what we asked!” Greg snarled. His face reformed mid-swing. “You never listened!”
Allen slammed his boot into Greg’s gut and sent him reeling back. “I listened. You just never liked what I had to say.”
He turned mid-motion and slashed through the Matron’s veil. Black threads exploded outward like spider silk. A mouth caught his wrist—he twisted, shoved his blade into it, and it bit down.
“Shit,” Allen hissed, yanking free. Blood sprayed. His.
Vivian caught his arm, eyes wide. “You’re bleeding.”
“Not dead.”
Greg turned. “You deserve this. You made this bed—”
“—and now you’ll rot in it,” Allen growled.
He hurled his blade like a lance. It spun through the air, hit Greg square in the face.
The chain snapped.
[System alert: Greg the Forsaken – Phase Shift]
Greg shrieked. His body bloated like a corpse in riverwater. His chest burst open—tentacles formed from writhing family portraits slithered out, each one moaning a different memory.
The woman joined him. Hovered above him. Their forms merged.
They became one.
A bloated creature. Parent-shaped. Hands like belts. Voice like an argument that never ends.
Allen’s heart raced.
Because this was his nightmare.
Not just Elise’s.
Not just the girl’s.
His.
“You think I didn’t hear this enough?” he muttered. His eyes glowed brighter. The room went red in their reflection. “You think I haven’t lived this?”
The thing lunged.
Allen screamed back. And met it with everything he had.
Steel. Rage. Memory. All of it.
Because even in hell—
Even in a twisted manor soaked in curse and guilt—
He was still Allen.
Still Azazel.
And no parent, dead or cursed, could stop him.
Allen charged forward.
The manor shook around him—walls cracking, candles shrieking, the floor groaning like it hated him.
He didn’t care.
He wasn’t here to be careful.
He was here to end it.
The merged monstrosity that had once been Greg and the Hollow Matron towered before him now, a mass of limbs and screaming mouths. Chains flailed from its torso like severed umbilical cords, dragging behind them fragments of dinner plates, broken cribs, cracked mirrors, and little framed paintings of children with no faces.
The voices never stopped.
“You owe us.”
“You owe us.”
“You owe us.”
Allen hated that voice.
He ducked a flailing limb—a stitched arm ending in a belt buckle—and came up with his blade glowing faint red. The temperature around him dropped and rose at the same time, like guilt and heat were fighting for control of the room.
He slashed across the monster’s chest.
It screamed.
Black tar sprayed out like arterial blood. Not warm. Not cold. Just wrong.
