Chapter 466: Performance

The barrier enveloping the old house was torn apart with ease. The blond man stepped inside, bright motes of light swirling around him—bringing illumination that scattered the darkness, and at the same time casting a solemn halo across his cold, handsome profile.

Like a divine messenger tearing open a filthy cage.

Everything inside the house soon fell into the reflection of those eyes burning with raging black fire. Muen looked around once, and when his gaze settled on the woman not far away, his breath suddenly quickened.

That frail, pale-faced woman was being controlled by a hideous, disgusting worm clinging to her head, forcing her into stiff, grotesque movements. The tear stains at the corners of her eyes had yet to dry, but her expression was twisted with rage.

Yet what made Muen’s heart tremble wasn’t the woman or the worm—nor even the wandering poet whose true face he was finally seeing—but the few ordinary crossbow bolts embedded in the woman’s body.

The bolts were scattered and crookedly lodged into various parts of her frame, evidence of an inexperienced shooter—and proof that the woman had not made the slightest attempt to dodge.

Taking in the surroundings and the current scene, Muen’s thoughts turned rapidly. He soon understood who the woman was, and why all of this had happened.

This might be... one of the most cruel sights in the world.

In the corner of his vision, the small mechanism crossbow lying on the ground made his eyes ache. He could hardly imagine how much courage it had taken for a little girl to lift that weapon and aim it at the person she loved most.

“Sorry, Emily.”

Muen lowered his gaze and drew the poor little girl into his arms, feeling the trembling and fear passing through her tiny body. He spoke softly:

“I came too late.”

“...B-big... brother?”

Emily raised her head blankly. Her vacant eyes looked at Muen, and on her pale little face remained a trace of resolve far too mature for her age—making her all the more pitiful.

Muen stroked her head and gently pulled her behind him.

“Don’t worry. From here on, leave everything to your big brother. Close your eyes and stay here quietly, alright?”

Perhaps it was the gentle smile on Muen’s face that soothed her, or perhaps, in her despair, she was merely clutching instinctively at the last straw. Emily nodded obediently and hid behind him, eyes shut tight.

She was always this well-behaved. ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) Always this sensible.

Muen closed his own eyes as well, taking a deep breath.

Then, when he opened them again, the fury he had suppressed for so long flared once more—cold enough to tear everything apart.

“The wandering poet, was it?”

Muen looked calmly toward the shabby-looking man not far away. At this point, he didn’t seem filled with rage or malice. His tone was as peaceful as though greeting an old friend.

“What happened during the festival—was that your doing?”

“Ah, greetings. I am Marvin Strelimor. As you say, a poet who wanders from place to place, collecting inspiration and performing for different audiences.”

Facing this uninvited guest, Marvin showed little panic. He seemed like a true performer, expressing genuine welcome to every spectator.

“As for that festival... heh. That was quite the performance, wasn’t it?”

“...Yes.”

Muen fell silent for a moment before replying casually, “It truly was an excellent performance. Both the participants and the audience were completely swept up in it.”

“Truly... unforgettable.”

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

As he spoke, Muen lightly tapped his blade with a fingertip.

The blood and screams from before, the pain and wailing before his eyes—all of it interlaced within his mind. Yet his hand remained steady, his fingers striking the rhythm with perfect regularity.

The crisp sound overlapped with the ticking of the old clock on the wall, counting the passing seconds one by one.

Suddenly, the sound went irregular.

It was as if the diligent clock hand, steadily moving forward tick by tick, suddenly lost sync with the rhythm of his fingers.

Or rather, that once-steady rhythm suddenly accelerated dozens of times over.

Muen’s figure vanished—then appeared again.

That flicker of movement was like a frame skipping in a film reel.

Then came the sound of flesh being torn apart.

Or perhaps that sound had already begun before the final tap—only the echo lagged behind his motion.

Marvin the wandering poet still had a faint smile on his lips, but within his vision, the entire world began to spin upside down.

Muen lowered his eyes coldly, looking at the poet whose head had been sliced clean off, and asked with calm seriousness:

“So—you’re ready to give an even more soul-stirring performance, aren’t you?”

“Guh... g-ghh...”

A hoarse laugh rasped from the severed throat. The fallen head’s eyes still moved, turning to look at Muen.

“As expected of the famous son of Duke Campbell... terrifying, truly terrifying. There were rumors you’d slain many heretics; I thought it was just gold paint your father brushed onto your name. But seeing this decisiveness and familiarity now—those rumors actually underestimated you.”

“So you do know me.”

Without surprise, Muen stepped on the head.

“Then there’s no need to ask any more questions.”

He pressed down. The skull beneath his boot burst like a watermelon.

Red and white filth splattered everywhere, the stench thick and nauseating. Muen summoned a thin layer of battle aura to block it, preventing the disgusting mess from touching the little girl behind him.

At the same time, his blade swung again without pause, slashing at Marvin’s body.

He still didn’t know what exactly Marvin was, but from experience, unless the man was minced into pulp, there was no reason to feel safe.

No—being minced was only the first step. As Muen had just said, this performance was meant to touch the soul.

Bang!

But what Muen didn’t expect was that before he could deliver a second strike, the headless body before him suddenly exploded.

Ssssss—

The fine scraping sound made his teeth ache. What burst forth wasn’t chunks of bloody flesh, but countless densely packed, hair-raising worms!

“Ah, what a pity. I’ve always been a lover of peace, you know.”

Marvin’s voice sounded again. Muen turned sharply and saw that it came from the enormous grotesque worm perched atop the woman’s head.

“But since Young Master Campbell has forced me this far, I can only invite you to join me... in this delightful performance.”

The sound of strings echoed—

A harp.

A blurred shadow appeared in Muen’s vision. His mind swayed for an instant, and suddenly he realized he was still standing in front of Emily.

It was as though he had never taken a single step forward. As though he had never swung his blade at all.

And not far from him stood Marvin, completely intact, smiling politely as he bowed.

“Then... please, listen quietly to my enchanting poem.”