stjorthotic Chapter 73 Percival's Fear
Chapter 73 Percival's Fear
Chapter 73 Percival's Fear
Inside the secret chamber of Frostwolf Castle.
The fire in the fireplace was burning brightly, but it couldn't dispel the nauseating smell of blood that permeated the air.
A large hand wearing a black mithril glove pressed firmly on Percival's head, its five fingers digging into his flesh like iron clamps.
Dark red magic surged wildly into his fingertips, then suddenly flowed back, as if trying to forcibly pull out something that grew deep within his bones and blood.
"Ah—! No! That's my face! That's mine!"
Percival let out a pig-like scream, his whole body convulsing wildly on the carpet like a live fish thrown into a vat of boiling oil.
His hands gripped the floor desperately, his nails breaking and bleeding profusely, but he couldn't budge the large hand pressing down on his head even an inch.
Standing opposite him was a man completely shrouded in a black cloak.
He was that important figure, the special envoy sent by His Highness the Prince, specifically to handle this kind of "cleanup work".
"Ten days, that's the time limit His Highness has given you."
The envoy's voice was devoid of any emotion, like two pieces of granite rubbing against each other, cold, hard, and rough. "You promised that within ten days, the exile's soul fire would be completely extinguished. His Highness gave you the honor of impersonating someone else and the opportunity to squander power, but all you gave back to His Highness was lies and incompetence."
With a sudden flick of the envoy's wrist, a teeth-grinding tearing sound rang out.
Percival tilted his head back, his facial features contorted to the extreme.
A semi-transparent "mask" shimmering with a faint spiritual light was slowly peeling off his face.
That wasn't a physical human skin, but a transformation technique solidified in his soul.
But the pain of being stripped away from the soul is far greater than peeling off a real face.
"Don't take it! I am Lorraine! I am Earl Frostwolf!"
Percival wept uncontrollably, his hands flailing helplessly in the air, trying to grasp the fading, illusory face. "That piece of trash is definitely dead! The snowfield is full of third-tier monsters, he couldn't possibly have survived! Give me just one more day—"
No, half a day!
The envoy snorted coldly and suddenly exerted force in his palm.
"Pop".
With a soft sound, that handsome yet cold face completely vanished into specks of light.
Percival's original face was exposed to the air—a mediocre, swollen face that looked somewhat listless due to long-term indulgence, now turned purplish-red from the excruciating pain.
Without the support of the Transfiguration spell, the fragile second-tier magic power within him collapsed instantly, and he was as if his spine had been removed, collapsing into a limp mess.
The envoy shook his hand in disgust, as if he had just touched something dirty.
He pulled a thick, black book from his pocket. It was a copy of the "Book of Conferment" issued by the Imperial Noble Council, which recorded the real names of all the nobles in this place who had the right to inherit titles.
He slammed the Book of Consecration heavily in front of Percival.
"Open your dog eyes and see clearly."
Percival crawled over, trembling, his eyes fixed on that page.
Beneath the name that represents "Lorraine," a ball of ghostly blue soul fire burns quietly.
It not only did not extinguish, but it became even more vigorous than it had been ten days ago, and even faintly revealed a heart-stopping golden-red hue.
"This—this is impossible—"
Percival's pupils dilated violently, his fingers trembling as he tried to touch the name, but recoiled from the heat. "That's an ice field in the snowy season! A place even regular legions dare not venture deep into during the dead of winter! He was alone, with only a maid—how could he not die? How could he possibly become stronger?!"
"That's what Your Highness also wants to know."
The envoy looked down at him, his eyes filled with undisguised killing intent. "At this time of year, during the snow season, even third-tier monsters frequently appear. I've also sensed that unsettling energy fluctuation in the north."
"But the sealing of the spellbook cannot go wrong. That exile is not only alive, but thriving. Percival, you are not only a useless piece of trash, but also blind."
"No! I am your most loyal dog! Don't kill me!"
Percival felt death approaching. Forgetting all dignity, he crawled like a broken-backed wild dog to the envoy's feet, frantically kissing the envoy's snow-covered boots. "I'm still useful! I'm the Countess's only son, and I'm also the Prince's offspring! As long as Lorraine dies, this land will still be mine! I will increase the taxes threefold—no, fivefold—to His Highness!"
Just then, the door to the secret room was suddenly pushed open.
The countess, dressed in a gorgeous black velvet gown, rushed in.
Her well-maintained face was now filled with panic, and her originally exquisite makeup looked somewhat disheveled from running all the way.
Seeing her son's miserable state on the ground, she screamed and rushed over to shield Percival behind her.
"Stop! He's my son! You can't treat him like this!"
The Countess was like a lioness protecting her cubs. Despite trembling all over in the face of the envoy's terrifying pressure, she still stood firmly in front of him.
The envoy narrowed his eyes slightly, and his murderous aura, heavy as a mountain, instantly locked onto the mother and child.
"Madam, you've made a mistake."
The envoy spoke slowly, his voice low and deep, "In this game, only dogs that can kill their prey are valuable. If a dog can't even guard the house properly, requiring its owner to personally clean up its mess, then keeping such a dog is a waste of resources."
"I have a way! I still have a way!"
The Countess shrieked, pulling a stack of parchment and magic crystal cards from her bosom—the accumulated wealth of the Frostwolf family over decades. "Rorin isn't dead! That means he might have found refuge, or he was lucky enough to escape the demonic tide. But he'll come back eventually! If he wants his title back, he must return to Frostwolf City!"
She gasped for breath, her eyes flashing with venom and madness: "We don't need to go to the snowfield to find him. That's like looking for a needle in a haystack. We'll make him come to us! As long as he dares to set foot in this city, I have plenty of ways to make him disappear without a trace!"
The envoy was silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on the Countess's distorted face for a few seconds, as if assessing the feasibility of the plan.
That exile was indeed very resilient.
Recent observation data indicates that a magical energy explosion of at least level four occurred near the mobile city in the north.
Although the specific details of the battle are unknown, the energy fluctuations at that level are definitely not something a mere illegitimate child with only first-tier strength could withstand.
Perhaps this kid is just lucky, hiding in the ruins of some mobile city, barely surviving?
"Your Highness's patience is limited."
The envoy withdrew his murderous aura and turned to walk into the shadows.
"I'll give you one last chance. If the fire on this magic book hasn't gone out when I come next time, it won't just be your son's face that gets peeled off."
As ripples spread across the magic mirror in the secret chamber, the envoy stepped into the mirror, leaving behind only the stench of blood and the magic book still burning with ghostly blue soul flames.
Only now did Percival dare to breathe heavily. He collapsed into his mother's arms, his face streaked with tears and snot. His previous arrogance had vanished, leaving only a deep-seated fear.
"Mother—I don't want to die—that monster—the envoy is a monster—Lorraine is a monster too—"
He wailed incoherently, clutching the Countess's skirt tightly with both hands, "Please give me back the Transfiguration spell! Without that face, I'm a person without legitimate inheritance rights—those noble ladies will laugh at me—"
"Snapped!"
A sharp slap landed heavily on Percival's face, silencing his wailing.
The Countess's chest heaved violently as she looked at her good-for-nothing son, her eyes filled with both exasperated anger and a deep-seated fear.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down.
"What's the use of crying! Will crying kill Lorraine?"
She grabbed Percival by the collar, yanking him up from the ground. Her eyes, usually brimming with a fake smile, were now icy cold. "Since that little bastard's got such a stubborn streak, we'll have to prepare a grand gift for him. He wants to be a lord? Then let him be one to his heart's content!"
She turned to look at the dark snow outside the window, as if she could see through the swirling snowflakes the figure struggling to survive on the northern ice plains.
"You can't even kill a third-tier monster, huh? Fine, very well."
The Countess gritted her teeth and whispered, her nails digging deep into her palms, "Lorraine, you asked for it. No wonder I, your stepmother, am so ruthless."
",