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

"It's been so long, yet we still haven't gotten any information from the other party… Are we sure they'll even come?"

The words left the lips of a skinny slum dweller, his voice carrying the weight of worry, his shoulders hunched.

In front of him stood the burly man from before. His arms were folded across his chest, his forehead creased with a heavy frown. His silence lasted long enough for the air to grow stale, before he finally exhaled, his tone low and grim.

"I do think so too… but with how she's changed these past few days, just releasing her might cost us our lives. Especially since—" he gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching, "—she hasn't eaten a single grain of food. Her family would butcher us without hesitation, without a single thought spared."

The man's voice grew darker, quieter. His hand rose, fingers digging into his own scalp as he clasped his head.

His mind unwillingly replayed the memory of that first fateful meeting, the day when he had crossed paths with the mysterious individual who proposed the deal.

At the time, he had thought himself blessed, handed a way out of poverty, a chance at fortune. He had laughed, even celebrated in private.

But now…

Now, it felt as if the grim reaper's cold, rusted scythe was forever poised at the back of his neck, the blade grazing his skin, waiting to cleave at the slightest misstep.

Words couldn't describe the sheer depth of regret curdling in his stomach. He resented, with every fiber of his being, ever agreeing to this cursed arrangement.

But resentment changed nothing.

Regret couldn't turn back time. He was bound, shackled by his choice. Now, all that was left for him was hope, fragile, foolish hope that the other party would keep their word and come.

Because otherwise…

Otherwise, his life had already ended.

"Haaaah…" His sigh dragged out, hollow and heavy, a sound that carried despair.

Thud—!

The sudden sound of something falling shattered the silence, sharp and unexpected. The duo flinched. Their eyes snapped toward the source, nerves strung taut like bowstrings.

"What was that?" The skinny man asked, his voice cracking slightly, surprise and fear intermingled in his tone. His gaze was wide, his breathing uneven.

The burly man's frown deepened. His massive head shook once, slowly. "How would I know? Let's find the source of the noise."

The two trudged forward, each step echoing faintly on the creaking wooden floorboards of the warehouse. They reached the entrance and saw the scene before them.

There, at the threshold, a short slum dweller stood frozen, trembling like a cornered rat. His hands had gone limp, and the plate he was carrying had slipped from his grasp.

Its contents, precious food, lay ruined, scattered on the filthy ground, soaking into the algae-coated rot that served as the ground. The smell of wasted broth mixed with the sour stink of mold and decay.

For a moment, silence reigned.

The skinny man's eyes trembled violently, his pupils shrinking as fury welled up inside him. The burly man's fingers curled into tight fists, the veins on his arms bulging. The two stormed forward.

"Why did you do that!!" The skinny man's voice cracked with raw anger, shrill and venomous. "Do you know how hard it is to find food?! Are you a moron, you useless bastard?!"

"Ahkkk!" A pitiful, startled sound broke from the short man as he was suddenly grabbed. The burly man's massive hand wrapped around his collar, hurling him backward like he weighed nothing. His body slammed against the ground, the impact rattling his teeth.

The burly man's eyes blazed with seething hatred, his nostrils flaring. "Where is your damn mind?! It's a simple task! Just a simple task!! Why can't you complete it without messing up every single time?!"

Bam—! Bam—!

His fist hammered down on the man's face, the dull, meaty thuds echoing in the warehouse. The short man's head jerked violently with each blow, blood beginning to smear his lips.

His expression twisted with terror and pain, but the burly man ignored it completely, blind to anything but his wrath.

Bam—!

"Pathetic excuse for labor! Just looking at you makes me want to puke!!"

Bam—!

"This isn't the first time, is it?! This isn't the first time you've done this, you miserable wretch!"

Bam—!

The short man whimpered, his arms weakly rising in futile defense. But the burly man's voice roared louder, drowning out everything else.

"How many times… How many times do we need to teach you worthless trash to follow orders!!"

Bam—!

Another strike fell, merciless, unrelenting.

"Wait!"

The skinny dude's voice cracked through the rhythm of fists pounding flesh.

The burly man froze mid-swing, his broad shoulders heaving, chest coated with sweat. He turned his head with a violent snap, brows knotted, teeth clenched tight enough to grind enamel to dust. Blood dripped from his knuckles, trailing down his forearms, but he didn't care. His eyes were daggers.

"What is it?" he spat, his tone jagged and cold, void of any warmth.

The skinny man flinched. His Adam's apple bobbed once, twice. A bead of sweat trailed down his jaw. His arm rose as though weighed down by chains, finger trembling, pointing toward the yawning black maw of the warehouse.

"Huh?" The burly man blinked, irritation leaking through the cracks of his rage. Doubt flickered inside his gaze.

Slowly, he pushed himself off the half-unconscious body at his feet and followed the skinny man's shaking finger.

At first glance, he saw nothing out of the ordinary—just the same decrepit shadows, rotting beams, and piles of junk. His jaw clenched. Anger surged, hotter, uglier.

And then—

"Mmmmmmphhhhkkk—!"

The muffled cry snapped his attention like a whip. His head jerked back toward the warehouse, blood rushing in his ears.

That sound.

It was faint but raw, desperate.

His throat bobbed. "The hell…"

Step by step, cautious now, he crept toward the dark entrance. The air grew colder inside, thicker, clinging to his lungs. His boots crunched against scattered debris, each noise echoing like a gunshot in the silence.

In the far corner, past the skeletal outlines of broken crates, something moved.

"Mmmmmmmpppphhhkkkkkkk—!"

The muffled scream sharpened, slicing through the dark, making his heart hammer violently against his ribs.

His lips parted. He bit down on them to stop the trembling. His hand, thick as a slab of meat, rose and waved uncertainly toward the writhing silhouette.

"Hello…? Princess…?" His voice was more plea than call.

The response was immediate.

"MMMMMMMMMPPHHHHHHHKK—!"

The pitch rose in panic. A sharp dread stabbed into his chest. His pulse quickened, mind swimming in black doubts.

No… no, no, no.

Though a part of him clung to denial, clung to the belief that no slum dweller would dare touch a little girl, especially her but that belief cracked.

The figure's twisted movements suggested otherwise. Like someone forcing themselves against something… or holding something down.

His stomach churned.

He moved a little closer.

Then…

His eyes witnessed something profane. Through the mawing darkness he saw the figure of Celeste.

Pinned down by a slum dweller… his hand covering her face as he hammered his lower body in her.

"Nooooo…" His voice came out strangled, meek. His body lost its strength as if someone had drained his veins of blood. His fists, once eager to strike, hung limp at his sides.

His worst fear had taken form.

And his first thought wasn't rage. It wasn't to save her.

It was to run.

To tear himself away from the scene, bury it, pretend it didn't exist. He didn't want the weight of it. Didn't want to see her face—broken, stained, ruined.

He had already helped kidnap her. Already left her starving for days. That alone made him a monster. But this? This was another level, something even his twisted conscience couldn't face.

His legs moved before his mind could resist. He turned, bolting out of the warehouse, boots thundering against the dirt. Faster, faster—anything to outrun the image clawing at the back of his skull.

The slums blurred past him in a smear of shadow and smoke. Familiar faces turned as he ran, someone lifted a hand in greeting, another nodded with wary respect. None of it registered.

All he could see was that corner. That figure. That scream.

Why… why… WHY…

No answer came.

"It's not my fault," he muttered between ragged breaths, voice cracking. "It's theirs. They… they did it. I only kidnapped her. I didn't… I'm innocent. I'm innocent!"

The words rang hollow. Empty syllables meant to soothe a conscience already too stained. Even his lies couldn't protect him anymore.

Because he remembered. It was him who met the mysterious dealer. Him who agreed. Him who laid the trap, bound the ropes, dragged her into the filth.

All roads led back to him.

And yet, when it mattered, when she needed someone to stand between her and the abyss, he ran.

Because that was who he was.

Just a coward. A pathetic wretch who couldn't bear to see the little princess's face shattered, her eyes emptied of light.

So he left her there. Left her to be broken further.

"I'm sorry… I really am… sorry—"

Crash—!

The world jolted. His body collided with something solid, someone solid. He staggered back, gasping, mind snapping out of its spiraling haze.

"I—sorry, I wasn't—" he started to stammer.

Then froze.

In front of him stood a boy. No older than fourteen, fifteen at most. Yet his presence was a blade pressing against the man's throat.

Hair the color of deep amethyst caught the faint light, and his similar sharp eyes, locked onto him. His white royal shirt was pristine, unmarred by filth. But what seized the man's throat in invisible hands wasn't the boy's gaze.

It was the crest stitched proudly over his chest.

A falcon.

The crest of the Lancasters.

The Grand Dukes of Alaris.