Baicha stared through the glass wall at the woman outside—his so-called mother—with
the gaze of a wounded beast. In those violet-black eyes swirled grief, rage, and cold
contempt.
Mother or not, she was the one who had sold him away, condemning him to three years of
existence that could hardly be called human. Whatever debt of birth he owed her, Baicha
considered already repaid the moment she had bartered him for a cushy position.
So when the woman—beautiful as a flawless white rose—smiled at him with cruel
satisfaction, he no longer felt bound to show respect. The little boy glared back, fury
burning hot in his small body.
"How dare you look at me like that, brat! What do those eyes mean? And who gave you
the right to call me auntie, you little demon!?" Pitchaya snapped, glaring at the child who
barely resembled her.
Indeed, the boy looked nothing like her—or like the dashing man she remembered from
that single unforgettable night. If not for his striking eyes—galaxy-dark, streaked with
unnatural crimson—she might not have believed he was her son at all.
Baicha, frail and pale as a vampire from the silver screen, snorted softly. He swept his
gaze up and down her figure, mocking in silence, as if to say: Whoever looks old in my
eyes—that's the one I'll call 'auntie'.
Outwardly, Pitchaya was a beauty—an elegant, ambitious woman like the heroine of a
melodrama. But Baicha had already seen the rotting truth inside her. He had no intention
of honoring such false grace.
"You filthy little monster!" she hissed, teeth grinding in fury.
Then lightning flared. Sparks of her ability crackled into Baicha's small body, hurling him to
the floor in spasms. He bit his lips bloody to choke back a scream.
"Pi! What do you think you're doing!?"
The sharp voice froze her.
"D-Doctor Rowell!?"
The tall scientist stepped forward, displeasure etched on his pale features. Baicha knew
him well—the master of this laboratory prison.
"You can't damage my property like that, Pi," Rowell said coldly. "This boy is the strongest
test subject we've ever had—the one most likely to succeed. You know that. If he
becomes useless, our partnership ends here."
His words carried no warmth of protection—only the possessiveness of a collector
defending his prize. Gratitude was the last thing Baicha felt.
"I-I'm sorry, Doctor," Pitchaya murmured quickly, her face twisted in grievance. "I just
couldn't control myself when I saw his face—it doesn't resemble me at all. And you know
what his father did to me…"
Rowell's expression softened. "I know. He was born of something you never wanted. You
were forced. Violated. And he's too strong to kill. So of course you'd despise him. That's
only natural."
Baicha's body froze. Violated…? Doubt stabbed at his heart. Was he truly the product of
such suffering? Was his resilience a curse of birth?
Pitchaya sighed prettily, playing the role of the wronged woman to perfection.
Rowell reached out, almost soothing. "Even so, Pi, that doesn't mean you can do whatever
you like with this lab's specimen. He is my future. And you know why I brought you into this
contract, don't you?"
"…I understand, Doctor," she said softly. "I promise I won't go too far again. But at least…
let me visit him. Watching him during experiments may help ease my resentment. Later,
when he awakens his powers, you and I will play his parents, won't we? To ensure he
serves your Killer Association."
Baicha stiffened.
Rowell smiled thinly. "That's fine. Visit him, shout at him, insult him if you must. It makes
no difference. Once he turns five and awakens, we'll erase all his memories of this place.
Whether you were cruel or kind, he'll forget it all."
They spoke of him as if he were livestock.
The truth was that Rowell did not belong solely to one world. The man's existence straddled both realms—the hunters who lived in the light above, and the killers who thrived in the shadows below. That was why he could hold the dual position of supervisor at the research institute where Pitchaya worked and, at the same time, command authority here in this underground lab.
Their paths had crossed long ago, and in time their partnership had grown into something more intimate.
So when Rowell noticed subtle changes in Baicha—ears that had once been perfectly human now lengthening to resemble elves or other strange races of the dungeons, a boy who had endured every twisted experiment for three years without dying when most children perished within weeks, a body whose health improved inexplicably day by day—he began to believe that his research might, at last, bear fruit.
It was then that he invited Pitchaya to prepare herself for the role of mother—not in truth, but in name—for his specimen.
If Baicha's awakening truly revealed the overwhelming power Rowell predicted, the child could then be slipped seamlessly into the world of hunters, where he would serve as a weapon of the Killers from within.
Rowell had no perfected formula, no guarantee of creating a strong child. His method was simple: create one first, then analyze later. For that, the guise of fatherhood was essential.
And Pitchaya, being the boy's actual mother, was a tool far too convenient to ignore. Using her would smooth many obstacles, and might even elevate Rowell's status within the guild. For even if his attempts to synthesize enhancement drugs ultimately failed, if Baicha himself proved a weapon of immeasurable worth, then the man who called himself his father would be as good as the weapon's owner.
A tiger with wings.
"I understand," Pitchaya said sweetly, her voice docile as a well-trained pet.
Rowell hummed in approval.
The conversation drifted back to Baicha—his promising test results, his birth records, the paperwork that still listed him as a living child rather than a death certificate. They ended, as always, with shared fantasies of what their little captive might one day achieve for them.
Baicha, listening through the glass, nearly rolled his eyes until they rattled in his skull.
They dreamed too much. Only he, staring into his own reflection, could see his status clearly. His awakening, from birth until now, had never changed. Not once.
The boy understood why they placed their hopes in him—he was the only child in this lower-level Killer lab who had survived this long. He endured more than even the older subjects. But ears that grew pointed meant nothing. Bodies changed shape when bathed in monster-blood serums; it was no miracle. And his supposed "health improvements"? That was laughable. He was healthier, yes—but not invincible. His flesh was not steel, his bones not iron.
If only he could speak freely, he would shout at them both: Your so-called experiments are worthless! Measuring daily health and calling it "success"? If you want to know how strong a child will be after awakening, then make a real standard—compare the powerful with the weak, analyze down to the root of their cells, build a system to measure true potential! Don't just jab needles and record temperatures like fools!
But of course, he could not.
So when the two schemers finally left, Baicha could only scowl, muttering to himself as feeling returned to his limbs.
"Annoying! So damn annoying!"
Today had been nothing but one frustration after another. First, the torture of their experiments. Second, the absurd dreams they pinned on him. And third—the revelation that perhaps, perhaps, his mother's cruelty had been born from violation.
If she was truly forced… if she once was good before being broken… should I hate her, or forgive her?
The thought tangled in his small chest.
But then he shook it off. No. Think of escape instead. If they erase my memories when I awaken, I'll be nothing but their slave. And Baicha will never be anyone's slave.
The four-year-old, with the mind of a grown man, glared at the retreating figure of his mother. She had promised Rowell restraint, but every visit ended the same: mocking laughter as he writhed, insults as he bled, hidden shocks of electricity to reopen his wounds.
Still… he could not hate her completely. That cursed word—violated—had lodged itself in his heart.
So he merely cursed under his breath, wishing her a fate both humiliating and ridiculous, nothing more.
From that day forward, Baicha set his vow: he would escape before his awakening. Two years passed, and now, with only two months remaining, the time was nearly upon him.
He gathered poisons, monster acids, stolen tools—every scrap of material he could smuggle into his ragged doll. He mapped every scientist's routine, every guard's patrol. Tonight, at last, he would break free.
Or so he thought.
"Ah! Oww—ow ow ow!"
A book—massive, black as the void—appeared above his head, unseen by any but him. It crashed down with a heavy thud, sending pain lancing through his skull before dissolving into his mind, flooding him with memories not his own.
Baicha screamed silently as waves of story seared through his brain.
When the storm passed, he lay trembling, eyes wide. He had seen the truth.
His mother had lied. She was no victim.
"Violated? Hah! That hag was the violator!" he spat.
The so-called heroine, Pitchaya, had forced herself upon his father—under the influence of the Dungeon of Lust's curse, yes, but with her own will too eager, too calculating. She had chased after power, after beauty, and when her plans collapsed, she turned her bitterness upon the child she bore.
Baicha slammed his fists against the floor. "She hates me because she failed! Because I survived! That witch deserves an explosion at her front door!"
Then he cursed the very spirit of this world—the one that had delivered the black book. You knew, didn't you? You didn't want me to escape before the story began. You sent this to keep me in place.
But he sighed in defeat. "Fine. Fine. I'll wait. If it means meeting my father… I'll wait."
His father—the masked hero, the man both hunter and shadow—would come here soon. And when he did, Baicha's life would change forever.
"Still," he muttered, pouting like the child he appeared to be, "what a waste of effort…"
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Pitchaya:"I was raped…" //wiping away her tearsBaicha:"That woman raped my father!!!" //pointing a trembling finger in fury
Chapter 3 END