Chapter 67: “A Necklace and a Whip”

...The blood-colored sky above the training plains of the night trial pulsed, the stars dimming as a sudden timer hovered into Oliver’s vision, bright and urgent.

[Time Remaining: 10 minutes before forced extraction from Night Trial.]

His eyes widened. Shit.

He had done it.

The surge of bloodline power within him told the story.

His bones had been reinforced, his blood felt denser, his body lighter, sharper, faster. He had truly broken through—Blood Warrior Rank 1.

And that was the problem.

In the waking world, revealing such a leap would paint a giant target on his back. The moment Roderick or Cassian noticed that his strength didn’t match his station as earlier appraised before the training, they’d investigate it immediately. And if they did that, they would definitely find that he had demon blood in him.

In the Somara empire, that was asking for death.

Everyone would say that he was like those demon worshippers.

Worse, he was a slave. And was nowhere strong enough to defend himself, even if he got rid of the slave sigil using the Nightmare Sigil.

He could not allow that.

Without wasting another moment, Oliver bolted across the brown-cracked plain sands of the village.

He reached a crooked hill crowned with a crooked sign that read in curling bold letters:

Merchant Shop: Home of Wonders, Curses and Deals.

A bell jingled as he entered.

The shop’s interior bent space in confusing ways. Shelves lined with jars of whispers, blades that hummed, and lanterns that held storms in glass flickered around him. Everything shimmered with wild aether. The smell of sulfur, cinnamon, and burnt feathers hung in the air.

Behind the warped, rune-carved counter stood a peculiar man. His moustache was comically long, sharp as a dagger on each end, and straight as a sword. It sat across his lips like a well-drawn weapon. His entire body was wrapped in tightly fitted grey cloth—arms, legs, chest, all covered like he wore a full-body sock. Except his round belly. That was left gloriously bare and jiggled proudly as he leaned forward.

His voice was laced in a thick, exotic accent.

“Ahhh! Hero of the People of the Sand! Come, come! What does such a fine legend want from humble me today, hmm? I have blades! Pointy, pokey, shiny! I have hammers that kiss and shields that scream! Enchantments, curses, charms, aphrodisiacs—for those long, lonely dungeon nights—eh?” He winked.

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “I need something that can hide my bloodline strength. Even from those stronger than me.”

At that, the merchant’s grin narrowed. He stroked one half of his moustache with practiced fingers. “Ahhh... secrecy, is it? Yes, yes... even heroes must wear masks.”

He snapped his fingers and something shimmered into existence above his hand—a dull iron necklace, inlaid with a single obsidian bead. The air around it bent slightly, as if hiding from being perceived.

“Veil of Humility,” the merchant said proudly. “Blocks all aether from leaking. As long as it touches your flesh, even gods will think you’re nothing but a little worm. Best! no one can see it. Just you. One day it lasts. Then you must feed it aether again... or it turns to ash.”

The item details floated before Oliver’s eyes in system text, confirming every word.

“I’ll take it,” Oliver said immediately, reaching out.

But the merchant pulled it back, giving him a sharp stare. “Not so quick, sand-hero. Everything has a cost.”

Oliver tensed. “Money?”

He did not have money. In fact, did this world also use currency?

Oliver might have been pushing too much, but a part of him expected that things would be on the free side of things here.

The merchant chuckled. “Money? Pfah! No, no. I want your kills. The Bottomless-Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpions—I can smell their poison still clinging to your boots.”

Oliver blinked. “The corpses?”

“Yes,” the merchant said with glittering eyes. “Trade me half your scorpion kills—Just the adult ones—and the veil is yours.”

Oliver hesitated. The merchant was definitely cheating him. He wanted to ask: How much is each corpse worth? But time was slipping fast.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

[Time Remaining: 1 minute 12 seconds.]

“Deal!” Oliver snapped, grabbing the necklace.

A system prompt flashed:

[You have traded 50 Bottomless-Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpion Carcasses for 1 “Veil of Humility” (Uncommon).]

[Item Bound: Veil of Humility. Duration: 24 Hours. Invisible to others below the blood knight rank . Rechargeable via Aether.]

Oliver slung the necklace around his neck just as—

[00:00]

A black light snapped over his body.

He was gone.

All the while, the skull had been watching the trade Oliver had made, and shook it's head in disappointment.

---

His eyes flew open in the waking world—and immediately he realized he was upside down.

Pain coursed through his arm, still wrapped tightly from the injury he sustained in the night trial. Of course as a result of his advancement, his healing was now faster.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The rhythmic crack of whips snapped at his ears.

Crack!

Aghhh!

Crack!

Sshaaa!

He turned his head, even in the disorienting haze. Across the compound, he saw the slaves—lined up before a massive pot where they were being handed the usual rations. The same paste and black bread that smelled like fermented shit and despair.

But now there was a new rule.

To receive food, they had to endure five lashes. Each.

And the man administering it was not a slave master—a hulking figure with muscles like marble, standing shirtless, with the Slave Sigil marked black across his chest.

He wore armor from the dungeons, proving his qualification.

He was one that had graduated this training process.

Meaning that he was a bonded weapon to the empire.

And judging by the bored efficiency of his strikes, he was used to this kind of work.

Just then, from somewhere behind him, Oliver heard it.

A whisper.

“A666… A666!! KID!”

Oliver blinked. He did not know how long he had been like this, but his head was pounding, vision blurry—

“Hey...Over here, wooden log!” the whisper came again, followed by a croaky, almost painful chuckle.

Oliver slowly turned his head.

It was Garron.

He too was hung from rusted iron hooks by his ankles, he dangled like a slab of meat, half-covered in blood and sweat. His entire back was lashed with thick red welts and raw gashes. Some had split open so deep they still leaked slow, oozing rivulets of blood.

One of his eyes had swollen shut, puffed up to the size of an egg, purple and sickly.

But still, the cunny man grinned.

“Damn, you sleep hard,” Garron muttered through cracked lips. “Didn’t know you were a log of wood. But hey… at least it helped. You skipped the worst part.”

Oliver tried to speak, but his throat was dry. His tongue felt thick, his limbs numb.

He managed a raspy, “What… part?”

Garron gestured with a slight tilt of his bruised chin. “The rough part.”

Oliver glanced down at himself. His entire chest and arms were wrapped in the remains of his thin cloth. Beneath it, streaks of crimson marked his skin—slashed, welting scars of the whip. Red, angry and swollen.

His breath hitched.

The healing… it was already working. Thanks to his bloodline, most of the damage had already begun stitching itself back together. But it meant only one thing.

He had been whipped juat like. Garron... but. It was while he was unconscious.

While in the dream realm of the Night Trial, his real body in the waking world had been nothing more than flesh to be defiled.

And it had been.

Oliver looked past Garron. Further down the dimly-lit warehouse space, hung several others—Centaurs—the ones he had fought. Their bodies slumped, backs ripped apart.

The thick skin and musculature of their kind had not spared them. Their hooves twitched as they moaned quietly, some still half-conscious. The iron chains bit into their ankles and wrists, forcing them into painful contortions.

“Those stupid Centaurs that fought us,” Garron explained. “Still alive. Barely. Tough bastards though. Gotta give them that. Regardless of the result, it was good what we did. A little blood of the chicken to scar the monkey.”

(Note: A proverb that means making an example out of someone in order to threaten others.)

Oliver frowned, voice still hoarse. “What… what happened?”

Garron let out another dry chuckle, his chest twitching from the pain.

“Roderick happened,” he said grimly. “Apparently, we were his morning entertainment. ‘Order must be enforced,’ or some crap like that. He declared all fighters receive one hundred lashes each. Public punishment. Said we’d be the examples.”

Garron shifted again, trying to stretch without groaning. “Still… that move you pulled yesterday? That punch you did right before the Centaurs dropped like flies—hells, that was something. I knew you were good at dodging, but that technique? Smooth. Real smooth.”

He looked at Oliver curiously.

“Tell me, is that something all Tyrell royals can do, or is it like a special bloodline move.”

Oliver froze. He really did not know what to say. It was not like he could explain how he learnt the one–inch punch from the Night trial.

Instead, he changed the subject. “What about the others…?”

Garron had a knowing look in his eyes. He could tell that Oliver had intentionally, changed the subject, but said nothing about it.

It would not be the first time Oliver was keeping secrets.

Instead, he replied that Roderick wanted to make the lesson stick into their heads.

Oliver swallowed.

Something felt off.

He remembered it clearly—in his past life, Roderick was cruel, yes, but structured. His punishments were calculated, theatrical, often relying on tools like the Box of Blessing. Of course, it was mainly to please his father.

He never let things get this... messy. This primitive.

This?

This was rage.

This was something personal. Or Oliver reckoned that something must have changed.

Did his coming back in time affect something again?

After all, Roderick's 'Daddy pleasing complex' was the only thing holding him back from going full sadistic–evil–wickedness on them.

A door creaked open.

The echo of boots.

Suddenly, the air grew thinner.

Every hanging body stiffened in fear. Slaves on the floor scurried into the shadows.

Even those eating had stopped, and all eyes stared at him.

Roderick Vaelcrest had entered the room.

He moved like a shadow with teeth, calm but coiled. His white robes swept the ground as the wand in his hand caught the dim light. And as he walked, a hush fell over the space. Eyes dropped. Breaths held.

The sound of his boots stopped—right in front of Oliver.

Roderick stared at him.

And for a moment, Oliver recognized it.

That look.

That hate.

It had been years ago—in his past life—but it had seared itself into his memory. That same gaze had once burned through him with silent venom. Not because of something he had done. No. It was because of something he had.

Oliver blinked and glanced down.

There, in the shallow puddle of filthy water beneath him, his reflection stared back.

Hair: white.

The black dye had washed off.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Roderick leaned in, eyes wide in a mix of borderline rage and madness, "Tell me... Slave trash. Are you related to her? The Vermin homunculus that took my mother..."