CHAPTER 66: THE SON WHO DEVOURED HIS BLOODLINE I

Cassel — POV

"Before I say anything, tell me first—what can you offer me if I save your son? Or rather... if I save your entire family from their inevitable destruction?"

My voice was calm—too calm. The kind of calm that unsettles even seasoned warriors. A faint curl touched my lips as my eyes locked with General Zan’s, watching his reaction with quiet scrutiny.

The old man’s expression hardened. He was difficult to read, but not impossible. This man was neither simple nor foolish—that was why he had survived this long. Even with three generals uniting against him before and after the end of the world, he had refused to fall. He had clawed his way through betrayal, bloodshed, political warfare, and the chaos of the apocalypse with a steadiness few could reproduce.

In my previous life, even after tragedy shattered his family—after most of them died in ways too cruel to speak of—General Zan remained steadfast. He didn’t collapse. He didn’t flee. He didn’t beg. Instead, he began plotting revenge with the kind of cold determination only a man who had lost everything could possess.

It was unfortunate—pathetic, even—that I had played a role in his final downfall.

"If there is anything within my ability to offer, then I promise it to you."

He spoke with firmness, but also desperation hiding behind pride. When I looked into the old man’s eyes, I saw no hesitation. No lie. No attempt to mislead.

Good. His character, at the very least, should be trustworthy.

"There is a type of supernatural ability—not very common, but it exists."

The moment those words left my mouth, silence fell. Thick, heavy, suffocating. The kind of silence where even breathing felt like a disturbance.

Every gaze sharpened instantly.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Henry and Ruben slip into the room. Quiet, composed, observant. They blended into the group without making a sound, their presence adding weight to the atmosphere.

I inhaled slowly and continued with a voice stripped of softness:

"This ability allows its user to tamper with people’s minds and emotions."

Shock rippled through the room. From my men. From the general’s soldiers. Even from those who prided themselves on staying unreadable.

I ignored them all.

My eyes fixed on the old general again, unwavering.

"It may not allow direct control over one’s mind, but it can cause them to lose their temper from time to time. And the one whose mind has been tampered with won’t remember what they did. Even if they do remember... the memory only worsens their condition."

John—of course it had to be him—snapped instantly.

"Impossible. I’ve never seen anyone with such an ability. You’re talking nonsense."

He spat each word like venom.

"You’re lying just to deceive us! Father, let’s go. This man can’t be trusted. He only wants something from us—nothing more."

John grabbed his father’s hand to drag him outside.

This man...

This face...

Finally, everything clicked. I remembered why John felt strangely more familiar to me than General Zan himself. A fleeting image from my past life resurfaced—one I had long locked away because it had never mattered to me before.

But now, it did.

As the general hesitated—torn between logic and the emotions tugging at him—I called out in a voice sharp enough to slice through the air:

"General Zan."

He froze.

"This kind of ability requires the user to stay extremely close to the victim—and to touch them from time to time."

My tone was no longer calm. It carried a warning. Weight. Danger.

A man like General Zan should immediately understand what I was implying.

"You’re still spouting this nonsense!" John barked. "Father, let’s not listen to him. Let’s take my little brother and leave, now."

I glanced at Henry.

He smiled—sweet, innocent, angelic. The kind of smile that made people let their guard down right before he twisted a knife into their chest.

He stepped forward casually.

"Why the hurry, comrade? Sit, let’s talk for a bit."

Henry placed a hand on John’s shoulder and pushed him gently back into place—too gently, yet firm enough that John failed to free himself.

"What do you think you’re doing?! Get your filthy hand off me right now. Move!"

"Why so hostile, comrade?" Henry cooed. "It’s not like I’m going to eat you. Don’t you see your father sitting calmly, chatting with the boss? Sit down politely. Don’t interrupt your elders."

He did it again.

Henry’s favorite tactic—soft words, sweet tone, poisoning people with politeness. A smile that said "friend," while every word said "enemy."

And, as expected, it worked disgustingly well on someone like John, a man who had far too much to hide.

"You—you... what are you implying? I’m only trying to protect my father from being deceived by you bastards!"

"No, no, no. A good child shouldn’t use such foul language," Henry chided gently. "Mind your words."

Then he shifted his attention smoothly.

"General," Henry said, "I heard you don’t have a good relationship with the other generals. Is that true?"

The old man stiffened, wary, but he was no fool. He had lived too long and survived too many knives aimed at his throat.

He matched Henry’s tone with calm carefulness.

"Yes. We are enemies. Before the apocalypse, our relationship was superficial. But once the world fell into chaos, they stopped hiding their hatred. They even tried to kill me. We’ve been mortal enemies for a long time."

"Oh? Is that so?"

Henry lifted a hand to cover his mouth dramatically.

Then he turned—slowly—to look at John.

"But how strange... I saw dear John, your beloved son, having breakfast with those three generals less than two hours ago."

The explosion was immediate.

"What?!"

John’s voice cracked, high and panicked.

"Don’t talk nonsense! I didn’t do that! Father, don’t believe them—I’m your son! How could I sit and eat with your enemies?!"

"Oh, but I have a picture," Henry said lightly. "Would you like to see it, General?"

Henry was toying with him—pulling at nerves, tearing at seams, widening cracks—exactly as I had instructed.

And all of it had been worth it.

Two days ago, I had sent Henry and the others to investigate the general’s family. I had forgotten far too many details, and gaps in my memory were dangerous. So they did what they did best—watched, listened, gathered.

Their findings were valuable.

John Miles. The eldest son of General Zan Miles.

In my previous life, even though the general’s family was destroyed—most of them dead, some left to live fates worse than death—John somehow climbed higher than ever. He became one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the base.

He kissed the boots of the three generals shamelessly. He crawled at their feet. He wagged his tail like a loyal dog, begging for scraps.

And in return? He received wealth, power, and status.

Even after his family’s ruin.

Naturally, his psychic ability made him someone not to be underestimated. But even so... his behavior had always been bizarre. He didn’t seek revenge. He didn’t mourn. He didn’t even pretend to care.

He sided, wholeheartedly, with the men who murdered his kin.

Now everything was clear.

He hadn’t abandoned his family after their death.

He had betrayed them before.

Boarded the enemy’s ship. Guided his own blood into a trap.

How despicable.

Henry slipped a hand into his jacket, voice as smooth as silk.

"If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you."

Before Henry could pull anything out—

John lunged.

A desperate, reckless, furious attack.

Too fast for a normal man. Too emotional for someone innocent.

And in that split second, as he leaped to silence Henry—

He proved his guilt to everyone.

Now, no matter what he said, no matter how he begged, no matter how he tried to twist the story—

He would never be able to clear his name before his father.

Not ever again.