Capítulo 1872: Red Riding Hood Gone Wrong

Villain Ch 1872. Red Riding Hood Gone Wrong

It took them five minutes.

Five.

A healer group trying to grind skeletons got gutted before their shields even loaded.

Shea’s song shattered their morale, Zoe ripped the frontliners apart like wet paper, Bella’s tails wove through the chaos with foxfire, and Larissa descended like a red-mouthed angel of death. Alice cackled as her broom darted through arrows, knocking archers into the dirt, while Jane whispered curses that made paladins drop to their knees vomiting blood. Vivian? Vivian didn’t even bother hiding—she strutted through their panic, smiling, and every man that looked at her forgot to block until Allen himself caved their skulls in.

Allen—Azazel—never broke stride. His blade cut once, twice, ten times, and the system notifications stacked up in brutal red.

[Daily Quest Complete.]

Five minutes. A massacre.

He wiped the blood across his gauntlet, opened his inbox, and flicked his attention to the only DM that mattered.

[Azazel : You free? Got a quest. Might interest you. Want in?]

The reply came almost instantly.

[VirtualValkyrie : (T_T) I can’t. Arcana dragged me into guild hunting now. I’m in the middle of it.]

Allen stared at the sad face, smirk tugging at his lips.

[Azazel : I guess another day then.]

She sent another tiny emoji—(T_T)—before her feed went quiet.

Allen shut the message window, expression unreadable, and turned to the others.

“She can’t go,” he announced simply.

Vivian sighed, wings stretching. “Shame. I was curious if she’d scream or shine.”

“She’ll be there another time,” Jane muttered, closing her book of shadows.

Shea cracked her knuckles. “Fine. Then we hunt without her.”

Allen smirked. “Exactly.”

The farmer’s place wasn’t hard to find.

What made it strange was… how normal it looked.

Peaceful. That was the word. Rolling fields of golden wheat swayed under the programmed sun. A creaking windmill turned lazily in the distance. Chickens pecked near a crooked fence, and the farmhouse itself sagged with age but still looked lived in. The path was lined with wildflowers, little bursts of purple and yellow nodding in the breeze.

A wooden sign hung from a rope: Fresh Garlic, Turnips, Eggs.

But the air—too still.

Too clean.

The fields were alive, but the road was dead. Not a single NPC crossed their path. No idle farmers. No children running between chores. No merchants. Just silence dressed in pastoral colors.

The contrast made Allen’s group obscene.

Eight monsters dressed in shadows and lust, teeth bared, eyes glowing, wings stretched, tails swishing, blades slick with player blood. They didn’t belong here. They were smears of darkness painted over a quaint pastoral portrait.

Zoe snorted, adjusting her claws. “We look like we broke into the wrong game.”

Bella flicked her tails, amused. “Adorable. It’s like we’re here to eat cookies instead of souls.”

Shea hummed low, running her hand through the wheat. “Doesn’t it feel… off? Like it’s too calm. Too quiet.”

Larissa tilted her head, fangs flashing. “That’s the point. Peace is always the loudest lie.”

Alice giggled, hopping off her broom with a little spin. “Mmm, the perfect stage for blood.”

Jane’s voice cut flatly. “Don’t say that yet. This place smells like bait.”

Allen said nothing at first. He stood at the edge of the field, cloak dragging against the dirt, eyes narrowed. His smirk didn’t reach his face—it was cold, clinical.

“This,” he murmured, “is exactly what I expected.”

The girls glanced at him.

“Too clean. Too still. Too staged.” His smile widened just slightly, cruel. “And staged means something’s waiting to come out.”

Vivian licked her lips, humming. “Mmm. I love it when you sound like that.”

Allen chuckled low. “Good. Because this is where it starts.”

The farmhouse loomed ahead.

Like someone—or something—was watching.

“Let’s knock,” Allen said. His voice was casual, almost playful. “See if the farmer’s home.”

And with that, he walked forward. His harem fell into step behind him. Because they did.

The chickens pecked in perfect rhythm, the windmill creaked at exact intervals, and the wheat never bent against them.

Then came the sound.

A door. Wooden. Hinges whining.

It opened slowly, as though weight fought against it.

Out stepped a man.

Broad-shouldered. Bald. His face etched with sun-creased lines and weary patience. He wore mud-stained trousers, a wool shirt, and carried a basket of garlic bulbs still clotted with dirt. His voice was thick with rural cheer, almost absurdly so.

“Well now! Strangers! Ho there, ho there! Welcome, welcome to my humble farm!”

The girls exchanged glances, the corners of their mouths twitching.

The man beamed, holding up his basket like a prize. “Name’s Greg! Greg the Garlic Farmer! Finest garlic in all the land, I reckon. Lovely day for a harvest, isn’t it? Sun’s shining, wheat’s dancing, and by golly, the garlic’s practically jumpin’ outta the ground!”

Bella smirked. “Garlic farmer? How cliché.”

Alice bounced on her toes, broom tilting. “Mmm, I like him. He’s funny.”

Jane’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Too funny. He’s an NPC, but… wrong.”

Greg the Garlic Farmer strode toward them with hospitality. His basket swung at his side, the smell of garlic sharp and earthy. “You folks lost? Passing through? Looking for fresh produce?” He grinned, showing crooked teeth. “Got the best garlic in the realm. Keeps the goblins away. Or the ladies. Ha!”

The joke landed like a corpse.

Vivian tilted her head, smiling too brightly. “Keeps the men away too, perhaps.”

Greg blinked. “Eh? Well now, can’t say I’ve noticed that one! Garlic’s for goblins, aye, not for menfolk. Ha!” He laughed, full-bellied and awkward, then cleared his throat and clutched his basket tighter.

Allen’s voice cut in, smooth and deliberate. “Do you have a quest for us?”

Greg’s eyes lit up, his whole posture shifting with exaggerated cheer. “Oh! Yes, yes indeed, adventurer! Got just the thing for heroes like you! My adopted daughter—sweet little lass—she’s gone missin’.” He frowned, the first crack in his smile. “Last I heard, she was visitin’ her grandmother in the next town over. I just need fine folk such as yourselves to come along with me, help bring her back safe and sound.”

Jane snorted, voice dry. “That sounds like Red Riding Hood.”

Greg blinked again. “Eh? Who’s that then?”

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