Chapter 452: Tormentor

The room had become a chamber of horrors. The once ordinary apartment—cheap wallpaper, crooked lamps, a sagging couch in the corner—was now drenched in crimson. Blood painted the floorboards, splattered the walls in long arcs, and pooled beneath the chairs where Slimy and Macho sat tied back-to-back. Their breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps, their bodies convulsing against restraints that had already cut into their wrists and ankles from their struggles.

Marcus stood before them, humming softly as if he were a painter evaluating his work. His sleeves were rolled up, his hands dripping with gore, his grin somehow wider than when he had started. He flexed his blood-slicked fingers, admiring the way the red clung to his skin, then casually rubbed them on the wall like an artist cleaning brushes.

“Do you hear that?” Marcus tilted his head, as though expecting them to answer. “Exactly. Nothing. Not a single soul outside can hear your sweet little symphony of screams. My little Silent Spell works wonders, doesn’t it?”

Macho’s teeth were gritted so hard blood seeped from his gums. Slimy, meanwhile, was already a wreck. Both arms had been twisted until the bones cracked with sharp, sickening snaps. Jagged white shards pierced through skin and muscle, jutting out like grotesque spikes. Blood trickled down his sides, soaking his tunic until it clung to him like a second skin.

Marcus had taken his time. He started small—fingers first. One by one, each digit bent backward with deliberate slowness until tendons snapped and bones popped, the sound echoing inside the magically muffled room. He didn’t rush; he drew it out, savoring each twitch, each cry that was swallowed into silence. Then he moved to their arms, pressing down with the heel of his palm until bones gave way. When Macho tried to bite back his agony, Marcus only laughed and pushed harder, twisting until the bone burst through his forearm like splintered wood tearing through cloth.

“Oh, that one was loud,” Marcus had remarked cheerfully, tilting his head to study the mess. “Shame no one but us can hear it.”

Now, standing over them, Marcus smeared a streak of blood across his cheek like war paint and grinned. He stepped back, hands on his hips, admiring them both as though they were sculptures half-finished.

“Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. The way bone pierces through skin—it’s almost artistic. You two should feel honored to be part of my… gallery.”

Slimy whimpered, his whole body shuddering with each breath. The tears he’d fought to hold back finally spilled, streaking down his bloodied face. His voice cracked when he spoke, desperation strangling every word.

“P-please… please no more. I’ll—I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything you want. Just… just stop…”

Macho whipped his head toward him, his own face twisted in fury despite the pain. “Don’t you dare, Brat! Don’t you dare! Better to die than to sell him anything! Don’t give this bastard the satisfaction!”

Marcus chuckled, strolling casually toward the couch as if he were bored of standing. He plopped down, leaning back into the cushions, smearing blood across the fabric without a care. With a flourish, he grabbed a pillow and began wiping his face clean, leaving crimson streaks against the pale cloth. His movements were casual, even lazy, but his eyes glowed with sharp amusement.

“Finally,” he said, tossing the pillow aside after using it like a rag. “Took long enough for one of you to crack. I was starting to think I’d have to paint this whole apartment red before either of you got chatty.”

Slimy sobbed, shaking his head at Macho’s protests. “I can’t take it anymore, man! I—I can’t! He’s… he’s a monster!”

Macho snarled through his own tears, voice hoarse from screaming. “You coward! He’ll kill us anyway!”

Marcus wagged a finger at Macho, his grin playful but edged with menace. “Now, now. Don’t spoil the fun. When I make a promise, I always keep it. I said the first to talk lives, didn’t I? That’s the game. And I’m a man of my word.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, charisma oozing through the blood and brutality as if nothing about this scenario was strange to him. His smile never faltered. “Alright, Slimy. The floor’s yours. Sing me a pretty song, and maybe I’ll let you keep a few bones intact for the rest of your life.”

Slimy, trembling so hard the chair beneath him creaked, nodded frantically. Tears mixed with the blood streaking his face, his lips trembling as he prepared to speak.

Marcus leaned back comfortably into the blood-stained couch, his eyes glittering like a cat toying with its prey. He clasped his hands together, dripping fingers leaving wet marks on the fabric, and waited patiently, his voice soft but sharp enough to slice through the air.

“Go on, Slimy. I’m all ears.”

Slimy’s lips trembled as blood bubbled between his teeth. He tried to steady his breathing, but each word came out shaky, laced with both pain and terror.

“We… we were hired,” he stammered, voice breaking. “By a noble… a middle-class nobleman. He—he owns a grand bar… in Gnas, Zone 17. Said he needed—”

Marcus’s head tilted sharply, the grin never leaving his face. He raised a single bloodstained finger, silencing Slimy before he could finish. His voice was calm, yet razor-edged with mockery.

“Gnas? Zone 17?” Marcus leaned forward in the chair, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Now, do I look like a fool to you? Hm? Because if I do, you’d better fix your eyes. I know your employer isn’t sipping wine in Gnas. If there was any chance he wasn’t here in Ilis, it would be Ilios, not some rat hole in Zone 17. Don’t insult me with lies when you’re already bleeding out in my living room.”

The weight of Marcus’s words crashed into Slimy. His whole body shuddered as he realized he had been caught. He lowered his head, too terrified to meet Marcus’s gaze, and spoke quickly, desperately.

“Y-you’re right! You’re right! Forgive me, I was lying! The grand bar—it’s here, in Ilis! Southern district!” Slimy coughed, spewing blood onto his lap. “We were hired to… to kidnap a woman. She runs a warehouse not far from here. We were to grab her tonight… deliver her… and then we’d get the rest of our pay.”

The moment the word “pay” slipped from Slimy’s mouth, Marcus’s expression shifted. His grin froze, and his brow twitched. He leaned forward, tone suddenly sharper.

“Payment?”

Slimy nodded frantically, sweat mixing with blood on his face. “Five… five hundred gold coins. In total.”

Marcus’s eyes widened for a beat. Then his smile faltered into a grimace, and under his breath came a hissed string of curses. “Five hundred? Five hundred coins…? My money. Damn it all…”

He leaned back heavily into the couch, tossing his head against the blood-stained cushion, closing his eyes as if to let the rage roll off him. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, and for a moment, he almost looked like he had drifted into a nap.

Then, without opening his eyes, his voice came soft, casual. “I suppose I should be grateful for your… cooperation.”

Marcus rose slowly from the couch, stretching as if he’d just woken from a comfortable sleep. He sauntered over to Slimy, crouched, and with a careless flick of his wrist, loosened the knots binding him.

The ropes fell away, and Slimy collapsed like a sack of broken bones onto the blood-slick floor, his shattered limbs useless beneath him. He groaned, squirming in a pool of his own blood, trying and failing to push himself upright.

As for Macho, Marcus turned his head, locking eyes with him. That grin returned, mischievous and cold all at once. He stepped close, placed one hand gently beneath Macho’s chin as though he were a lover, and whispered:

“You should’ve told me a prettier lie.”

Then, with a sharp twist, Marcus snapped his neck. The sound was clean, final. A grotesque pop followed as a bone tore through his throat. Macho’s body slumped forward, lifeless, blood dripping onto the floorboards.

Marcus exhaled with satisfaction, then turned his back on the corpse without another glance. He strolled to the table, where the plate of cookies waited patiently for him. He grabbed one, bit into it, and chewed thoughtfully.

Turning his gaze back to Slimy, Marcus smirked, his voice dripping with mockery. “Tell me something, Slimy. You call yourself a professional mercenary, don’t you? Then surely you should know better. Because a real professional would’ve realized you’re already a dead man. Broken bones, open wounds, blood loss—you’ll be gone in an hour, maybe less. Pain and shock will finish what I started.”

Slimy whimpered, clutching his mangled arms, his body trembling as though he might collapse further into himself.

“Not that it matters to me,” Marcus continued, licking crumbs from his fingers. “Whether you bleed out now or later, your fate’s the same. I’d have killed you regardless. But hey—at least this way, you get to die trying.”

He wiped his hands lazily on his shirt, grabbed another cookie, and made his way to the door. At the threshold, he paused. Turning back, his grin spread into a wolfish smile, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

He lifted two fingers in a mocking salute. “Pleasure doing business, Slimy. Don’t die too fast—I worked hard on you.”

With that, Marcus stepped out, leaving Slimy to his futile struggle in a room reeking of blood, broken bodies, and the faint sweetness of half-eaten cookies.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep