NOVEL NEXT Chapter 421: Golden son
"Gone. He is just gone. What the hell? How is this possible? How can that psycho freak just up and disappear like that without even telling us?" A man in a mage robe jumped up and down in anger.
"Magicaa. Calm down." Another person responded. This person had his face covered with a golden mask. Power radiated from him, power that shouldn't belong to anyone on earth just yet.
"How is he able to do that? I too have a freaking blessing, and how come I do not have powers like that? This is so fucking unfair!" Magicaa continued stomping his feet and pacing back and forth.
"Magicaa. Calm down." The man in the golden mask again reminded him patiently.
However, Magicaa only snorted at his words. "Don't tell me to calm down. Am I not calm enough for you? Maybe you should try getting killed and tortured countless times! Maybe you should try getting your soul run through a fucking shredder! Maybe you should try dealing with that bastard Blood God! Why don't you then come and ask me to calm down?"
The man with the golden mask did not respond to his taunt. However, the dozen men standing around him instantly acted, their auras flaring up. "How dare you talk to the lord in this way?" Magicaa couldn't help but shiver at this sight. He knew he had spoken too much. A searing pain exploded in the center of his being.
The dozen auras surged like drawn blades, not in the least bothered by this. But the man in the golden mask lifted two fingers, and immediately, everyone stopped. "Enough," he said, voice mild, power absolute.
"Magicaa is still recovering. His mind is currently not stable. His soul is riddled with cracks. The soul healing potion that we have is not enough to heal him completely. Even a small trigger is enough to break him."
The man in the golden mask spoke with the same patience as before. The dozen warriors who had flared their auras immediately stepped back, though their eyes still burned with contempt toward Magicaa.
Magicaa himself clutched at his chest, gasping, his face pale as ash. The phantom ache of their unleashed killing intent still lingered, scraping against his wounded soul like barbed wire. His rage collapsed into a shiver, his defiance into desperate muttering.
"It's not fair… it's not fucking fair… why him? Why that bastard? Why is he always coming out on top of everything?"
The man with the golden mask no longer responded to him. He signaled one of the men standing behind him, and the underling immediately walked forward to accompany Magicaa to a luxurious room, one of the many rooms in the mansion they were staying in.
The other players occupied the other rooms in the wing, all of them recently rescued from the abyssal zone in Lotera. Everyone had logged out of the game and was currently resting in the real world.
Naturally, their recovery would be a lot better inside the game, but their souls were damaged beyond the point where they could casually log in. They simply had no other choice. For another month or two, they had to remain in the real world.
This was undoubtedly a huge loss to the super ten guilds, but the man with the golden mask still remained unbothered. After Magicaa left the hall, he slowly stood up and walked out. "My lord…" Another underling walked over to him, waiting for his orders.
"Get the next string of players to log in and assist them. In two weeks, they should be among the top players in the game. Use whatever resources you need. The northern frontier cannot lag behind others."
The man with the golden mask then got into a car that was waiting for him outside the palatial mansion. He sat down, his manners and movements elegant and aristocratic. His hand reached up, and the golden mask came free with a faint click.
The man set it carefully on the seat beside him. For the first time, his face was revealed, a sharp, aristocratic visage unmarred by age, his features too perfect, too symmetrical to be entirely human.
His eyes, however, betrayed the truth: molten gold irises swirling like a living sun, oppressive in their depth. He leaned back into the leather seat, exhaling softly. "Blood God…" His golden eyes flashed in anger as he slowly muttered to himself. "Blood God, you will soon be dealt with."
The car pulled away from the mansion gates, heading to another bigger palatial mansion. This mansion occupied the entirety of the island they were currently in, one of the many islands in the string of landmasses outside Quebec.
"Greetings, my lord."
"Greetings, chosen one."
"Greetings, young master."
One by one, all the men in the building respectfully bowed their heads as the man walked in. He no longer bothered to wear his mask. Not that it mattered. Not a single person dared to look him in the eyes.
The man walked directly over to the big hall of the mansion and then spoke. "Is father there?"
Immediately, someone rushed over and accompanied him to the mansion gardens, where an old man was seated in a meditative pose, surrounded by silence deeper than any storm.
Not a single bird dared to sing. The air itself bent around him, trembling faintly with the pressure of his aura. His body looked frail, skin wrinkled and pale, but the moment one's gaze lingered, it was impossible not to sense the vast ocean of power coiled beneath the shell of mortality.
The man with golden eyes stepped forward and bowed slightly, though his arrogance was not hidden. "Father."
The old man's closed eyes opened just a fraction. Two pinpricks of blinding golden light gazed back, piercing straight through his son's flesh, bone, and soul. "You removed your mask," he said softly, voice calm but filled with a weight that could crush mountains.
"I have no need of it here," the son replied, straightening. "Everyone on this island belongs to us. No one dares to breathe without your leave, Father."
***
Mass release sponsored by Syphatrol