Chapter 153. A Calamity - Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!! - NovelsTime

Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!

Chapter 153. A Calamity

Author: Fallen_Void
updatedAt: 2025-07-14

CHAPTER 153: 153. A CALAMITY

I didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe too loud.

Not out of fear, but because I needed to see. To observe. There was a thin line between action and ignorance—and I was dancing on it with deliberate care.

She wasn’t being hurt. Not physically, at least. That much I was sure of. So I stood still and watched.

Besides, there was a part of me—cold, calculating, borderline mechanical—that doubted the reality of this entire scene.

’These people... this crowd... were they even real?’

Chances were high they weren’t. My instincts were whispering that all of this might be just a very elaborate illusion. A hologram setup. The kind meant to play with the mind more than the body.

And Heinau? He was the only one really acting. The rest of the crowd was... set dressing. Props in human skin. They didn’t flinch. They didn’t murmur or shuffle. Just the occasional half-hearted cheer like someone hit a sound button on loop.

’So what the hell is this bastard trying to accomplish here?’

That was the question.

He wasn’t torturing her. Not directly.

No, he was showing her something. Letting her watch.

Her husband. Kane. Still chained to that wooden board. Still bleeding, still screaming, still... alive.

And that crowd?

It was an audience.

A theater of the damned.

The entire scene reeked of psychological warfare. And not the amateur kind. This was clinical. Intentional. Surgical.

’He wants her to break,’ I thought.

Heinau wasn’t after physical destruction. He wanted to ruin her. Strip her of any last remaining sense of self. And having an entire audience witness her shame, her helplessness, her failure—yeah, that hit different.

This wasn’t torture.

This was erasure.

I kept watching even as the bile rose in my throat.

Her back faced me, stiff and unmoving, like stone carved into a woman’s silhouette. Her white hair hung limp down her spine, almost blending with her pallid, lifeless skin.

I couldn’t see her face, but I didn’t need to.

Her aura said everything.

She was already a corpse in every way that mattered. The only thing keeping her upright was muscle memory.

And then—just as my thoughts started to settle—the scene escalated.

The hologram rippled and Kane’s screams returned. No, not just returned—they multiplied. Echoed. Sharper. Rawer. The volume was louder, the visuals more detailed.

They’d started hammering nails into his body.

Not just a few—dozens.

Iron nails, thick and rusted, driven into every inch of flesh. Arms. Legs. Chest. Hands. Even his face.

And each one was slammed in with a maddening slowness. No quick mercy. No rush. Just pain. Methodical, precise agony.

His shrill, soul-wrenching shrieks flooded the room like waves crashing into my skull.

Blood sprayed like ribbons from an artist’s brush.

I stared at the hologram while feeling nothing. I was already numb to torture and pain back while I was on Earth.

And as his tortured howls tapered into silence, his body went limp—crimson-soaked and nailed down like some grotesque artwork.

He was dead.

There was no fanfare. No declaration.

Just silence.

The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl. That feels intentional.

No one moved. Not Heinau. Not the crowd. Not the woman.

Then—

The scene replayed.

Again.

And again.

Each loop was the same at first. Until it wasn’t.

They started laughing.

Mocking Kane. Mocking her. Mocking Amelia.

Voices rose—grotesque, distorted, like broken radios with personalities. One by one, the crowd’s deranged giggles filled the void, poisoning the air.

Her husband’s torture became a comedy show.

And she?

She kept watching.

Never moving. Never breaking.

Or maybe she already had. Maybe what I was seeing was the aftermath. The shattered mind forced to endure infinity on repeat.

And the more I stared at her...

The more wrong I felt.

A cold sweat formed on the back of my neck. My gut twisted with something far worse than fear—instinct. A primal, irrational terror.

Not at what I was seeing...

But at her.

There was something off about her stillness. The way she absorbed everything. The way she didn’t flinch when her husband was defiled before her eyes.

I felt something ancient and cruel in that silence. Like I was staring at something that should not be.

My fingers twitched, itching toward my weapon on reflex.

I didn’t like this.

Not one bit.

I’d faced monsters—real monsters—Rank ★★★★ and beyond. The Skyshadow Basilisk and the Elder Crocdaemon.

And now?

Now I was Rank ★★★★ myself.

I knew what true threats felt like. The weight they carried. The instinctual response they triggered in my bones.

And she—that woman—

She felt like something I shouldn’t be standing near.

’She’s at least Rank ★★★★★★...’

That was the only explanation.

My heart pounded as I stood frozen, caught in a moment I shouldn’t have been allowed to witness.

’Art... where the hell are you?!’

I clenched my fists, every muscle in my body screaming to retreat.

’How long does it take to gather everyone?!’

But no response came.

Only the repeated torture.

Only the laughter.

And the ever-growing feeling that something in this room was about to wake up.

And wake up it did.

It was slow. Subtle. Almost unnoticeable—at first.

The figure of the woman—Liana Everhart—began to shimmer. A strange glow crawled over her skin, soft and silvery-blue, like moonlight being fed through a prism. Then it thickened, hardened—no longer light, but energy. A bubble. A sphere.

A pulse followed.

Then another.

My eyes narrowed. Every instinct in me screamed that something had just crossed the threshold. Something ancient. Something wrong.

And then, just like I had feared—everyone disappeared.

Poof. Gone. Vanished in thin air like dust swept off a table.

The crowd? Gone.

The holograms? Dissipated.

Even Heinau—the supposed king, the arrogant bastard flaunting torment like theater—evaporated like he’d never existed in the first place.

I stood there, alone, mouth slightly ajar.

’So they were all fake...’ I thought. ’Illusions. Projections. Bait.’

Now only one thing remained.

Her.

Liana Everhart. Floating—no, suspended—within the center of the silver-blue sphere that pulsed like a living heart.

The air understood.

And it was terrified.

Every molecule of oxygen felt heavier. Tighter. The silence was so thick it pressed against my ears like a vacuum, the whispers dancing between the space of thoughts and instincts.

Something old is waking up, I realized.

And it wasn’t happy.

’Okay... think. If she’s so powerful, why was she tortured? That doesn’t make sense. Unless—unless it’s some kind of gimmick.’

My stomach sank as the thought hit me. No.

’Don’t tell me she awakens through pain? That her power unlocks only when she’s shattered mentally? That’s such a messed-up trigger—’

I cut off the train of thought myself.

Because right on cue—as if the universe wanted to prove me right—the glow intensified. The sphere, once five meters wide, expanded.

Ten meters.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

My breath hitched.

The silver-blue cocoon pulsed outward again. And then... shifted.

It morphed.

The walls of the sphere cracked like breaking glass, fractal lines etching themselves across the surface before shattering with a soundless burst of pressure. The fragments didn’t fall—they dissolved, transforming midair, reforming—

—into limbs.

Claws. Wings. A serpentine tail that coiled and uncoiled like the flexing of a divine spine.

And in the middle of it all—a body. Four legs, long neck, and pristine scales gleaming like snow-kissed sapphire.

A dragon.

A real, full-blooded, fire-breathing, myth-shattering dragon.

Twenty meters tall, and yet even that felt small for what I knew dragons were supposed to be. The one’s description I had read while playing the game.

But this?

This one was real.

Its hide was bone-white, almost glowing, but shot through with streaks of luminous blue. Its scales weren’t matte or dull—they shimmered with an unnatural shine, like gemstones polished by time itself.

Its wings flared, partially open, casting jagged shadows across the ground that made even the cavern tremble.

But its eyes—

Those damned eyes.

Cerulean. Piercing. And filled with unfiltered rage.

Not just anger.

This was grief, chiseled into wrath.

Hatred wrapped in sorrow. Mourning made into madness.

The system interface blinked open in front of me, almost hesitantly. As if it, too, feared what it was about to show.

« The White Dragon of Grief »

Type: Dragon

Rank: ★★★★★★★★ (Weakened)

Description: An ancient dragon long forgotten by the march of time. Once beloved by humans, it was the only known dragon to willingly co-exist with them—kind, gentle, affectionate.

This deviation led to its exile. Banished by its kin, it defied extinction by bonding with a human, birthing a diluted legacy that spread through the generations.

What remains is a husk of its original power—but still incomprehensibly dangerous.

Status: Mentally Unstable

Alignment: Neutral (Currently Aggressive)

Drops:

Drop of Ichor (★★★★★★★★)

Core (★★★★★★★★)

Dragon hide, scales, fangs, nails, flesh, organ

« Close »

My jaw clicked shut. My heart didn’t.

’A Rank ★★★★★★★★ monster...’

That wasn’t just strong.

That was absurd.

Even weakened, this thing could wipe out small nations on a bad day.

Hell, the only people I could maybe imagine standing a chance were the Rulers of each continent. Or...

Lucian Lancaster.

Cassius’s father.

The man who lived in the upper layers of power, untouched and almost mythic himself.

And here I was... standing alone... watching this thing breathe.

My fingers twitched again.

My skin tingled like fireflies dancing over my nerves. My scalp felt like it was being electrocuted. Sweat pooled at my back, cold and slick like a warning.

Every part of my body screamed one word:

Run.

But I didn’t.

Because the dragon... hadn’t moved.

Not yet.

Its wings were still half-folded. Its claws dug lightly into the earth. It wasn’t hunting, not yet.

But it was watching.

And I knew—one wrong move, one single twitch too aggressive, and it would all be over.

I swallowed.

Loud. Dry.

’Art... where the hell are you?!’

My hands clenched.

And the dragon blinked.

Once.

Slow.

Like it had noticed me.

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