CHAPTER 57: CHAPTER: 57 HEAVEN’S CHILD!

The maid led Kafrik through the corridor of the Tramplin family’s grand mansion.

The place was the very definition of luxury, a silent declaration of the Tramplins’ might and wealth.

Massive chandeliers hung every few meters, their crystal light so bright it was hard to tell whether it was day or night within these walls.

After walking for a while, the maid stopped before an ornate door and bowed deeply.

"Milah has brought Young Master Kafrik, as per the Patriarch’s order," she said respectfully.

They waited in silence, the air thick with tension and the faint scent of polished wood.

Moments later, a deep voice from within called, "Come in."

Following the sound, the large doors swung open, revealing a chamber as opulent as the rest of the mansion.

Kafrik took a slow, steady breath before stepping inside. The maid did not follow, she remained outside, her head bowed.

The moment he entered, his gaze was drawn to the uppermost platform.

From there, a suffocating aura pressed down upon him, heavy and cold

.

He bit his lip, then dropped to one knee.

"I greet the Patriarch," he said, his voice low and strained.

The pressure deepened, crushing him like the weight of a mountain.

He didn’t dare raise his head; his knuckles whitened as his fists clenched, and a bead of cold sweat traced a path down his spine.

For a long moment, the silence was absolute, then the deep, commanding voice from the platform finally spoke.

"Rise."

Kafrik obeyed the command and rose to his feet, though his legs trembled from barely contained nervousness.

His eyes lifted toward the platform, where a grand throne dominated the space, one so magnificent it could rival the thrones of the small kingdoms of the continent.

Upon that throne sat a man whose very presence radiated an overwhelming sense of authority and pride.

He appeared to be in his fifties, his long blond hair flowing gracefully over his shoulders.

His sharp crimson eyes seemed to pierce straight through Kafrik’s very soul.

A thick, well-groomed mustache framed his upper lip, curling slightly toward the middle of his cheeks, and the hard lines of his jaw and cheekbones gave him a look of innate arrogance, a man born to command and never question.

He was the ruler of the North and one of the three Dukes of the Indrath Empire, Duke Ravan Tramplin.

From his throne, Ravan gazed down at the trembling Kafrik with eyes as cold as winter steel.

His voice carried the weight of command when he spoke.

"Speak. How did you lose?"

Kafrik flinched. A bead of cold sweat ran down his back as he stammered, "Th–that’s... tha—"

"Tsk..."

Ravan clicked his tongue in annoyance, his expression hardening.

The air grew heavier, the pressure pressing down on Kafrik’s chest until breathing itself became a struggle.

"Speak only the truth," Ravan repeated, his tone sharp enough to cut through the suffocating silence.

Kafrik felt his heart might burst under the weight of that gaze.

He took a shaky breath and began, voice low and uneven, recounting every moment of the battle with Vivian, every strike, every mistake, every humiliation.

He dared not lie. In front of this man, his father, even breathing felt like a privilege that could be taken away at any moment.

If one were to compare House Tramplin to House Zenithara, the difference would be like heaven and earth.

Perhaps that very gulf explained the vast difference in their strength and influence.

"...That’s how I lost," Kafrik finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The chamber fell silent. Ravan’s crimson eyes, cold as a frozen blade, grew even harsher as he listened to the final words.

A faint curl of disdain touched his lips.

"You dare tell me," Ravan said, his tone laced with venom, "that you lost to a cripple?"

The words struck like whips, echoing across the hall.

Kafrik’s knees nearly buckled again, shame burning through his chest stronger than the pressure that had weighed him down moments before.

"That’s..." Kafrik stammered, but before he could finish, Ravan raised his hand, silencing him with a simple gesture.

"How was his condition?" Ravan asked coldly. "Is the curse working properly?"

"Yes," Kafrik replied at once, not daring to pause. "After my hand was cut off, he began coughing blood and fainted on the spot."

Ravan leaned back, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief.

The curse was indeed potent, though even he did not fully understand its nature.

His gaze drifted upward to the ornate ceiling of the chamber as old memories stirred, memories from eight years ago.

He had just returned from the grand celebration of Princess Charlotte von Indrath’s eighth birthday, the only princess of the empire, and the emperor’s most beloved child.

At the time, Ravan had planned to introduce his son, Kafrik, to the young princess, hoping to secure a future alliance that would strengthen House Tramplin’s political power.

But that arrogant little princess had looked at his son as if he were nothing more than dust beneath her shoes.

Then, with the peak of arrogance, she declared, "He is not worthy. And even if he were somewhat good, your name itself isn’t worthy."

By saying that, she had already made it clear she would only marry that cripple, an insult that struck deeply at the pride of Ravan Tramplin.

Ravan’s jaw tightened at the memory.

Even worse, the emperor had shown no displeasure at her choice.

On the contrary, His Majesty had spoken warmly with that cripple’s father, Vined D. Zenithara, the very man who had long been the greatest thorn in Ravan’s side.

When Ravan had returned home that night, rage had consumed him.

He tore through his mansion like a storm, shattering vases, overturning tables, and roaring at anyone who dared come near.

And then... it happened.

A madman appeared out of nowhere.

His laughter echoed through the hall, not the laughter of joy, but something twisted and broken, slipping between madness and grief.

One moment he was laughing, the next he was weeping, then suddenly shouting in fury, his voice rising and falling like the cries of a madman.

He wore a cracked clown mask, painted in faded red and white, and introduced himself with unsettling cheer.

"I’m the Clown."

For the first time in years, Ravan had felt a chill crawl down his spine.

He couldn’t sense the man’s presence, no aura, no killing intent, nothing. It was as if the stranger existed outside the laws of power itself.

Instinctively, Ravan took several hesitant steps back, his mind racing. Whoever this being was, he was not someone bound by mortal strength.

At first, Ravan thought the stranger had come to kill him.

His body tensed, ready to summon his power at any instant, but that fear melted away like smoke when the Clown spoke.

"Ravan Tramplin, how have you been?" he asked brightly, his tone warm and oddly nostalgic, as though greeting an old friend after years apart.

The joy in his voice carried a strange weight, something that twisted the air itself.

Ravan froze, confusion flickering behind his cold eyes. "Do... I know you?" he asked, his voice hesitant, uncertain.

The Clown went still.

Then, without warning, he began to sob, loud, ugly cries that echoed across the shattered hall.

"You don’t know...sob....me?" he wailed, his tone swinging wildly between heartbreak and hysteria.

The Clown didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, his laughter rang out again, bright, chaotic, and utterly unsettling.

"Haha! Well, of course you don’t know me!" he said, his voice bubbling with manic delight. "Because... we’ve never met before!"

Ravan’s expression darkened.

This man, whatever he was, reeked of madness.

Every word he spoke grated against Ravan’s patience like nails on steel.

If not for the uncertainty surrounding his strength, Ravan would have already cut him down without a second thought.

But he didn’t. He held his tongue, forcing his anger beneath a mask of icy calm.

The Clown’s presence was too strange, too unpredictable.

If it wasn’t the work of some hidden artifact masking his aura, then this being’s power was at least that of a Grandmaster, or worse.

So Ravan waited, cautious and calculating, as the Clown’s smile stretched beneath that cracked mask.

He knew this madman hadn’t appeared here without a reason.

Without warning, the Clown’s laughter stopped.

The air grew still, and when he spoke again, his tone carried an unexpected gravity, calm, almost regal, yet edged with something unsettling.

"Let’s talk about something important," he said, a faint note of pride threading through his words.

Ravan remained silent, his sharp eyes never leaving the masked figure.

Every instinct screamed caution.

The Clown tilted his head slightly, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "You want to get rid of that boy, don’t you? That... once-in-a-generation talent, no, Heaven’s child."

The words hung in the air like a divine revelation. For the first time since their encounter began, there was something else behind the Clown’s voice, not mockery, not joy, but a flicker of dread.

Ravan caught it immediately, frowning.

"Heaven’s child?" he repeated, confusion flashing in his eyes.

The title was unfamiliar, yet the way the Clown had spoken it... it carried weight, like something that shouldn’t exist in the mortal world.