Only I Can Handle the Yandere Guild - Chapter 10
Chapter 10: The Sacrificial Penance
I stood in my room sorting through equipment that hadn’t seen use in months.
Standard suppression gear—leather gloves for grip, reinforced boots for running, a collapsible baton for leverage—the kind of stuff you brought when dealing with civilians who’d lost their minds to religious fervor. No swords, no magic catalysts, nothing that screamed “I’m here to kill you”.
This wasn’t a dungeon crawl.
This was crowd control, which meant I needed physics and leverage, not mana—pressure points and momentum, the same tools I used to pin Valeria when she tried to murder me before breakfast. The cult wouldn’t be armed with enchanted weapons or combat training, just devotion and stupidity—a dangerous combination, but manageable if I didn’t bring the wrong backup.
I strapped the baton to my belt.
The guild hall felt different today—heavier somehow, like the air itself was holding its breath. I could hear movement downstairs, the familiar sounds of my team existing in the same space without trying to kill each other. That never lasted long.
I descended the stairs slowly, already dreading whatever fresh hell awaited me in the common room.
Valeria sat at the table sharpening her sword.
The whetstone scraped against steel in long, deliberate strokes—each one measured, precise, absolutely unnecessary because her blade was already sharp enough to split atoms. She wasn’t maintaining her weapon, she was threatening the universe.
Her red eyes flicked up when I entered.
“You’re preparing for the suppression.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah—standard crowd dispersal, nothing complicated.”
“I’ll accompany you.”
She set the whetstone down with a soft click.
“Those insects worshipping Elara need to be reminded of their place—I’ll cull the herd, make it quick and educational.”
“Educational?”
“They’ll learn what happens when they covet what belongs to Crimson Rose.”
Her grip on the sword hilt tightened—knuckles going white, leather creaking.
“They’ll learn what happens when they look at her with those desperate, hungry eyes—the same eyes I see in the mirror.”
Oh no.
This wasn’t about the mission—this was about jealousy, raw and combustible, the kind that turned battlefields into mass graves. Valeria saw the cultists as competition, insects that needed to be peeled apart and displayed as warning to others.
“You’re not coming.”
“Excuse me?”
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
“This is a suppression mission, not a massacre—I need them dispersed, not dismembered.”
“I can be gentle.”
“You don’t know what that word means.”
Valeria stood—her chair scraping against the floor with a sound like nails on a coffin lid. She walked toward me with that predatory grace, each step deliberate and threatening.
“Are you saying I’m not capable of restraint?”
“I’m saying you view restraint as a personal insult.”
She stopped inches from me—close enough that I could smell steel and leather, could see the dangerous light burning in her eyes. Her hand rested on her sword, not quite drawing it but making the threat crystal clear.
“Those fanatics are touching what’s mine—looking at her, worshipping her, claiming they understand her suffering.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Only I understand Elara’s perversion—only I’ve made her bleed properly, and now these insects think they can share in that intimacy?”
“Valeria—”
“Let me come with you—I promise to only break the bones that heal quickly.”
From across the room, a soft giggle interrupted us.
Seraphina sat in her usual armchair, teacup balanced perfectly on her knee—she looked like an angel painted by someone who’d never seen kindness. Her silver hair caught the morning light, her calculating eyes tracked every micro-expression on my face.
“How delightfully primitive—Valeria wants to mark her territory with blood.”
She took a delicate sip of tea.
“But violence is such an inefficient solution, don’t you think, Rian?”
“I think you’re about to suggest something worse.”
“Worse? No, no—simply more scientific.”
She set her teacup down with practiced grace.
“A cult this size represents a fascinating opportunity—mass hysteria, cognitive dissonance, the psychology of collective delusion—I could study them, document the degradation patterns, maybe introduce a few variables to test their breaking points.”
“You want to turn my suppression mission into a science experiment.”
“I want to turn it into meaningful research—there’s a difference.”
She stood, gliding toward me with that unsettling smoothness she had.
“Think about it logically—you need the cult dispersed, I need research subjects—we both win, and I promise minimal reality distortion.”
“That’s not reassuring—last time you promised minimal distortion, three city blocks reported their shadows attacking them.”
“An outlier—statistically insignificant.”
She tilted her head, studying me like I was a particularly interesting specimen.
“Besides, bringing me is the only logical choice—I can manipulate their perceptions, convince them that worshipping Elara is actually counterproductive to their spiritual goals—no violence necessary, just elegant psychological restructuring.”
Her smile widened.
“Unless you’d prefer Valeria’s approach—which, let’s be honest, will stain several city blocks and require so much paperwork that Beatrice will personally throttle you.”
I looked between them—the Sadist radiating murder and jealousy, the Manipulator offering gaslighting wrapped in false logic. Both of them wanted to come, both of them would turn a simple crowd dispersal into a catastrophe that made international news.
“Neither of you is coming.”
Valeria’s eyes widened—not with fear but with something worse, that specific kind of fury that came from being denied what she considered rightfully hers.
“You’re choosing her over me.”
“This isn’t about choosing—”
“You’re taking Elara on a mission without me—that’s choosing.”
Her hand tightened on her sword until I heard the leather grip creak.
“You’re going to be alone with her, giving her your attention, your focus, your discipline—and I’m supposed to just stay here like a good little soldier?”
“Yes.”
The word came out harder than I intended—sharp and final, the Guild Master voice that I reserved for when things were about to explode.
Valeria froze—her body went rigid, that familiar tension of someone caught between attacking and submitting. I saw the war happening behind her eyes, instinct versus conditioning, bloodlust versus the memory of how easily I’d pinned her last time.
I stepped forward—closing the distance before she could process what was happening.
My hand found her wrist—not the sword hand, the other one, where the nerves were exposed and vulnerable. I applied pressure—just enough to make her gasp, just enough to remind her body who was in control here.
“You’re staying—that’s an order, not a suggestion.”
Her knees trembled—not from pain but from something else entirely, that shift I’d seen before when dominance flipped her switches. Her flush started at her neck, spreading upward until her whole face burned crimson.
“Master—”
The word came out breathy and desperate.
“Elara comes with me because this is her mess—her cult, her punishment, her exclusive responsibility.”
I leaned closer—not threatening, just present, filling her vision until nothing else existed.
“You don’t get to share in this—you don’t get to participate in her correction.”
Valeria made a sound that was half whimper, half growl.
“But I want—”
“I know what you want—the answer is no.”
I released her wrist and stepped back—watching her sway slightly, watching her hand finally drop from the sword hilt as her body made the choice her mind couldn’t.
She submitted—hated it, wanted to fight it, but submitted anyway because some part of her brain recognized the hierarchy.
I turned to Seraphina—who was watching this entire interaction with undisguised fascination, her fingers already moving to take notes in that leather-bound journal she carried.
“And you—stop trying to gaslight me into bringing you.”
“Gaslight is such a harsh term—I prefer strategic persuasion.”
“Call it whatever you want—you’re staying here.”
“But the research opportunity—”
“Will still exist after I’ve handled this properly—you can study the aftermath, write a paper, publish it in whatever disturbing academic journal publishes your work—but you’re not turning living people into lab rats on my watch.”
Seraphina’s smile didn’t fade—if anything it grew more pronounced, like she’d just watched me solve a puzzle she’d set.
“Interesting—you’re asserting dominance over both of us without using any mana whatsoever, just presence and knowledge of our psychological pressure points.”
She made another note.
“Valeria responds to physical dominance, I respond to intellectual boundaries—you’ve adapted your approach to each of our specific vulnerabilities—fascinating.”
“Stop analyzing me.”
“Can’t—it’s literally my nature.”
I walked toward the stairs where Elara waited—she’d been standing there the whole time, watching silently as I handled the other two disasters. Her face was flushed, breathing heavy, eyes glazed with that familiar desperate hunger that came from watching dominance displays.
“Master Rian—”
Her voice trembled.
“Am I really being punished?”
“You started a cult—yes, you’re being punished.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Probably—that’s usually what happens when you face consequences.”
She swayed on her feet—not from fear but from anticipation, from the promise of suffering delivered directly by my hand.
I grabbed her collar—not gently, just firmly enough to make my point.
“Let’s go—we have fanatics to relocate and your reputation to salvage.”
Behind us, Valeria made a sound like a wounded animal—jealousy and frustration mixing into something combustible. I didn’t look back—looking back would give her an opening to argue, to follow, to turn this into a confrontation I didn’t have energy for.
Seraphina’s voice drifted after us.
“Do try to bring back data—emotional states, verbal patterns, anything I can use for comparative analysis.”
“Not happening.”
I dragged Elara toward the door—she stumbled along willingly, blissfully, like being pulled by the collar was the best thing that had happened to her all week.
The morning air hit us as we stepped outside.
The cultists were still there—more of them now, maybe forty or fifty, all kneeling in devotional stupor. They saw Elara and immediately began their chanting, that low rhythmic sound that made my headache worse.
“Master Rian—”
Elara’s voice was soft, almost reverent.
“Thank you for making this my exclusive punishment—I don’t deserve such focused correction.”
“You’re right—you don’t—that’s why it’s called punishment.”
I tightened my grip on her collar.
We had work to do—a cult to disperse, a disaster to manage, and somehow I had to do it without letting Elara’s masochism turn the suppression into validation.
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