Only I Can Handle the Yandere Guild - Chapter 13
Chapter 13: The Jealousy of the Left-Behind
The guild hall door felt heavier than usual when I pushed it open.
The air inside was wrong—colder than it should be, thick with tension that made my survival instincts scream at me to turn around and walk away. This was worse than the Lich King’s throne room—at least there I’d known exactly what kind of death awaited us.
Valeria sat at the dining table.
Her sword rested across her lap—the whetstone moving in long, violent strokes that sent sparks flying across the room with each pass. The sound was aggressive, deliberate, the kind of sharpening that said “I’m imagining this is someone’s neck”.
Her red eyes locked onto me the moment I crossed the threshold.
“You’re back.”
Not a greeting—an accusation.
Seraphina occupied her usual armchair—teacup balanced perfectly on her knee, silver hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the window. Her eyes had that glow—the calculating malice that came before she psychologically destroyed someone for entertainment.
“Welcome home, Rian—and Elara, of course—how was your exclusive mission?”
The word “exclusive” came out dripping with false sweetness.
I stepped inside—Elara trailing behind me, still flushed from the tent pole incident, still unsteady on her feet. The moment she saw Valeria’s expression, she went pale—actual fear cutting through her usual masochistic haze.
“Valeria—”
I started, trying to defuse whatever bomb was about to detonate.
“Save it.”
The whetstone scraped harder—more sparks flying, the steel of her blade singing with barely contained violence.
“You took her—the soft sow who can barely walk straight—on a mission that required dominance and authority.”
Valeria stood—the chair scraping against the floor with a sound like nails on a coffin.
“You wasted your strength on dispersing a cult of weaklings when you could have been beside me—dominating real threats, crushing actual enemies—”
Her grip on the sword tightened until her knuckles went white.
“Instead you chose to parade her through the capital, pin her against tent poles, demonstrate your physical prowess for an audience of fanatics who worship her depravity—”
“It wasn’t a choice—it was her mess to clean up.”
“And did she? Did she actually help? Or did you have to manage her dysfunction while simultaneously handling fifty religious extremists?”
I didn’t answer—couldn’t, because she was right.
Elara had made everything worse—the healing spell incident, the competitive suffering, the constant confessions that fed the cult’s theology. I’d spent the entire mission managing her as much as the cultists.
Valeria saw my silence as confirmation.
“Pathetic—you exhausted yourself babysitting when you could have brought someone competent—someone strong enough to stand beside you without collapsing from praise—”
She took a step toward me—killing intent rolling off her in waves so thick I could taste metal on my tongue.
“Someone like me.”
“Val, you wanted to cull them—that’s not crowd dispersal, that’s mass murder.”
“It would have been efficient.”
“It would have been a war crime.”
From the corner, Seraphina’s voice drifted over—soft, clinical, devastating.
“Elara, darling—have you considered the long-term implications of your actions?”
Elara flinched—her hands clasping together in that nervous gesture she had.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve been documenting Rian’s stress levels—fascinating data, really—and since your cult manifested, his baseline anxiety has increased by approximately 47%—”
Seraphina took a delicate sip of tea.
“His cortisol markers are approaching dangerous levels—the kind that lead to early cardiovascular failure in men his age—statistically speaking, you’re shortening his lifespan with every devotional incident you cause.”
“I—what—”
Elara’s voice cracked.
“That’s not—I don’t want—”
“Don’t you though? All that attention, all those cultists worshipping your suffering—you must have enjoyed it on some level—”
Seraphina’s smile widened.
“And now Rian pays the price—his heart working overtime to manage your chaos, his body breaking down from the constant stress of keeping you and your fanatics from destroying civilization—”
“Stop.”
Elara’s breathing had gone ragged—not from excitement this time but from genuine horror.
“I didn’t mean—Master Rian, I’m not trying to kill you—”
“She’s gaslighting you, Elara—those statistics are made up.”
“Are they?”
Seraphina tilted her head.
“I have seventeen pages of observational data—would you like to see the graphs? The correlation between your incidents and his degrading health markers is quite clear—”
“Master Rian—”
Elara dropped to her knees right there in the entryway.
“If my existence is killing you—if my perversion is actually shortening your life—then I need to be punished—no, I need to be removed—exiled from the guild before I cause your death—”
Tears streamed down her face—actual tears, not the performative kind she used when begging for discipline.
“I can’t—I won’t—I’d rather die than watch you collapse from exhaustion I caused—”
This was spiraling—Valeria radiating murder because I’d excluded her, Seraphina casually destroying Elara’s psyche with fake data, Elara having an actual breakdown instead of her usual theatrical one.
I needed to regain control—fast, before this turned into a civilization-ending incident that started in my own living room.
“Everyone shut up.”
My voice cut through the chaos—Guild Master authority, the tone that made them all pause regardless of their emotional state.
“Valeria—put the sword down before you accidentally slice through a support beam.”
“I never accidentally slice anything.”
“Put. It. Down.”
She hesitated—the war behind her eyes visible, instinct versus conditioning—then slowly, reluctantly set the blade on the table.
“Seraphina—stop manipulating Elara with fake statistics.”
“They’re not entirely fake—I did document some data—”
“Stop.”
She closed her notebook—that calculating smile never fading, but she complied.
“Elara—get off the floor—you’re not being exiled, you’re not killing me, you’re just being dramatic.”
“But the stress—”
“Is part of my job—stop letting Seraphina gaslight you into thinking normal work exhaustion is your personal curse.”
I walked to the kitchen—they all tracked my movement with predatory focus, waiting to see what I’d do next.
The refrigerator held eggs—my go-to solution for defusing tension, the domestic ritual that sometimes convinced them we were a normal guild.
“I’m making breakfast for dinner—everyone sit down and—”
Valeria moved—faster than should be possible, her sword somehow back in her hand.
The blade flashed—bisecting the egg I’d pulled from the carton mid-air with surgical precision. The two halves hit the floor with a wet splat, yolk spreading across the tiles.
“I don’t want eggs.”
Her voice was cold, flat, dangerous.
“I want acknowledgment that you made the wrong choice—that excluding me from the mission was a tactical error—”
She raised the sword again—pointing it not at me but at the remaining eggs.
“Admit it, or I demonstrate my frustrated edge on every piece of food in this kitchen.”
This was it—the moment where either I established control or this household exploded into violence that would require Beatrice’s intervention.
I couldn’t use words—she was too far gone for verbal reasoning.
I couldn’t use force—pinning Valeria would just validate her jealousy and make things worse.
I needed something else—something that would redirect all this violent energy into something productive.
“Guild-Wide Penance.”
The words came out before I’d fully thought them through—but the moment I said them, all three women froze.
“What?”
Valeria lowered her sword slightly.
“This guild hall is a disaster—broken furniture from your morning sparring, dust everywhere from neglect, dishes piled in the sink from weeks of me being too busy managing your chaos to maintain basic hygiene—”
I gestured at the common room.
“You all contributed to this mess—so you’re all going to clean it, top to bottom, until this place looks like a functional guild hall instead of a crime scene.”
Silence—the dangerous kind where they processed whether I was serious.
“You want us to clean?”
Seraphina’s voice held genuine confusion.
“I want you to perform productive labor as penance for making my life harder—Valeria, you’re scrubbing the blood stains off the training room floor—”
She opened her mouth to protest.
“That’s an order, not a suggestion—Seraphina, you’re organizing the library and destroying any forbidden texts that pose immediate reality distortion risks—”
“But my research—”
“Is less important than not accidentally summoning eldritch horrors in the archive—Elara, you’re on dishes and general kitchen restoration—”
I looked at each of them.
“This is mandatory, this is immediate, this is how you make amends for today’s disaster—any questions?”
Valeria stared at me—her killing intent hadn’t faded but something else had crept into her expression, that shift I’d seen before when dominance clicked into place.
“You’re commanding us—assigning tasks, demanding compliance—”
“Yes.”
“Like we’re subordinates who failed you.”
“You are, and you did.”
Her grip on the sword loosened—not dropping it but no longer holding it like a weapon.
“Where do you keep the cleaning supplies?”
I blinked—had not expected compliance that fast.
“Under the kitchen sink—why?”
“Because my King has given me a command—and I intend to fulfill it perfectly.”
She sheathed her sword—actually sheathed it instead of threatening furniture—and walked toward the kitchen with purpose.
Seraphina stood—her calculating expression shifting to something closer to genuine interest.
“Assigning labor as psychological redirection—using our need for structure against our chaotic impulses—”
She pulled out her notebook.
“I’ll document the efficacy while I work—turn this penance into productive research—”
“Just organize the library, Sera.”
“Of course—whatever you command.”
She drifted toward the stairs—already making notes about the psychological dynamics of commanded labor.
Elara remained on the floor—staring at me with those wide, desperate eyes.
“Master Rian—you’re making us work—giving us purpose through discipline—”
“I’m making you clean because the guild hall is filthy and I’m tired of living in chaos.”
“But you commanded us—used your authority to redirect our dysfunction—”
She stood slowly—swaying slightly but steadier than before.
“This is the best punishment—practical suffering that actually helps you—”
“It’s not punishment, it’s basic household maintenance.”
“Whatever you say, Master.”
She walked toward the kitchen—her flush returning but less intense, channeled into something resembling productivity.
I stood alone in the common room—listening to the sounds of my team actually cleaning instead of breaking things.
Water running in the sink—Elara washing dishes with more enthusiasm than necessary.
Scrubbing sounds from the training room—Valeria attacking bloodstains with the same intensity she brought to combat.
Movement from upstairs—Seraphina reorganizing centuries of accumulated knowledge while simultaneously documenting everything.
I looked at the broken eggs on the floor—yolk spreading across tiles I’d now have to clean myself.
The turnip farmer life called to me again—peaceful, simple, no yanderes competing for dominance or cults worshipping dysfunction.
Just dirt and vegetables and blessed silence.
But the Guild Association had my magical signature on file—they’d find me no matter where I went.
I grabbed a towel and started cleaning up the egg massacre.
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