CHAPTER 60: CHAPTER: 60 NUMBER 9862!

Kafrik watched his father, who hadn’t spoken for a long while.

He didn’t dare utter a word, afraid that one wrong sound might make his father snap.

So he stayed silent, motionless.

The air between them felt heavy, almost alive with the weight of unspoken words.

His father’s eyes were distant, fixed somewhere far beyond the walls of the room, lost in thoughts Kafrik couldn’t read.

Every small sound in the room seemed too loud, too sharp.

Kafrik’s hands tightened on his knees as he waited, hoping his father would say something, anything, to break the suffocating stillness.

After some time, Ravan’s eyes regained their focus. They were cold, glacial even, but beneath that chill lurked something else, a flicker of dread that Kafrik failed to notice.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until Ravan finally broke it.

"So," he said quietly, "I assume the cripple is at the academy?"

"Y... yes," Kafrik replied, his voice timid, like that of a subdued animal.

He had no idea what his father intended to do to him, but he had already prepared for the worst.

If it came to it, he would cut off one of his own fingers and beg for forgiveness.

He knew it was unlikely, his father would grant it, but it was the only way he could think to appease him.

A bitter smile crept across his face as he waited for his father’s command.

But Ravan’s next words caught Kafrik completely off guard.

Ravan looked at him, the suffocating pressure he’d been radiating fading away as he let out a slow sigh.

"Do you know what kind of curse was used on that cripple?" he asked.

Kafrik shook his head.

"I don’t know what kind of curse it is, but from what I’ve seen... it’s incredibly potent," he replied honestly.

He had tried to uncover its nature, hoping to use it on his own family, to make sure none of them could stand in his way.

At one point, he had even considered using the curse on his father. Once Ravan was weakened, Kafrik planned to kill him.

But his father had guarded the secret too well. No one knew how the curse worked, and there was no way for Kafrik to obtain it.

Ravan leaned back on his throne, considering for a long moment. When he finally spoke his voice was heavy and deliberate.

"This curse attacks the heart and the mana core at the same time," he said. "The chance the victim dies is very high."

His eyes went cold. "But if the curse is broken, the victim will gain a boon to his cultivation."

He stared at Kafrik, puzzling over something the clown had said, that once cured the cripple would be unstoppable.

The idea made a cold knot form in Ravan’s chest. The cripple was already dangerous even while cursed; freed, he would be uncontrollable.

Ravan’s jaw tightened. The thought sent a shiver through him.

No, he couldn’t let that happen. If the cripple lived, he would be more than a threat: he would be an obstacle that had to be removed.

Ravan cleared his throat and called, "Kafrik!" His tone was flat but loaded with command.

Kafrik didn’t dare hesitate. He dropped to his knees. "Yes, my lord."

Ravan’s eyes bored into him. "Are you confident you can kill him?" His voice was blunt, as if cutting cotton.

The question landed like a thunderclap. Kafrik swallowed hard. "My lord... with all honesty, I cannot kill him."

He told the truth.

Lying now would only weave future trouble, and he knew, as well as anyone, that he could not defeat Vivian one-on-one.

Ravan gave Kafrik an indifferent look, clicked his tongue, and said calmly, "Number 9862."

’What an odd name,’ Kafrik thought, glancing toward the great door as the sound of heavy boots echoed through the hall.

Moments later, a bald, broad-shouldered man stepped inside. The weight of his presence was enough to thicken the air.

Kafrik’s eyes widened in disbelief, he recognized him instantly. Even Vivian would have.

It was Garhard Retrakes, the professor of the Combat Division.

But something felt off. Kafrik’s eyes lingered on the professor, studying him closely.

’Why does he seem... different?’

Then it struck him. The professor’s eyes, they were hollow, empty, like those of a corpse still walking.

Kafrik stayed silent as the man approached the platform.

Garhard neither bowed nor knelt; he simply stood there, motionless, waiting for Ravan to speak.

Ravan didn’t look at the professor. His gaze remained fixed on Kafrik.

"He is Number 9862," Ravan said flatly. "He will assist you in killing that cripple."

It was spoken as casually as if he were reciting someone’s name.

Then Ravan turned his attention toward the professor, his expression thoughtful.

Kafrik followed his gaze uneasily.

He didn’t know what this thing truly was, whether it was alive, or some puppet given flesh, but one thing was certain: its aura was that of a genuine Swordmaster.

Ravan had acquired it from the Clown.

When he first received it, the shock had left him speechless; he studied the creature for days, yet found nothing, no pulse, no breath, no trace of mana.

But what was truly unsettling was this: whenever it received an order, the thing began to act just like a normal human being.

Its gestures, its tone, even the faint twitch of emotion on its face, all perfect imitations.

Yet Ravan could tell there was nothing behind them. No consciousness, no will, just a hollow thing pretending to be alive.

Eventually, he had gone to the Clown and asked how such a thing was made.

The Clown’s only answer had been a laugh and a flat reply:

"You’ll never learn the method, no matter what, hahahaha."

Ravan had once wanted to learn the method of creating more of these things, to mass-produce them, but in the end, he gave up.

The Clown’s refusal had been absolute, and Ravan knew pressing further would be pointless.

On the other hand, Kafrik couldn’t hide the shock in his eyes as he stared at the professor.

His voice trembled slightly when he spoke.

"My lord... will this... thing behave oddly?"

Ravan’s gaze flicked to him, his thoughts snapping back to the present.

"No," he said flatly.

"It will act like a normal human being. You have nothing to worry about, just make sure you don’t make any mistakes."

Kafrik’s face went thoughtful.

With that thing by his side, killing the cripple would be as easy as squashing an insect, but how could he lure him into a trap?

The infamous Black Shadows never let Vivian move alone.

"My lord," he said at last, hesitating, "there wouldn’t be any problem killing him with the professor. But how do we lure him? Those Black Shadows guard him everywhere."

Ravan’s face curled with disdain; he let out a soft snort, the sort of sound that said even baiting him would be beneath me.

The words weren’t spoken, but Kafrik read them in the cold contempt in his father’s eyes.

Kafrik forced himself to wait. If anything went wrong, he would be the one to die, so thoroughness mattered more than bravado.

Ravan’s expression hardened. "We will lure him through a dungeon," he said at last.

Kafrik fell silent and listened.

Ravan explained the plan thoroughly, it was the same stratagem they’d used on Vivian in his last life.

They would lure him into a dungeon and kill him there.

Afterwards they would leave the dungeon through a transfer array.

As for questions about their whereabouts once Vivian disappeared, that wouldn’t be an issue: the professor’s intuition was a technique called Body Double.

He would use it to fake their locations and create the illusion that they had never left.

As Ravan spoke, an involuntary smile crept across Kafrik’s face.

It was a small, twisted thing; he suppressed it quickly and forced himself to listen, every word sinking in.

When Ravan finished, he leaned back against the throne and asked, flatly, "Can you do it?"

Kafrik’s expression hardened into confidence.

After hearing the full plan, failure felt impossible.

If he couldn’t kill that cripple now, he would be the biggest fool in the world.

"Of course," he said. "I will make sure he dies."

Ravan closed his eyes and after pondering for a while he said, his tone flat devoid of any emotions, "You may go."

Kafrik rose at once. He cast one meaningful glance at the professor, who remained statue-still, then strode for the door.

Once outside the chamber, his expression hardened; a veiled glint of killing intent sharpened his features.

’Once I kill that cripple,’ he thought, ’I’ll get the chance to study the curse.’

If he could uncover it, he planned to use it on his father when he reached the Fifth Star.

A quiet chuckle escaped him as the scheme took shape in his mind: remove the rivals in his house, inherit the dukedom, and then everything would be within reach.

Once he’d gained enough strength, he would press his claim to the throne.

If he won, he’d make that bitch Charlotte pay for every ounce of humiliation.

"Just you wait. I’ll make every one of you pay," he muttered, and left.