Four years had passed since I began experimenting in the shadows. Four years of silence, observation, and ruthless refinement. The orphanage had become nothing more than a stage, a playground for my experiments. To everyone else, it was boredom, misery, and petty bullshit. To me? It was a laboratory, a battlefield, a fucking war zone.
I had grown stronger. My cursed energy was sharper, faster, more controlled. Arthur and Lancelot—still ugly, still blocky, still goddamn crude—were now faster, more precise, able to respond to subtle cues I barely had to think about. The new puppets I had created, while still awkward, were learning quickly. Obedience was no longer just mechanical—it was instinctive.
And yet, one thing remained constant: I was Von. Seven in body, twenty-one in mind, ruthless, cold, calculating. Weakness wasn't an option. Emotion was a liability. The world didn't give a shit about me. So why should I?
Fuck weakness. Fuck mercy. Only power matters.
The First Real Threat
The alley stank of rot and decay, shadows twisting like they had their own goddamn brains. A curse slithered from the darkness, and I immediately recognized it as more dangerous than any shit I had faced before. Its body was twisted, jagged spikes crawling across its mottled flesh, eyes glowing with pure malice.
I crouched, tiny frame pressed against the wall, pulse steady. This wasn't a practice run. This wasn't a fucking toy test. This was death incarnate, and I was ready.
"Arthur, Lancelot… new puppets, move," I hissed.
The puppets obeyed instantly, stiff blocky limbs adjusting, shadows twisting. Even the new puppets, clumsy and awkward, followed commands without hesitation.
The curse hissed, claws scraping concrete like nails on a chalkboard. It lunged at the nearest puppet.
"Block. Strike. Don't fuck up," I whispered, letting cursed energy guide every move.
Arthur swung first, golden blocky fist connecting. Lancelot's shadow pulse followed, jagged and sharp. Two new puppets moved to absorb fragments of cursed energy while the others distracted the creature. The curse shrieked like a motherfucker, flailing wildly, spikes slicing through the air. One puppet got smashed sideways, wood splintering, but it absorbed the energy and stood again, obedient.
Good. Pain teaches. Obedience grows under pressure.
Coordination and Calculation
I didn't panic. I didn't flinch. I was calm, methodical, and ruthless. Every twitch, every lunge, every pulse of cursed energy was analyzed. The curse was fast, unpredictable, but my puppets were learning.
"Arthur, flank left. Lancelot, strike from above. New puppets, block and observe," I ordered.
Their movements were jerky at first, but they compensated. Obedience became instinct. Timing, spacing, energy distribution—they adapted. Each fragment the curse shed fed them energy, experience, and precision.
Fuck weakness. Only efficiency matters.
Survival at Any Cost
One of the newer puppets faltered, limbs splintering under the curse's strike. I didn't hesitate. Arthur lunged, Lancelot struck, and the remaining puppets covered the fallen one. In seconds, the curse was obliterated, fragments absorbed into my puppets' forms.
I didn't feel relief. I didn't feel pride. I didn't even feel joy. I cataloged every success, every failure, every lesson. Obedience had been maintained under extreme pressure. That was all that mattered.
Pain, destruction, chaos—tools for growth if you know how to fucking use them.
The Tenfold Pact in Sight
As I watched my puppets absorb energy, my mind raced. Ten puppets. Maximum obedience. Maximum power. Special Grade. One Binding Vow to enforce it all. No hesitation. No mercy. Limitations turned into tools. Sacrifice turned into advantage.
The Tenfold Pact wasn't just a dream anymore. It was inevitable. My puppets—ugly, blocky, crude—were evolving, learning, growing with every fight. Every cursed fragment they consumed pushed them closer to something unstoppable.
And it will all obey me.
Ruthless Reflection
I didn't feel empathy for the curse. I didn't feel triumph at my puppets' success. I was Von. Ruthless, patient, precise. The orphanage, the staff, the other children—they were irrelevant, weak, disposable. Only my puppets mattered. Only power mattered. Only obedience mattered.
I imagined the Tenfold Pact. Ten obedient soldiers, Special Grade, moving with perfect coordination, every attack calculated, every defense flawless, all under my command.
The world doesn't know it yet. But it will. And when it does… it's going to fucking regret it.
Closing Thoughts
Four years of training, survival, and experimentation had sharpened me like a knife. My puppets had been tested, had learned, and had obeyed flawlessly under extreme pressure. They were still ugly, blocky, crude—but alive, growing, evolving.
The Tenfold Pact wasn't a fantasy. It was a plan. A goddamn inevitability. My army would evolve. My puppets would obey perfectly. And I… I would wield them with surgical precision.
I had been reborn into a fragile-ass body, alone, orphaned. But my mind, my cursed energy, and my puppets—they were weapons. And I would use them to fucking dominate.
This is only the fucking beginning