3.The Paradise of the Beast

The dungeon was filled with instruments designed for one purpose: to break a person until they revealed the truth. Though Vivian had mentally prepared himself, the sight of the torture chamber made his spirit waver. Somewhere deep within his soul, a voice screamed a single word: RUN!

The Beast grabbed Vivian's shackles and hoisted him into the air, hanging him by his chains.

As he prepared for the onslaught, the Beast roared—but his tone was unexpected.

"Oye, kido! I beg you, please don't make me do this. I don't want to torture you or anyone!"

Vivian blinked, stunned. The Beast was weeping. But as Vivian looked closer, a chill ran down his spine. While the Beast's eyes were filled with tears, his face was twisted into a predatory snarl, as if he wanted to tear Vivian apart and devour him. Vivian gathered his dwindling courage.

"Even if you kill me, I won't say a word," Vivian spat. "And besides, I don't even know what they're looking for. Even if I did, I would never give it to them."

The Beast laughed—a grating, hideous sound.

"Ohahaha! Kid, you're the first one to speak with such courage after seeing this place."

For a reason he couldn't explain, Vivian felt a strange sense of relief, though the Beast's face felt hauntingly familiar, even though they had never met.

Meanwhile, at the royal palace, the conspirators gathered. Except for the King, everyone was on edge, failing to locate the "two things" the King demanded. The King sat on his throne, radiating fury.

"I am beginning to think you lot are blind," the King growled. "You cannot find them after all this time?"

Before the Duke or the Counts could stutter an excuse, the Crown Prince, Uriah S. Tyrannos, entered the hall.

"Father, I care nothing for what you want from the Dragonior family, but I want this."

He held up a blade. The room went dead silent. It was the sword of the Dragonior family—the symbol of their lineage. The King's rage vanished, replaced instantly by visceral, trembling fear.

"You bastard!" the King gasped, his voice cracking. "Why do you have that? Put it away from me!"

"Father, why are you scared?" the Prince asked, bewildered. "It is just an ordinary sword."

The King stood, his hands shaking.

"You fool! Do you think I would pass up a treasure like this? This is a cursed blade. Anyone who touches it without the Dragonior bloodline loses their life in a single day."

Judas, who had been eyeing the sword for himself, immediately stepped back.

"There is nothing more important than one's own life. I advise the Crown Prince to discard it."

Uriah's face flushed with anger.

"Fairy tales! Why should I believe this?"

Then, an evil, calculating smile spread across his face.

"Father, I have an idea. Why don't we give this sword to the Fourth Prince, Avon? I think he would love it, wouldn't he?"

The King's expression darkened. The Fourth Prince was the son he had with Queen Elliana Leon, the woman he loved above all others. The King slammed his hand on the armrest, his aura cracking the floor.

"How dare you suggest that for your own brother! If not for your mother's promise, your head would be rolling on this floor."

Uriah didn't back down.

"Father, I am doing this for his own good. We all know he has a damaged heart and only months to live. Why not test if the curse is real?"

The King's anger abruptly shifted into a cold, terrifying laugh. The aura of an Archmage flooded the room, making everyone tremble. After a long moment, the King leveled his gaze at Uriah.

"Your logic is sound, Uriah. Let us give the sword to the Fourth Prince."

The room gasped. Avon was summoned. When the boy entered, the King looked at him with an uncharacteristic, heavy guilt.

"My son, Avon," the King said, his voice unusually soft. "How is your health?"

Avon was shocked by the rare sympathy.

"Father, by your grace, I am recovering well. Thank you for asking."

"Avon," the Crown Prince stepped forward, feigning kindness. "Brother Uriah and I have a gift for you."

"I shall accept anything from Father and Brother with all my heart," Avon replied.

Uriah handed him the sword.

 "This is one of the best blades on the continent. Father and I want you to have it."

Avon, despite his illness, was no fool.

"Brother, I am a second-circle mage. This sword suits you, a fourth-grade aura user, far better than me."

"Are you ignoring Father's gift?" Uriah snapped.

Avon had no choice. He took the hilt. As he touched the cold metal, he felt a sudden, violent illusion—his soul seemed to be ripped from his body. His heart pounded like a war drum until the sword clattered to the floor.

He looked at the blade, and it felt as if the sword itself were staring back.

"So, this is the legendary sword of the Dragonior family," Avon whispered. "The SCALESLICER."

Avon knew that drawing this blade would likely be his death sentence. But as a scholar and a mage, his hunger for knowledge outweighed his fear of death. He was excited.

"I will be the one," he murmured to himself, "who solves the mystery of the Dragonior family—and the secret of the Scaleslicer."

TO BE CONTINUED

Upcoming:

[ The Cursed sword SCALESLICER ]

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