Villain MMORPG: Almighty Devil Emperor and His Seven Demonic Wives - Chapter 1960: Real World’s Battlefield
Chapter 1960: Real World’s Battlefield
Villain Ch 1960. Real World’s Battlefield
For two straight weeks, Allen was busy.
Not as the Devil Emperor. Not as the feared warlord of Hell’s Gate. But as the heir of the Goldborne gaming dynasty.
Like Jordan promised, the moment the last smear headline on Sophia lost traction, Allen was dragged into the real world’s battlefield—corporate floors, glossy elevators, towering glass buildings with coffee that cost more than some people’s rent. Jordan didn’t just show him the ropes. He dropped him in the pit.
“Learn by drowning,” Jordan had said with a shrug, handing Allen a tablet stacked with contracts, influencer analytics, and a live dashboard of every Goldborne subsidiary worldwide.
And yeah… Allen adapted.
He was a fast learner. He didn’t read the guidebook. He dissected it. Watched boardroom dynamics like PvP fights. He sat in on five-hour meetings without flinching.
In that polished, fast-paced world of suits and sharks, Allen thrived in his own cold, methodical way.
But at night?
He still logged in.
The Devil Emperor never slept.
He moved through Hell’s Gate like a shadow—silent, precise, untouchable.
And the whispers? The stories?
They exploded.
Players began painting their own narratives about Allen. About Al. Especially since Allen joined the grind with Father^Alex, Red_King and Mastercraft last time.
Fan edits bloomed on every corner of the net.
“Broken gamer rises after betrayal.”
“The man who lost everything and still stood tall.”
Some were dramatic. Others ridiculous. One even used clips of him standing in the hall after he killed the ghosts and Mariella, captioned… “He’s not just watching the blood rain. He is the storm.”
Allen didn’t comment. Didn’t correct.
Let them believe what they wanted.
But the requests poured in. Fans begging him to stream. To speak. Just once.
He ignored them all.
Because if Allen had learned anything… it was that silence could be louder than a scream.
Meanwhile, somewhere far from Goldborne HQ, Elio revved the engine of his red sport motorcycle. Helmet down. Gloves tight. The kind of ride that purred like a beast beneath his thighs.
Behind him, Gilbert’s sleek black sedan pulled into the private parking lot outside St. Adelaide’s Wellness Clinic.
Elio cut the engine.
He didn’t move right away.
Just sat there for a moment, visor down, letting the weight of it all press against his chest.
He’d heard.
Everyone had.
About Sophia.
About the psych ward.
Gilbert stepped out of his car, shirt crisp, hair styled, jaw tight. He looked sharp as ever, but not the usual cocky, smooth-talking self that Elio knew. There was a heaviness to him. Like he’d swallowed something sour and hadn’t stopped tasting it since.
“You ready?” Gilbert asked, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.
Elio pulled off his helmet, setting it on the seat of his bike. His fingers lingered longer than necessary. The silence between them buzzed.
“No,” he muttered. “But we’re doing it anyway.”
Gilbert didn’t respond with a joke. Didn’t wink or grin. He just nodded, hands sliding into his pockets, eyes steady.
The two of them walked up the wide steps of St. Adelaide’s Wellness Clinic. Everything about the place tried too hard to be soft. Soft lights. Soft colors. Soft music humming in the background like a lullaby trying to keep the patients and their ghosts asleep.
Lavender diffuser mist curled from hidden vents. The walls were painted that muted seafoam green that designers called “restful” but made Elio’s stomach turn. Like being inside a washed-out memory.
At the front desk, the receptionist blinked at them through her wide glasses. “Can I help you?”
Elio straightened. “We’re here to visit someone. Sophia.”
Gilbert leaned in just enough to add, “We’re on her visitation list. Friends.”
The word tasted bitter coming from his mouth. But there wasn’t a better one.
The woman studied them with the wary professionalism of someone who’d seen too many tears and too many breakdowns behind these walls. “IDs?”
They handed them over. A pause. A few seconds too long. Elio caught the flick of her eyes as they matched names, faces, clearance.
Then finally—she smiled.
“She’s under monitored care,” she said quietly, almost like she didn’t want the walls to hear. “No sharp objects. No recording devices. Don’t push her. Understand?”
Elio nodded. “Got it.”
The door buzzed open with a heavy click.
They were led down a hallway that smelled like lemon cleaner and the faintest tinge of bleach. It wasn’t enough to sting, but it clung to the air like guilt. Elio walked slowly, his boots almost too loud on the polished linoleum.
“Do you think she’ll even care we came?” Gilbert asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Elio admitted.
Gilbert exhaled. “I used to think she was kind, you know? Innocent. Maybe she still is.”
Elio didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Room 1311.
The nurse knocked once and pushed the door open.
Sophia was on the bed. No hospital gown. Just a hoodie and loose sweatpants. Her hair was tangled around her face, her skin pale. But it wasn’t the image that hit Elio hardest.
It was her eyes.
Blank.
Empty.
Like she wasn’t really here.
She looked up when they stepped in. Her gaze slid over Gilbert and barely paused on Elio. No spark. No warmth.
Just disdain.
Her lips cracked open. “Where’s Allen?”
That was all she said.
Elio felt it like a slap to the face. Her voice was hoarse, scraped raw from whatever she’d been doing before. Crying. Screaming. Talking to herself.
He swallowed. “Not here. Just me. And Gilbert.”
She turned her face away, back to the blanket in her lap.
“He should be here,” she muttered, voice distant. “I need him. I messed up. But I can fix it.”
Gilbert shifted against the wall, arms crossed. No smirk this time. Just a deep furrow in his brow.
Elio sat down across from her, elbows on his knees. He looked at her like someone looking at an old photograph that used to mean something.
“Sophia… he’s not coming.”
