KamiKowa: That Time I Got Transmigrated With A Broken Goddess Chapter 168: [168] Inconvenient Animosity

The chamber spun around Xavier as the full scope of the trap unfolded before him. Every choice they’d made, every plan they’d ford, every desperate gambit—all of it had been anticipated, accounted for, used as data points in Haverford’s grand design. The realization crashed into him like a tidal wave, each breath becoming a struggle as the weight of their complete failure pressed down upon his chest. They had never been players in this ga—rely pieces being moved across a board they couldn’t even see.

"You’re insane." The words tasted like ash in Xavier’s mouth, hollow and inadequate against the monstrous calculation before him.

"I’m ambitious. There’s a difference, though I’ll concede the boundary occasionally becos... indistinct." Haverford’s mouth ford an expression too calculated to be genuine—a precise arrangent of facial muscles masquerading as human emotion. He raised one elegant hand, and his guards advanced with weapons drawn, moving with such perfect synchronization they seed less like individual n and more like extensions of a single consciousness.

"You’ve proven exceptionally valuable as a variable, Thornslayer. Your emotional outbursts, your tedious heroic impulses, your tireso willingness to throw yourself into harm’s way for others—each reaction provided crucial data. Thanks to you, I’ve successfully mapped the neural pathways linking Selene’s borrowed consciousness to her vessel’s untapped divine potential."

His eyes glead with the cold satisfaction of a mathematician who had just solved a particularly challenging equation—one written in blood and sacrifice rather than chalk and numbers.

The guards’ swords glead in the volcanic light, their edges catching the crimson glow like bloodstains waiting to happen. The tal seed alive, hungry even, as if the blades themselves yearned to taste his blood.

Six n.

One at each exit, two flanking Haverford, two more a blade’s length away. Their stances were identical—low center of gravity, weapons held at a ready that wasn’t passive but coiled. He mapped it in his mind’s eye: a lunge for the nearest guard, a spin to avoid the second blade, but the third and fourth would converge before his first move was even complete. A geotry of death. Every angle, every path, ended in his blood on the stone.

"But variables, by their nature, must eventually be eliminated to ensure a predictable outco." Haverford’s voice remained unnervingly pleasant, as if discussing dinner plans rather than murder. His hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed and confident. "I can’t have unknown factors disrupting the ritual. Too much depends on perfect execution."

Xavier’s fingers twitched toward his concealed dagger, the movent almost involuntary, a desperate instinct rather than a conscious decision. But the guards anticipated the movent before he’d even fully committed to it, their reactions inhumanly fast. Twin blades pressed against his throat from opposite sides, the tal uncomfortably warm from the chamber’s heat yet razor-sharp against his skin. One wrong breath, one slight movent, and they’d open his neck like overripe fruit, painting the ancient stones with his final, futile gesture of defiance.

"Please don’t make this unnecessarily dramatic," Haverford said with a sigh of mild disappointnt. "I bear you no personal animosity. You’re simply... inconvenient. Like a test subject that’s outlived its usefulness."

The journal against Xavier’s ribs felt impossibly heavy, its presence a cruel mockery of hope. All of Lord Torval’s research, all the evidence of what had been done to seven innocent children—and it was worthless. Worse than worthless. It was exactly what Haverford had wanted him to find, breadcrumbs laid out to lead him precisely to this mont, this trap, this end.

The chamber’s crystal matrices pulsed brighter, their hum rising to an almost musical note that sent shivers down Xavier’s spine. His eyes darted around the laboratory, taking in details with growing horror—the volcanic energy channels carved into the stone floor, the intricate Essentia circuits glowing with malevolent purpose, the binding circles positioned at seven precise points. This wasn’t just so research facility. It was a ritual chamber, ticulously designed and already prepared for sothing terrible.

"Ashley, Naomi, Margaret—" Xavier began, his voice tight with dread.

"Are being collected as we speak," Haverford finished with casual indifference. He straightened his immaculate cuffs as if discussing afternoon tea rather than abductions. "Selene as well, though she doesn’t know it yet. I need all the displaced souls present for the final ritual. Can’t have any loose threads unraveling my work."

The crystals pulsed in rhythm with Xavier’s racing heart, their light casting Haverford’s face in alternating shadows and harsh illumination. The man looked almost skeletal in the eerie glow, his ambition laid bare in the hungry gleam of his eyes, which reflected the crimson light like pools of blood.

"The Masquerade is tomorrow night," Haverford continued, withdrawing an ornate pocket watch from his waistcoat. He checked it with the careful attention of a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. "Which gives exactly twenty-four hours to complete the final preparations. Binding seven displaced souls to their vessels permanently, then channeling their combined divine essence through Selene into a matrix I can control."

White-hot fury surged through Xavier’s veins, montarily overwhelming his fear. "You’re talking about slavery. Mind control on a cosmic scale."

Haverford’s lips curled into sothing that might have been a smile on a human face. "I’m talking about evolution. The next step in humanity’s developnt." He pocketed his watch with a decisive click and moved toward the chamber’s exit, his footsteps echoing against the ancient stone. "Gods have ruled from distant thrones for far too long. Ti for mortals to claim their proper place in the hierarchy."

The guards pressed their sword points deeper against Xavier’s throat, drawing thin lines of blood that trickled warm and wet down his neck. He could feel his pulse throbbing against the cold steel, each heartbeat a desperate reminder of how easily it could be his last.

"Bring him," Haverford called over his shoulder without looking back. "Carefully. I need him functional for tomorrow’s work."

The Duke paused in the doorway. He turned back, satisfaction written across his aristocratic features, his eyes gleaming with the malevolent light of a predator who knows its prey is trapped.

"Now then, shall we begin the final preparations for the Masquerade?"