The darkness of the disposal pit was not a silent one.
It was filled with the wet, rhythmic sounds of tearing meat and the low, vibrational growls of the Scavenger Wolves.
Verdinand Dexon should have been dead.
By every law of biology and magic, a boy with his spine shattered, his limbs missing, and his organs decorating the floor should have ceased to be.
But the blue light of the [HUMILIATION PROTOCOL] didn't just hover; it sank into his skin, cold as liquid nitrogen.
[Emergency Protocol: Manual Override Initiated.]
[Status: User Vitality at 0.02%.]
[Instruction: Biological Reconstitution.]
Verdinand felt a sensation that was worse than the pain of being eaten.
It was the feeling of his body being stitched back together by invisible, serrated needles.
From the stumps of his shoulder and hip, white-hot fibers of muscle and bone erupted like frantic vines.
They didn't grow gracefully; they forced their way through the dirt and the mouths of the wolves still clinging to him.
One wolf, confused by the sudden movement of its meal, clamped its jaws down on Verdinand's throat and jerked its head back with a savage snap.
Verdinand's head detached.
For a split second, his consciousness floated in a void. Then, the system shrieked.
[ERROR: Critical Structural Failure. Force-Feeding Vitality.]
With a sound like wet leather being wrung out, the head didn't just grow back—it pulled itself back toward the neck with pulsing, blackened veins.
The bone fused with a sickening crack. Verdinand's eyes snapped open.
They were no longer the warm brown of the Aurelian Reach; they were flat, hollow, and shimmering with a faint, oily light.
He stood up. His left arm and leg were pale, hairless, and looked as though they had been sculpted from wax.
They were usable, but they didn't feel like his own. He looked down at the three wolves.
He didn't feel fear. He didn't feel the innocent terror that had defined him an hour ago.
That boy had been digested by the dragon. What stood in the pit now was a cold, breathing trauma.
A wolf lunged, aiming for his newly formed thigh.
Verdinand didn't think. He shifted his weight, his body moving with a twitchy, unnatural fluidity.
He dodged the lunge by a hair's breadth. As the beast passed, he reached out and grabbed it by the scruff of its neck.
The wolf snarled, twisting to bite his hand, but Verdinand didn't let go. He brought his right fist down.
Crunch.
He didn't use fire magic.
He didn't have the mana for it. He used the raw, desperate strength of a cornered animal.
He punched the wolf again. And again. Its skull caved in, its eye popping out of the socket, but Verdinand didn't stop.
He pinned the creature to the dirt and continued to rain blows upon it until its head was nothing but a wet heap of gray brain matter and splintered bone.
The other two wolves attacked simultaneously.
One tore a chunk out of his side; the other clamped onto his right arm, the teeth sinking deep into the muscle.
Verdinand didn't even flinch.
He watched with a detached, clinical interest as his side began to knit back together even as the wolf chewed.
He grabbed the second wolf by its lower jaw.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled. The sound of tendons snapping filled the pit.
"You.... Motherfucker!" Verdinand yelled.
He didn't kill it quickly. He disassembled it, limb by limb, his hands covered in hot, sticky blood.
He felt every bite they took out of him, but the pain was distant now—a dull hum behind the screaming static of his mind.
By the time the third wolf lay in pieces, Verdinand was a horror.
His body was smoking, the rapid regeneration putting a massive strain on his cells.
He was covered in a mixture of his own blood and the black ichor of the scavengers.
His face was barely recognizable, the skin taut and scarred where it had fused back to the bone.
[Protocol Successful.]
[Enemy Threats Eliminated.]
[Warning: User Consciousness at Limit. Shutting Off Systems To Regenerate.]
The blue light flickered and died.
"What..... The" he mumbled weakly.
Verdinand collapsed into the pile of gore, his eyes sliding shut as the mountain's silence reclaimed the pit.
Light.
It wasn't the harsh, golden light of the dragon's hoard or the sickly purple glow of the dungeon runes.
It was soft, filtered through dust motes, smelling of lavender and old paper.
Verdinand's eyes fluttered open.
He was lying on a bed—a real bed with cotton sheets that felt impossibly soft against his skin.
He immediately tried to sit up, his hand darting to his side where the wolf had torn him open.
"Easy, easy. Don't move too fast."
The voice was calm and mature.
Verdinand turned his head, his muscles tensing instinctively.
Sitting in a high-backed wooden chair to his right was a woman.
She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with long, ink-black hair tied back in a practical ponytail.
She wore a high-collared, navy blue coat over a white blouse—clothes that looked remarkably modern and tailored compared to the rugged leathers Verdinand was used to.
"Where... where am I?" Verdinand's voice was hoarse, sounding like it had been dragged over gravel.
"My workshop," she said, leaning forward. She was beautiful, with sharp, intelligent eyes that studied him with a mix of curiosity and concern.
"I'm Lyra Silverweaver. I'm a B-tier healing mage. I was scouting the outer edges of the Sunken Ossuary for herbs when I found you. Or... what was left of you."
Verdinand looked down at his hands. They were whole. "I see.... So I survived after all...."
He pulled back the blanket. His legs were there.
His shaft and balls, the parts the dragon had torn away in that final, humiliating act of violence—they were restored.
He felt a sudden, violent surge of memory: the sound of Isolde's laughter, the weight of Garrick's hand on his mouth, the feeling of his spine snapping.
His breath hitched.
His heart began to hammer against his ribs—not with fear, but with a cold, boiling pressure.
"You were in a state I've never seen," Lyra continued, her voice soft.
"Your injuries... they were fatal. Multiple times over. You had a spear wound through your spine that should have paralyzed you forever, and yet, when I brought you here, your body was... knitting itself. I've spent three days using every restorative spell in my arsenal just to keep the fever down, but the truth is, you healed yourself. I just provided the bed."
Verdinand didn't respond.
He stared at the ceiling. He remembered his mother's face.
He remembered Leo.
And then he remembered Isolde saying, "No one will miss you."
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to find a sword and run back to Solmere until his lungs burst.
He wanted to feel Isolde's throat under his thumbs.
"I... thank you," Verdinand said, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. "For your kindness. You didn't have to save me."
"I'm a healer, Verdinand. It's what I do," Lyra said, though she looked at him with a strange expression. "But you... there's a coldness in you. I can feel your mana. It's... different now. Brittle."
Inside, Verdinand's mind was a storm of jagged glass.
Kindness. Help. These things felt like insults now.
He didn't want to be healed.
He wanted to be a weapon. He wanted to be the monster that made them regret every breath they took.
Ping.
The blue screen flickered into existence, visible only to him.
[User Status Updated.]
[Welcome To The Humiliation Protocol, User#1. Good Job On Surviving The Encounter With The Scavenger Wolves. We Expect Great Thinks Like That For The Certain Future From you.]
[Name: Verdinand Dexon]
[Rating: D+]
[Strength: 1/1000]
[Mana: 1/1000]
[Speed: 1/1000]
[Regenerating Ability: 100/1000]
[Willpower: High]
[We Highly Suggest You To Use The Protocol To The Fullest.]
Verdinand stared at the numbers.
Whatever they meant; they were pathetic.
"I'll go get you some tea," Lyra said, standing up. "You need to keep your strength up. We can talk more when you've eaten."
As she left the room, her boots clicking softly on the wooden floor, Verdinand noticed a small, flickering "i" icon beside his stats. With a mental nudge, he clicked it.
The screen shifted, expanding into a detailed explanation that made the blood in his veins turn to ice.
[The Humiliation Protocol: Leveling Guide]
[The User has been designated as the 'Vessel of Scorned Blood.']
[Standard experience points are disabled. To grow, the User must harvest the essence of Humiliation.]
[Mechanism:]
Points for attribute allocation are granted through the subversion and degradation of others. The User must subject targets to physical, social, or psychological humiliation. The more 'superior' the target perceives themselves to be, and the more 'traumatizing' the act of their downfall, the higher the point yield.
[Current Multipliers:]
- Public Exposure: 1.5x
- Betrayal of Trust: 2.0x
- Total Psychological Collapse: 5.0x
Verdinand stared at the words.
Total Psychological Collapse.
He looked at his hands again.
They were clean now, thanks to Lyra.
But he could still feel the phantom sensation of the dragon's teeth.
He could still hear Isolde's voice calling him a "handsome little spark" before tossing him to his death.
He didn't need to be kind anymore. He didn't need to be a hero.
The System didn't want him to kill his enemies.
It wanted him to break them.
It wanted him to take the people who stood on pedestals—people like Isolde, people like the high-tier mages of Solmere—and drag them into the dirt until they begged for the death he had nearly been granted.
This wasn't anger. It was yearning. Yearning for their slow, cruel and brutal deaths.
And here I was developing a crush on her, Verdinand thought.
Verdinand's lips curled into a dry, mirthless smile.
It was the first time he had smiled since entering the dungeon, but there was no innocence in it.
"Humiliation," he whispered to the empty, dusty room. "I think I can manage that."