"I can't let that happen..." Sylvaris's father gritted his teeth, his hand tightening around the dagger's hilt. He was about to move when one of his other wives snatched the blade from his grasp and flung it away, all while everyone's attention remained fixed on the young man at the center of it all.
"Excuse my rudeness, Arathor, but first of all, that's your son," she said coldly. "Secondly, you'd be dooming us all if you tried anything now or in the future without a proper plan. You should have drowned him when he was a baby like I told you, instead of listening to that bitch next to you. Now even she wants her own son dead."
A bitter chuckle escaped her lips. Her straight light brown hair barely covered her E cup sized breasts, and despite her pretty and young-looking face glowing like the morning sun, her expression was as cold as ice. It sent a chill crawling down Arathor's spine.
"Watch what you're saying... or you'll be punished tonight," Arathor growled, his voice low and sharp. His eyes never left his son, the boy he was once so proud of, yet now feared with every fiber of his being.
When Sylvaris was three years old, he had gone missing during an expedition. Bringing a baby to such an expedition might sound insane, but it was a noble tradition, passed down through generations to build resilience and expose children to the dangers of the world as early as possible.
For days, Arathor, his wives, and their guards scoured the forests. Days turned into weeks, and hope began to fade. The place was crawling with beasts powerful enough to challenge seasoned adventurers, so nobody believed the boy would return alive.
But against all odds, Sylvaris did return — and what should have been a joyous reunion instead shook the family to its core.
The child stumbled into camp, covered in blood from head to toe. Two small, devilish horns stuck out from his skull, and a pair of leathery wings carried him twenty centiters off the ground. In his tiny hands, he clutched the severed head of a powerful level 50 Blacklung Bear — a beast even Arathor himself would struggle to defeat alone.
The stench of blood clung to him like a curse, and for a mont, Arathor swore the boy's empty gaze belonged to sothing far worse than a child.
That day, the family was torn apart.
The first and second wives demanded the boy be killed, claiming he was no longer human. But the third wife, along with Elvanya Elyndor, the fourth wife, and the fifth wife, refused to accept that. Elvanya, Sylvaris's mother, had been inseparable from the third and fifth wives since childhood, their bond stronger than politics or power, and together they stood united to protect Sylvaris, unwilling to let the boy be slaughtered without a fight.
At that ti, Arathor's household had five wives. Now, with eight wives in total, Sylvaris had three brothers and four sisters.
But none of that mattered that day.
When the ti ca to make a decision, Arathor couldn't bring himself to kill his own son. Instead, he hired the best doctor in the kingdom to secretly remove Sylvaris's "core." The core was what granted individuals special powers, and if removed early enough, a new one could eventually develop — but it would never be as powerful as the original.
The operation worked. Sylvaris's demonic power vanished, replaced by a rising holy energy. As the years passed, the family forgot about the ordeal. Sylvaris never showed any further signs of his old demonic nature, though his twisted personality still crept out from ti to ti.
There was the ti Sylvaris had secretly watched Arathor making love to his wives when he was six. Then there was the infamous scandal when he deflowered the pride of House Corvath at fifteen, seducing a girl five years older than him. That incident nearly dragged the two noble families into war, only for Arathor to drown the situation in gold to calm tensions.
Despite all his twisted behavior, the family took comfort in one thing — Sylvaris never displayed any trace of demonic energy again.
Until today.
Now, not only had Sylvaris awakened SS-rank potential in holy power, but sohow, his demonic energy had returned, accompanied by a bizarre power that lted clothes. Together, they ford sothing unheard of — the only SSSSSS-ranked human in recorded history.
That alone should have made Arathor proud. Instead, it filled him with dread.
If Sylvaris could kill a level 50 beast at the age of three, what would he be capable of now as a fully grown adult?
Even worse, Arathor knew Sylvaris had always been different — the kind of child who smiled when animals bled and watched people suffer with curious fascination.
If his son ever embraced those dark powers again, the world Arathor knew would be gone.
What Arathor didn't know was that Sylvaris had already made his decision. He had chosen to beco a villain. When his strength reached its peak, he intended to make blood rain from the heavens and have won lined up to serve him day and night. But soone like Sylvaris would never be satisfied. Not after he had once claid the goddess herself.
That mory had returned, and Sylvaris had sworn to reclaim her no matter what it took. His first wife... the one who had been stripped away from him. He would return to her soday, even if it ant burning the world to the ground.
Arathor's gaze remained locked on his son, anger and frustration burning in his eyes. Yet even with the opportunity to strike, he stood motionless. Deep down, part of him felt relieved that his wife had taken the blade away.
For now, all Arathor could do was try to win his son over — to keep him satisfied and content. If Sylvaris remained close to the king, perhaps he would grow lazy, drowned in endless luxury and indulgences until his monstrous urges rotted away.
It was a desperate plan, but Arathor had no other choice.
Even now, he knew he didn't have what it took to kill his own son.
Not now... and most likely, not ever.
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