RAGNA POV...
’To be honest, I never truly believed this would work, I admitted inwardly as my racing thoughts slowly settled, but it did—eventually—and that alone proved my years of hoarding Attribute points weren’t wasted after all; if anything, Demon Charm might very well become one of my most terrifying hidden aces in the future.’
By the time everything was finally over, exhaustion crashed into me like a collapsing wall, draining both my mind and body to their limits, leaving me no choice but to relinquish control and allow my natural recovery to take over.
[Cursed Regeneration has been activated]
[Host body is in a state of healing]
I lowered myself to the ground and sat quietly as my body began its slow restoration, my eyes carefully observing the boys to see how they would react now that the dust had settled.
With Cursed Regeneration active, every wound that began to mend sent a deeply satisfying sensation coursing through me, a warm, almost intoxicating rush that flowed through my veins, accompanied by a faint tingling as torn flesh, shattered tissue, and bruised muscle miraculously knitted themselves back into their original form as if reality itself were obediently undoing the damage.
As much as I wanted to bask in that sensation forever, I knew better—physical recovery alone wasn’t enough. I needed energy.
So, beneath the stunned, fearful gazes of the boys, I crossed my legs and began cultivating the Meditation Technique, drawing upon the Mana within my core so I could return to my peak condition as quickly as possible.
The moment I entered cultivation, I realized something had changed.
I could sense my Mana core with a clarity far sharper than before, as if a veil had been lifted from my perception, allowing me to feel every subtle fluctuation, every pulse of energy with near-perfect precision.
Now possessing two techniques—and having fully embraced my demonic nature—I began multitasking instinctively, healing my body while simultaneously using my Sub-Technique to absorb the ambient world energy around me, and as the Mana flowed through my vessels.
I felt a profound transformation taking place, each strand surging toward my head, nourishing my mind to the point where it felt like my very existence was undergoing a slow, irreversible metamorphosis.
Despite my eyes being firmly shut, my consciousness drifted into a strange inner space—a vast, reverie-like chamber rendered with astonishing clarity, as if I were observing a fully realized three-dimensional world—and though the image was slightly blurred.
I could clearly see the depleted blue pool beneath me slowly refilling, drop by painstaking drop, even if it was still far from its former fullness.
’What an incredible improvement, I thought with quiet awe. I wonder how my little minions are faring now...’
After several more seconds of cultivation, my eyes opened slowly, a faint blue halo shimmering around them as my gaze settled on the six boys, who now stood lined up in unnaturally neat formation before me.
’Just minutes ago, I was the one staring at a dead end, I mused. And now?’
If I was going to control them completely, I needed information—names, backgrounds, weaknesses—so I could assign roles, routines, and future duties without flaw.
They surrounded me obediently, and as they recounted the details of their plan—originally orchestrated by Gustav—it became painfully clear that the intention had always been for my younger brother to suffer an "unfortunate accident," one severe enough to end his life while erasing every trace of their involvement.
"I can’t let that damn bastard off easily," I muttered, my voice low and venomous.
The next several minutes were spent in a methodical cycle of questioning and answers, during which I learned that one of them—Talen—was thirteen years old, Gustav’s close friend and the group’s leader, while the others were only ten or eleven.
Talen’s parents were butchers, just like Gustav’s father, while the remaining boys—Tom, Ben, Milton, weisman, and parker—were all children of local farmers, no different from my own family.
Once everything was clear, a new thought began forming in my mind.
’I need a staged scenario—something believable enough to serve as leverage, something that prevents suspicion from ever pointing in my direction,
Then it hit me.
’What if there was a valiant hero? Someone who stood against the storm—a perfect savior who protected six pitiful, wide-eyed "victims" from a group of raging monsters?’
With that decision made, my gaze swept across the six boys... before settling on Thomas. His innocent, fragile expression made a slow smile creep across my lips.
’You’ll be perfect,’ I decided.
Since my body was still covered in blood and scratches—injuries I had deliberately suppressed from healing—I didn’t need to add much to the scene.
The environment alone told a horrifying story: shattered teeth scattered across the ground, wooden sticks smeared with fresh and dried blood, and the metallic stench hanging thick in the air.
Still, I made sure to add a few minor bruises to Tom, just enough to sell the illusion. After all... no hero emerges victorious without enduring a few hardships, right?
Just as I finished arranging the final details, I heard footsteps approaching from the side.
’Looks like it’s time to put on the show, I thought calmly. I need to make this as convincing as possible—hopefully it isn’t some screw-headed bastard walking in, or things might spiral out of control.’
As the footsteps drew closer, I began to moan in pain, my voice strained and broken, and almost instantly, Tom joined in, screaming for help with every ounce of strength his lungs could muster.
The footsteps quickened.
When the figure finally emerged, the sight made me release a quiet breath of relief.
Lilith’s heart pounded violently as she forced her trembling legs forward, fear tightening her chest with every step, and when she finally arrived at the source of the cries, her eyes widened in horror—only for doubt to flicker across her face the very next moment.
What greeted her was a nightmarish scene: blood and teeth littering the ground, the air thick with violence, and in the corner, her nephew lay curled up, seemingly on the brink of death.
Nearby stood a group of children wielding wooden sticks, their faces smeared with dirt and grime to obscure their identities, while her nephew himself was almost unrecognizable—his hair disheveled, his body bleeding from countless wounds, his swollen lips so thick it looked as if an entire hive of bees had attacked him at once.
She watched as he curled inward, desperately trying to shield what little strength he had left, while Thomas stood to the side, throwing himself between them in a futile attempt to stop the beating—only to be shoved aside effortlessly by the brown-haired boy.
It became unbearable.
Just as they were about to strike again, she screamed with all her strength.
"STOP IT!"