CHAPTER 58: CHAPTER: 58 DON’T WORRY YOU WILL GET YOUR SHARE.

"What do you mean, Heaven’s child?" Ravan frowned, his gaze fixed on the Clown.

The dread he’d felt earlier had faded, replaced by cautious curiosity at the strange title the Clown had used to describe that cripple.

The Clown’s face was unusually serious. His usual twisted expressions were gone, replaced instead by a faint dread as he looked at Ravan with cloudy eyes.

After a moment of silence, he spoke. "What name would you give to someone with heaven-defying talent? Even the King of Celestials would envy him."

To ordinary people, it might have sounded like he was merely praising that cripple.

But Ravan, an old fox who could read between the lines, knew there was a deeper meaning behind that title.

Though he wanted to ask why the Clown referred to that cripple with such a grand title, Ravan restrained himself.

He knew the Clown wouldn’t reveal anything, and he couldn’t force him either, not when the man’s strength remained unknown.

Suppressing his curiosity, he changed the subject.

"Earlier, you asked whether I wanted to get rid of that child," Ravan said. "What did you mean by that?"

Hahahahaha!

The Clown burst into a maddening laugh. "What do you mean, what did I mean? I literally meant what I said! Even a child would get it! Hahaha!"

He continued laughing, the sound twisting into something mocking and cruel

Ravan closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath to banish the sharp edge of his frustration.

"Are you going to kill him?" He asked.

"Bastard!" The Clown’s voice erupted, thick with fury.

"Why would I want to kill him? Do you want me to die?"

’This fucking madman.’

Ravan seethed, his irritation a rising tide.

He fought to suppress the urge to strike, a silent curse echoing in his mind: ’If I wasn’t uncertain about his strength, I swear I would have killed him.’

He caught his breath and let the question out, a measured probe: "Why? With your strength, you could easily kill him, couldn’t you?"

"Sob... Do you want to see me dead so badly?" The Clown’s voice cracked as he let out a pitiful sob, as though his long-lost lover had just begged him to die.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he continued, "I can’t kill him... sob... If I kill him... then Duke Sant will be furious, and he’ll chase me to the ends of the world to kill me!"

’Nonsense!’ The word formed in Ravan’s throat but never escaped.

Someone at the realm of Grandmaster should have been able to flee from another, even if that Grandmaster was in the early stage.

Yet something in the Clown’s trembling tone made Ravan hesitate.

He stayed silent for a long moment, then frowned. "So what did you mean, then?"

Amusement flickered in the Clown’s eyes. "I have a way to stop his growth. In time he’ll die, and we won’t even have to lift a finger."

The words struck like lightning, cutting through the claustrophobic dark that had settled around Ravan.

Something hot and electric flared in his chest; his voice grew sharper with interest, though his face betrayed nothing.

"How?" he asked.

The Clown settled onto the ground, picking at his ear, a habitual, strange gesture.

"Well, it’s a bit complicated," he said, pulling his finger away and blowing on it.

He met Ravan’s gaze, his voice low and firm. "But it’s definitely possible. I just need his blood."

Ravan frowned. "Blood? How am I supposed to bring—"

The Clown cut him off with a sudden, impatient gesture.

He didn’t wait. He pulled a small glass vial from his pocket, holding up a liquid that shimmered a dark crimson.

There wasn’t much, maybe three to five milliliters.

He shook it lightly in front of Ravan, whose eyes were wide with shock.

Recovering, Ravan finally managed, "Is... is that his blood?"

"Hahahaa! So what do you think? Aren’t I amazing?"

The Clown’s laugh was high and frantic, like a child who had just bewildered their parents by solving a puzzle beyond their age.

But Ravan was only growing more confused.

"If you already had his blood, why didn’t you use it before?" He paused, waiting for an explanation that never came, then continued, his voice carefully calm. "What exactly do you want from me?"

"Oh ho, aren’t you a sharp guy." The Clown complimented him, his voice laced with mocking amusement.

"Well, you’re right. I want something from you." He said.

Ravan fixed his gaze on the Clown. "And what if I refuse?"

The Clown didn’t respond immediately.

He looked slowly around the room, and the amusement drained from his face, replaced by a chilling, concentrated anger.

He spoke in a dangerously quiet tone. "If you don’t mind, can I rampage for a while?"

Ravan stared, bewildered for a moment, then shrugged. "Go ahead, you can... but the whole room is already destroyed." He gestured around the space.

It was a chaotic mess, everything scattered and broken from his own outburst earlier, immediately after returning from the Royal Family’s ball celebrating the Princess’s eighth birthday.

There was nothing left for the Clown to ruin. Ravan agreed because, truly, there was nothing left to destroy.

But what the Clown did next shattered all of Ravan’s expectations.

The Clown shot to his feet.

"Thank you. I was really holding back," he said, and without another word, he spun around and began to swing his fists, not at Ravan, but everywhere.

Boom. CRASH. BOOM.

Wherever his fists connected, nothing remained.

The walls crumpled like wet paper, the stone collapsing under the sheer, brutal force of each punch.

Watching his room’s final destruction wasn’t what caused Ravan pain; it was the raw, terrifying strength radiating from the Clown that filled him with a deep sense of dread.

Ravan was certain now.

This bizarre figure was undoubtedly in the Grandmaster realm, his every strike powerful enough to shake the very foundations of the building.

Ravan stared at the Clown, his face a picture of utter bewilderment.

After a final, thunderous punch, the Clown stopped. He stood amid the fresh rubble, breathing heavily, and flashed a deeply satisfied grin visible in the gaps of his mask.

"Haa. That felt good," he rasped. "So, shall we get back to our conversation from earlier?"

Ravan remained motionless, not even noticing the gaping hole in the wall behind him, the newly created "open area" that was his ruined room.

After a beat, he finally recovered from his shock. "Ah... yes," he managed.

The Clown’s smile widened beneath his mask.

Although he had genuinely wanted to release his pent-up fury, his primary goal had been to instill a profound sense of dread in Ravan.

The unsteady, subdued way Ravan spoke now was absolute proof: the theatrics had worked perfectly.

The Clown settled back down onto the rubble-strewn floor. "Now, where were we again? Ah, right. We were discussing what I need from you, weren’t we?"

Ravan found a relatively intact chair, pulled it close, and sat, letting out a heavy sigh.

He knew he had to listen now; his next actions, perhaps even his life, depended entirely on the Clown’s demand.

The Clown took a sudden, deep, rattling breath, and then, to Ravan’s confusion, he burst into tears.

He managed to choke out the words between heartbreaking sobs: "I... I want you to betray... sob... the Empire."

Ravan had only just managed to sit down, but the shock of the request made him shoot back to his feet.

He gasped, "What?"

"I said I need you to betray the..." The Clown was cut off mid-sentence by Ravan’s sharp, immediate refusal.

"No. Absolutely not," Ravan declared.

"I won’t betray the Empire, no matter what."

His tone sounded sincere, but to the Clown, it was the sound of a fox pretending loyalty to the farmer.

He sneered, not hiding his disdain. "Don’t pretend, Ravan. I know that if anyone is greedy enough to betray the Empire, it would be you."

Ravan fell silent. His true intentions had been seen through instantly.

A surge of paranoia hit him.

He desperately tried to determine if this person was an agent sent by the Empire to test his loyalty.

But the Clown’s tone suggested he knew too much, too intimately.

If the Clown were an Imperial agent, there would be no need for this pretense; they could simply frame him as a traitor immediately.

Since the Clown clearly didn’t have those intentions, Ravan had no reason to speak.

He simply sank back onto his chair and remained quiet.

The Clown gave a malicious chuckle, sensing his victory.

"Don’t worry," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You will get a more than satisfying reward." He then began to outline his plan.

Ravan listened, silent and still. With every word the Clown uttered, Ravan’s eyes widened in profound shock.

The sheer audacity and scope of the plot were clearly far beyond anything he could have imagined.

This plan would bring him immense benefits if it succeeds.