Riven held his breath and stepped forward—slow and silent, like a ghost slipping out of hell. Darien lay on his back in a comfortable sprawl, arms resting at his sides, legs wide open, as if danger could never reach him from the shadows.

Riven stood by the edge of the bed, gazing down at the young noble’s face with an expression as cold as carved stone. There was no burst of anger in his eyes, only hatred—frozen, ancient, and deeply embedded, like a monument weathered by time. One thought echoed in his mind:

He must suffer.

A quick death would be a mercy. And mercy was not what Riven had come to give. He wanted Darien to regret every vile thought, every cruel laugh, every slap, every insult he had hurled at Riven and most of all, at Melly.

Riven climbed onto the bed. The wooden frame creaked beneath his frail, determined weight. His eyes fell to the lower half of Darien’s body—the source of all his sick desires, the filth he had dared to direct toward Melly.

He deserved to lose everything.

The whisper of strained wood and the groan of the mattress broke the silence. Darien’s head shifted slightly. A frown tugged at his brow.

But before full awareness returned—

THUD!

Riven’s heel drove straight into Darien’s groin.

It wasn’t just a stomp—it was destruction. Riven twisted his heel, pressing down with all the force he had, crushing through the thin layer of cloth, shattering any hope of protection. He wanted to ruin the flesh, the cartilage, the pride that had once festered in that body.

Darien’s body jolted off the bed like lightning had struck him.

His mouth opened wide, but the scream caught in his throat. His face went pale, then flushed a deep red, and paled again like a man on the brink of death. His eyes rolled, neck straining, fingers clutching the sheets in a panic of unimaginable pain.

Riven didn’t stop. He ground his heel deeper, twisting, like he meant to grind Darien’s very soul out of him.

Crkkh.

Something gave way inside Darien’s body. A tendon, a nerve—something that should never have snapped.

The young noble now trembled violently, like a dog crushed under a wagon’s wheel. His eyes were wide open, lips quivering, chest convulsing in a desperate search for a scream that wouldn’t come.

Riven moved.

As Darien drew a sharp breath to scream, Riven’s dagger flashed through the air—swift and merciless—slicing clean through his tongue before a single sound could escape.

SHNK!

Blood gushed—hot and thick. Darien thrashed on the bed, arms clawing at empty air, the sounds that escaped his mouth no longer human screams but ragged, gurgling gasps—the choking sound of flesh and blood mixing in his throat. Not like a man. Not like an animal.

Like something being destroyed from the inside.

Riven stared at Darien’s face, now twisted in a grotesque expression of horror. He tossed the severed tongue to the floor like trash, then pressed Darien’s head down, keeping him still.

“A voice more fitting for you,” he whispered coldly.

Darien’s trembling hands weakly pushed at Riven’s body, but the strength was gone. His face was slick with blood and tears, his eyes filled with confusion and terror, his whole body shivering like a child trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

But this was no dream.

This was punishment.

And Riven wasn’t finished.

Riven pulled back, his breath shallow. His eyes swept across the room, and there it was.

In the corner, leaning against an old wooden wall, two swords stood on display.

One looked ceremonial: the hilt gilded with gold, the sheath embroidered with the Blackthorn family crest.

But the other, was something else entirely.

It was long, slender, its silvery blade so clean it looked untouched by time or blood. Fine engravings ran along its edges, pulsing faintly with a cool blue glow. The air around it felt colder, and the metal seemed to breathe with a power that defied explanation.

Riftmaker.

His sword.

The weapon that had once been his, stolen from him.

He had glimpsed it earlier when he peeked inside. But now, so close, he could feel its presence calling to him.

Without wasting time, he lunged toward the sword and grabbed Riftmaker with his left hand—the only hand he could still use. Its hilt felt right in his grip, cold yet awakening something inside him.

Behind him, Darien still writhed on the bed, making sounds like a dying beast. His eyes bulged, his jaw bled, and his body shook under the unbearable agony.

Riven turned back.

One step. Then two.

He raised Riftmaker high and with a single, powerful swing—

SLAASH!

The sword slashed straight through Darien’s thigh.

Blood sprayed wildly like a burst pipe. Both of Darien’s legs were severed at the upper thighs, his body lifting slightly from the bed from the force of the strike. The severed limbs fell to the floor with a heavy thud, leaving behind jagged flesh and bone jutting out like uprooted tree roots.

The scream that tore from Darien’s mouth was no longer human. His severed tongue turned his voice into the choked wail of a demon—hoarse, wet, and ear-splitting in the silent night.

But Riven wasn’t done.

His face remained blank, but inside his chest, hatred swirled like a storm.

He knew Darien was a Lawbearer. And though the body seemed on the verge of death now, he knew full well—once his consciousness returned, his supernatural power would awaken. An injury like this might not kill him. And if he were allowed to recover…

Neither of them would ever leave this place alive.

So…

He had to be rendered powerless.

Permanently.

Darien weakly raised one arm, as if to claw, to fight, to curse the heavens for being treated like this.

Riven swung without hesitation.

SLAASH!

Darien’s right arm was severed at the elbow. The dismembered limb flew sideways, hitting the bedpost before rolling onto the floor in a splatter of blood. Darien’s body convulsed violently, his eyes staring blankly, his mouth gaping open but no longer capable of sound. Blood gushed from the stumps of his severed limbs, the bed now transformed into a gruesome altar of torture.

Riven didn’t stop.

SWISH!

The left arm followed, flung away in an even greater spray of blood. Now, Darien’s body was reduced to just a torso—gasping, writhing, unable to do anything but wait for death.

Riven stood over him, one hand gripping Riftmaker, now drenched in blood, his face half-shrouded in shadow and wounds, yet his eyes burned with determination and vengeance.

Darien Blackthorn would never lay a hand on anyone again.

And most importantly…

He would never touch his sister.

Riven raised Riftmaker once more. With a single sharp swing, he slashed across both of Darien’s eyes.

Blood spurted out, accompanied by a distorted scream—hoarse, ragged, barely resembling a human voice. Darien writhed pathetically on the bed, his body soaked in blood, his vision stolen, his form now completely broken.

Riven stood in silence, staring at him.

He let the pain settle. Let Darien feel how fragile, how powerless he had become. No words. No sounds. Only the ragged gasps of a dying man, and the slow drip of blood soaking into the sheets.

At last, Riven lowered Riftmaker. He gently placed the sword on the floor. His hand was trembling—not from exhaustion, but from rage that had yet to burn out. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, trying to convince himself that it was over.

But it wasn’t.

Something inside him… cracked.

Like a demon long sealed away, now awakened and hungry for more.

Without thinking, Riven drew a dagger from his waist—the blade cold, sharp, and familiar in his grip. He leaned down and began to stab Darien’s face.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then dozens.

Each stab released something from within him—hatred, fear, shame—all exploding into raw, formless violence. Darien’s face no longer resembled anything human. Torn flesh, shattered bone, blood pooling in a thick, dark stain.

And still, Riven didn’t stop.

He kept thrusting, eyes hollow, his mind sinking into a deep abyss. The sound of stabbing and spurting blood became a maddened rhythm in the silence of the night.

Until—

CREEAK.

A sound came from the direction of the door.

Riven froze.

He turned quickly, chest rising and falling, his face smeared with blood.

At the doorway stood a small figure. Wide, terrified eyes stared at him, unblinking.

Melly.

Her tiny body trembled, then collapsed onto the floor, her hands flying up to cover her mouth, her eyes never leaving the scene in front of her.

Riven stood frozen.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep