Chapter 64: The Message of Blades

....Just moments ago, Roderick had watched with pride as the slaves dragged themselves atop the floating ridge of the Sigh Mountains.

He could see how broken they were in breath and body. The Centaurs especially, groaning under the unnatural strain, made his smirk stretch wider.

He could tell that they were more obedient now, than they had previously been. Slowly, they were being shaped into tools.

Other aspects of their training would need to be considered. He had already thought of reducing rations and the like, and placing conditions for sleep and rest, to make the slaves more bent to his will.

After all, he did plan to beat his father's record. Cassian had been able to command a hundred slaves of the warrior blood rank 1 to kill themselves.

Roderick wanted to do the same for two hundred. No! One thousand. Yes, that many.

He was sure that his father would have no choice but to look his way.

The training for the day was coming to an end.

Satisfied, Roderick had returned to his quarters.

His room was on appearance, far less disciplined than his father’s cold and sterile sanctum. Unlike Cassian’s well-ordered office with parchment sorted in rows and crystals aligned by color and rank, Roderick’s room bore the mark of youth.

Curtains of red silk fell unevenly across the high windows, half-torn. The walls were decorated with slave collars, brands, and the occasional blood-stained whip, displayed like war trophies. Several small instruments of punishment—some of his own design—lined a shelf above his desk, each tagged with the name of a victim. A broken lute with Centaur string and a black mask hung over his bed like a mockery of comfort.

Despite his noble bloodline, Roderick was a boy at the edge of manhood, and his room reflected that chaos—rich furnishings, but poorly arranged.

A sign of a mind that was brilliant, sadistic… and still untempered.

He lounged lazily on the cushioned stone seat near the corner of his chamber, his legs swinging slightly as he called out, “Slave! Bring me my food.”

A few moments later, a silent, pale-faced attendant entered, bowing, and placed a silver tray before him. Steam rose from the dish—some marinated meat in glaze and dark root mash. It looked appetizing enough. Normal.

Roderick began to eat, chewing slowly, unconcerned.

In his mind, he could see it already.

The Princess's auction was in two months and three weeks. The Vontell family planned to display their slaves during the auction.

Of course, the Wrapped would be the center of attention, but he and velma would still be given the opportunity to display their skill with the slaves in training.

He would take the glory on that stage, and have the princess reward him generously with his red slave master badge.

At least, these were the thoughts in his mind.

However by the third bite, he paused.

Something sharp.

He frowned.

His tongue pressed against it, and then pain flared in his gum. He reached in with his fingers and tugged.

A razor blade.

Fresh blood spilled down his chin.

“What the—?”

He coughed again.

And then another.

Suddenly, his throat was burning. Agonizingly. His eyes widened as more blades tore their way up from his esophagus.

He coughed again and again, more blades.

His fingers scrambled for his neck, trying to claw out the invisible force. Blood poured from his nose and lips, and with it, more metal glinted wetly in the crimson stream. It spilled onto the floor, black-red and wrong.

He fell to his knees, gasping, trembling as blades carved their way through his insides. He wanted to scream, but his throat was full of steel.

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He was drowning in his own blood.

His vision swam. Red everywhere. Panic—true, pure panic—hit him for the first time in years.

His limbs spasmed. He choked again. He tried to signal with his wand and call for help. Anybody. His father. His sister. Even the slaves. He did not mind. Anybody.

He just did not want to die. His instincts screamed at him.

And then—

Silence.

Everything was gone.

The blood.

The razors.

Even the pain.

All of it vanished like mist in morning sun.

Roderick coughed violently and sat up, panting hard. His hands touched his mouth. Nothing. His plate of food sat as it was, untouched, untainted.

He blinked, disoriented, before feeling something foreign on his tongue.

He coughed again—and spat out a small folded piece of paper.

It was soaked in the illusion of blood, though it too began to dry before his eyes. His fingers trembled as he unfolded it.

There, on the paper, was the symbol of the Mordelune family.

Beneath the symbol were only three words:

“You Owe us.”

This was no doubt a message from the Mordelune triplets.

Roderick stared at the paper, chest rising and falling. His mouth felt like it still held metal. His body remembered the pain, even if it had never been real.

He slumped back into the chair, heart pounding. For all his cruelty, all his control, he had never felt this powerless.

It had been a message, yes.

But more than that, it was a warning.

Of course he knew what he owed them, but what they were asking for was ruin. Not just to his father's unstained record, but also to the Vontell.

Could he really do such a thing? Even though they gave him a way out, should he really do it?

And just then, as the weight of the moment still pressed down on him, he heard the echo of chaos from one of the warehouse outside.

Screams.

Shouts.

The slaves were fighting.

And with that, he stood up, his eyes wild, rage returning to hide the fear still quivering underneath his skin.

---

....The Centaur collapsed to the ground with a thundering crash, his heavy frame sprawling across the cold stone floor of the warehouse.

Silence.

For a moment, time itself seemed to pause.

Everyone—every single slave from every race—turned toward the boy. Even the most hardened of them stared in wide-eyed disbelief.

There stood Oliver, no taller than a milk barrel, chest heaving, arm tucked close to his side from the strain of his last attack. Around him, dust settled, and beneath him lay a Centaur. A full-grown Centaur.

Half-man. Half-horse. All muscle.

And he had fallen to a ten-year-old human.

Garron was the first to break the silence, a low chuckle rolling out of his mouth. He leaned back with a wolfish grin and muttered, “Remind me never to play slap games with you, kid.”

Even he hadn’t expected that outcome.

But the admiration didn't last long.

“Brother!” came a scream. It was a raw voice that cracked with emotion.

The rage was visible before the body that bore it came into view.

Another Centaur, even broader in the chest than the last, shoved past the crowd, fury carved into every vein of his taut muscle. His long braid snapped with his gallop, hooves striking sparks from the stone floor. The second Centaur in the fight followed him, eyes wild, his lips peeled back in a neighing war cry.

Two Centaurs. Coming straight for the boy.

Garron’s smile dropped.

“Ah, shit.”

He lunged sideways just as one of them charged past, and he caught the beast by the horse-tail.

“Not so fast, ponytail!” he barked, yanking back with every ounce of muscle. The Centaur was forced to stop mid-gallop, and in that moment, Garron jumped—his fist winding back and crashing into the side of the Centaur’s jaw with a right hook that could break stone.

It connected.

The Centaur’s head snapped to the side, but the beast flinched only a little.

With a furious snort, the Centaur reared. And then—wham—his rear hooves lashed out with a terrible crack.

Garron tried to twist away like he usually did, but one hoof caught him in the side.

Bones snapped like dry twigs.

He flew backward, smashing into one of the water barrels, bursting it open in an explosion of wood and water.

“Chapter 444!” Oliver cried out to Garron. But he didn’t freeze. Instead, his eyes gave a sharp glow, as his asmodeus bloodline stirred.

The two Centaurs were charging now.

Oliver’s mind snapped into focus.

Technique. Form. Precision. Timing.

He had finally gotten it.

The one-inch punch.

And from what he remembered of the monk, it did not matter the moves the opponent had.

This one fighting technique was enough.

He spun low to the ground, weaving beneath the first Centaur’s swing. Hooves thundered past his ears, and the reek of sweat and musk clung thick to the air.

He didn't try to match strength.

He aimed for vulnerability.

His small feet skidded across the floor. He ducked low beneath the Centaur’s foreleg—his hand already closing into a fist.

Then—bang—he struck.

Not with strength. But with pure, focused technique.

The Centaur's eyes bulged. He let out a choked grunt—his breath stolen mid-gallop. His front legs gave way, and he stumbled forward, collapsing like a tower of meat and fury.

Before the second one could reach, Oliver rolled beneath him.

The Centaur turned to strike, but Oliver used the momentum—grabbing the foreleg mid-turn, using it to twist himself upward—springing into the air like a shadow.

Oliver was like an eel. But if one observed closely, they would notice that it was just him using his climbing skill as recognised by the slave system.

Oliver’s fingers reached the Centaur’s chest.

The blow connected. One inch. Full transfer.

The Centaur staggered back, but didn't fall immediately.

For a second, he stood.

Then his knees buckled.

The warehouse fell into stunned silence once more.

Three Centaurs. Three giants.

And they had all been brought down by a boy who barely weighed as much as one of their forelegs.

A murmur spread through the warehouse—fear, awe, and disbelief wrapped in equal measure.

B123 frowned tightly. After all, those were three of his people.

A234 had an interesting glow in his dark elf eyes.

Leston's mouth was left open in disbelief.

Even Garron, groaning as he pulled himself out of the splinters of the barrel, looked at Oliver with a half-pained grin. “Did... did you really take all three? Shit, kid. What are you?”

Oliver’s eyes didn’t leave the Centaurs on the ground. His hand trembled slightly from the pain shooting up his elbow.

He didn’t answer.

But somewhere deep inside him, his Nightmare blood stirred... and smiled.

Before he could turn, a loud THUD was heard as a wand crashed right on Oliver’s head and he fell yo the ground, blacking out.

Roderick had appeared behind him, wand in hand, rage visible on his face.