"Forget it. I'm not into men," Rus growled through clenched teeth.
He drove his knee upward to reload the crossbow, snapped the string into place, and aimed once again at the monstrous figure before him.
Donald paused, sizing up his distant nephew with a new look in his eyes.
Six feet tall, lean but solidly built, Rus's slicked-back black hair revealed a broad, prominent forehead. His deep-set eyes were pitch black, his nose high-bridged and strong, with full nostrils—everything about his face was sharp and defined. He had a rugged, masculine allure.
A textbook Claydon.
"Oh, my dear nephew," Donald chuckled. "I must admit, I misjudged you. I thought you were nothing but a petty scoundrel—scheming, thieving, constantly chasing skirts."
"But I didn't expect this level of calm... and courage."
"Not everyone can react like that—fighting back the moment things go to hell."
"Perhaps... it's the Claydon blood after all."
His voice softened, tinged with nostalgia as he lowered his eyes. "If Ted and Monka were still alive... they'd be about your age now."
"How did they die?" Rus already knew the answer, but he needed time—to catch his breath, recover some strength.
Donald sighed. "Ted was the one I had the highest hopes for. Calm, decisive, gifted in combat skills—he was extraordinary from a young age. I didn't want to kill him."
"But he was too soft."
"I merely slit his wrist, and he cried—begged me to stop. Begged. A Claydon, begging! We can't have weak heirs in this family."
Rus felt his lip twitch. "What about Monka?"
"Monka was a bastard!" Donald's voice exploded, filled with rage. "I asked him—as his father—to donate half his blood. And what did he do? He drew his sword and told me to confess to the Church!"
"That kind of defiance couldn't be allowed. So I killed him!"
Rus clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to shout. "And Lisa? Was she too soft... or did she disobey you too?"
Donald's expression changed. A strange softness entered his voice.
"Ah… little Lisa. My sweet angel."
"She was the kindest, most adorable girl in the world. She had her mother's red hair and moved like a little deer. Her cheeks were rosy like apples, always wearing the sweetest smile…"
"As a baron, I had many responsibilities, many pressures. But whenever I saw her, all of that just… melted away."
His lips twitched into a disturbing, trembling smile.
"I remember that night... her twelfth birthday. I brought her here, dressed her up like a porcelain doll. So pretty."
"'Daddy just needs a little of your blood,' I told her. 'Just a little.'"
"You know what she said?"
Rus didn't wait for the answer. He fired.
He prided himself on his imagination—he'd seen enough depravity online to be desensitized. But Donald's words, his tone, painted a horror that clawed at the soul.
And more importantly—this was the best shot he'd get.
Thump—
The bolt pierced Donald's forehead—but the impact sounded dull, like it had sunk into rubber.
Donald's head snapped backward until it nearly touched his back. With an eerie creaking, it slowly rose again.
The sudden pressure in his skull had forced both eyes from their sockets. His jaw was twisted like a broken puppet. Yet still, his voice continued:
"She said,
'Daddy, it hurts a little...
But I can handle it. It's okay.
Lisa's cold...
Can you hold Lisa, Daddy?'"
Rus's face twitched as he took a step back, reloading the final bolt into the crossbow.
Donald grabbed the bolt lodged in his forehead and yanked it out with a metallic clink. He dropped it to the floor. The wound on his head began healing at an unnatural speed.
"Oh, my little Lisa... I never meant for her to die," he said, eyes glazed over. "She was too young. There wasn't enough blood in her body. But the ritual had to be completed, and I had no choice…"
"This is all your fault, Rus!"
"If you had arrived at the castle sooner—if we had done this earlier—they wouldn't have had to die!"
Donald lunged.
He crossed the space between them in two strides just as Rus finished loading the final bolt. Rus raised the crossbow—but before he could fire, Donald grabbed his chest, spun him around, and slammed him into the ground.
"UGH—!"
Blood sprayed from Rus's mouth, but his grip on the crossbow never loosened. He twisted it to aim at Donald's back—but didn't pull the trigger right away.
Donald turned to face him, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of admiration in his eyes.
"So you've figured it out. That little enchanted toy of yours—it's not enough to kill me."
"Oh, Rus, my dear nephew… you're calm, steady, unshakable. Truly a worthy Claydon."
"But only one Claydon is walking out of this chamber alive. And it won't be you."
He raised his foot and kicked Rus in the ribs.
Crack! Rus flew like a ragdoll, slamming into the corner.
But the moment he landed, he scrambled upright, bracing himself against the wall. Crossbow raised. Still aiming. Still defiant. His head tilted high, eyes full of scorn and disgust.
"Rus may have been a total piece of trash," he spat, voice hoarse, "but compared to you? He was a goddamn saint."
He coughed violently, blood spilling from his nose. His skin was pale, breathing ragged. Every inch of his body ached like he'd just burned through a fever of forty degrees.
But his eyes still burned—with raw, unyielding defiance.
"I was pissed off before. Wondering why the hell I ended up in such a garbage body."
"But now I get it.
I was sent here to kill you."
Donald burst out laughing. "Kill me? Kill me?!"
He spread his arms wide. "This is the gift of the Mother of Pure Darkness—an undying body blessed by a god! What are you gonna do—stab me with that little toy?"
Sure, Rus had shown unexpected grit. Smarts. Cold resolve.
But in the end—he was still just a mortal. Not even a Tier-1 superhuman.
Donald could already picture the despair that would soon appear on Rus's face. The hopelessness. The humiliation of powerlessness.
"Yes. Kill you," Rus said.
And then—he lowered the crossbow.
Just an inch.
The bolt that had been aimed at Donald's heart was now pointed at his lower abdomen.
He pulled the trigger.
Thunk.
The bolt sank in—clean, deep.
Donald's expression changed instantly.
He tried to reach for his gut, but his body was shutting down. His fingers twisted and spasmed unnaturally, as if the bones had been dislocated. His face contorted in shock.
"Y-You… how did you… how could you know my weakness?!"
Rus let the crossbow fall to the ground with a metallic clatter. Then he reached for the magic rapier lying in the corner.
"Your skin looks transparent, but it's not. It's camouflage—like a painted shell. Makes people assume you're still humanoid."
"But you're not."
"You have no skull." He pointed at Donald's misshapen head. "No humanoid creature lacks a skull. And none of them hatch from cocoons."
"You're not human.
You're an insect."
He pushed himself up using the sword for balance, back braced against the wall.
"And as it happens, I know exactly where an insect's weak spot is."
"N-No… impossible!!" Donald roared, black blood foaming at his lips. "Even the Church of Light has no knowledge of pupal beings… how could you possibly know?!"
Shhhk— The blade sang as Rus unsheathed the sword, a smirk curling his lips.
"Haven't you ever eaten silkworm pupae?"
"Fantastic with a drink."
Donald's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
Nobles never ate bugs.
"D-Don't kill me!" Donald's body was frozen stiff, thick black ichor oozing from the wound in his abdomen. "I-I'm a baron of the Empire! If you kill me, you'll never leave this castle alive!"
Rus gave a cold smile. "The Claydon family has always carried a bloodline curse. Not a single male has lived past forty."
"Uncle Donald… if I'm not mistaken, you're thirty-nine, aren't you?"
"You dying today… doesn't seem all that surprising."
Donald's pupils shrank in despair. His lips trembled. "Th-this…"
Rus stepped in. "And now, I'm the rightful heir to the Claydon name."
"Your death means I become the next baron—Rus Alta Claydon."
"I doubt your charm's so strong that anyone would dare cross the current baron on your behalf."
"And all this," Rus said, limping closer until he was just three steps away, "I owe entirely to you."
"After all, you were the one who murdered your three children and your wife, weren't you?"
He raised his arm. The enchanted rapier in his hand shimmered faintly with a pale magical glow. With steady hands, he thrust it toward Donald's abdomen.
"No—!"
The blade pierced skin and drove deep into flesh. It struck something hard within. At that moment, Rus thought he heard a baby's cry, faint and chilling.
Gritting his teeth, he drove the blade an inch deeper.
A rush of power surged back up the sword, flooding into Rus's body, racing up his arm before coiling behind his eyes.
Then came the voices—dozens layered over each other, echoing inside his soul:
"Unshakable calm. Keen insight. The courage to face the impossible. And a soul… that will never yield."
"We bestow upon you… the key to unlock the Claydon bloodline's shackles."
"The Eye of Truth."
And then—silence. As if nothing had happened.
But Rus's vision was completely transformed.
He could see the inky black mist unraveling from Donald's corpse—residue of the Mother of Pure Darkness's power.
The enchanted rapier in his hand and the fallen crossbow bolt on the floor both shimmered with soft green light—symbols of low-tier enchantments.
In that instant, Rus understood: magical equipment appeared in different colors to his new eyes.
Green: Uncommon, low-tier enchantment.
Blue: Rare, mid-tier enchantment.
Purple: Epic, high-tier enchantment.
Gold: Legendary, top-tier enchantment.
Dark gold: Relics, divine artifacts.
"So this is the Eye of Truth… it reveals the very essence of magical power?"
His gaze darted around like a kid with a brand-new toy.
In the corner, among Donald's discarded clothing, something shimmered blue.
A rare item!
Suddenly, Rus felt his steps get lighter.
Because let's be honest—who doesn't love looting a boss after a hard-fought battle?
He crouched and dug through the pile until his hand wrapped around a thumb-sized glass vial, filled with thick crimson liquid.
"Low-grade healing potion?" Rus scratched his head. "It's only an uncommon item—so why is it glowing blue?"
Still, better something than nothing.
He popped the cork and chugged it. Warmth poured down his throat, spreading into his limbs and soothing every ache and wound.
He raised his arm. The slit in his wrist was already healing—no scar, no pain. The bruises and soreness in his chest vanished like smoke.
"So this is what a healing potion feels like? No wonder they're so damn expensive."
The Church of Light sold low-grade healing potions for five gold a bottle. Rus had never once dared to buy one.
But the strange part?
The blue glow of the vial hadn't faded.
"Huh… Could the bottle itself be a mid-tier magic item?" Confused, Rus went to cork it and stash it away—but then noticed something odd.
There, at the bottom of the "empty" vial, a faint shimmer of liquid was beginning to form.
"What the…"
He lifted the bottle, holding it level with his eye, staring for a full minute.
After a while, the shimmering liquid had slightly increased.
"Wait… this bottle can regenerate healing potions?!"
He didn't know how long it took to refill one—but just one bottle was worth five gold!
Five!
One gold coin was equal to a hundred silver, and one silver was a hundred copper.
In Moen, a pound of black bread cost three copper, and a liter of milk was ten. Five gold could keep a middle-class family comfortable for a year.
Here, in the backwater town of Hawk's Domain, most people went their whole lives without even seeing a gold coin. A few silvers made you a local big-shot.
If Rus went back to Moen now, just by selling healing potions from this bottle, he'd become a wealthy man overnight.
"Donald, you actually had some good stuff stashed away!"
Rus sprang to his feet. "Not bad for a starter boss!"
He clipped the bottle to his belt and took a deep breath to steady himself. Then his eyes fell on the woman still lying motionless on the floor.
Golden curls tumbled down like waves. Her flawless, delicate face was as smooth as silk. Eyes closed, brows slightly furrowed, her lips were soft and faintly pouting.
Her robe—pure white, trimmed with golden embroidery—was the traditional garb of a cleric. The sun and moon emblem stitched across her chest gleamed with sacred silver and gold thread.
It hugged her figure tightly, emphasizing every curve.
90–60–92.
Rus had seen countless women in both worlds—but this? This was perfection.
And the brilliant white aura flowing through her body marked her as a Tier-2 Priestess.
Lux—Hawk Town's one and only cleric.
"The Church of Light sure lives well," Rus muttered, scratching his head.
He knelt beside her and reached out to check her breath—
Right above her chest.
"Good, still breathing…" he exhaled in relief.
The Church of Light held massive influence across the Cairns Empire. Every royal coronation had been officiated by the pope. Clerics were basically untouchable.
If Lux died under his watch—not only would Rus lose the barony, but getting executed would be a mercy. More likely, he'd be burned at the stake.
He glanced at Donald's grotesque corpse, still standing upright like a monument to blasphemy, and frowned deeply.
Anyone who saw that would know it was tied to dark gods.
And the Church and Empire both had the same attitude toward such things:
"Better to kill a thousand innocents than let one heretic escape."
Just two years ago, a family in Moen was accused of summoning a dark god. Within hours, the Church's Inquisition descended—an entire half-street, sixty-five households, over five hundred people—gone. No one ever returned.
If anyone found out Donald had been involved with dark gods, Rus wouldn't just lose his title.
Getting to the stake alive would be a blessing.
"Well damn. Two brushes with the fire pit and I'm still not charbroiled. Lucky me."
He chuckled to himself, but the tension never left his face.
The priority now was clear—get rid of Donald's body before Lux woke up.
But anyone who'd killed before knew: killing's easy. Hiding the body is the real pain in the ass.
Donald stood over two meters tall and weighed at least 250 pounds. Rus could barely stand, let alone move a corpse the size of a prize hog.
"Now what…" Rus slumped to the floor, running through options.
Inside the castle, there were three guards, a chef, and a steward.
Outside? Donald's second wife, Elaina, and her son, Weston.
Seal the room? Stall for time?
No good.
The steward and guards were loyal to Donald. If Rus tried to cover up the death, they'd never follow him—and might just side with Elaina instead.
Even if Weston was only a stepson, he still had legal claim to the barony. He was a blood relative, even if distantly ranked.
No—he needed a plan. One that would bring the steward and chief guard over to his side.
A plot began to take shape in Rus's mind. He ran through it again and again, refining it.
By the end, a sly grin spread across his face.
"Yeah… that'll do it."
He swung his arm in triumph—
And slapped something soft.
Soft and... bouncy.
Wait. What did I just hit?
Rus slowly turned—and saw that his hand had landed squarely on a very tight-fitting section of cleric robes.
Perfectly positioned to block out the sun.
"Mm…" came a soft, sleepy murmur.
Lux's eyes opened, deep and blue like sapphires.
Rus froze. Sweating bullets.
"Miss... I can explain—!"
But just then, his hand, cramped from overuse, twitched—
—and gave her a very unfortunate double squeeze.