The Great Hall erupted in a chorus of mocking whistles and laughter as Dver stumbled into the center of the jade floor. He looked pathetic. His servant's tunic was slightly oversized, making his Rank 9 frame look gaunt and frail.
"Look at him!" Ran giggled, pulling a handful of silver needles from her sleeve. "He can barely stand! Are you sure you reached Rank 9, or did you just eat a lot of spirit-rice, dog?"
"P-please, Young Mistress," Dver stammered, his knees knocking together. He looked around the room with a gaze of wide-eyed, desperate terror. "The lights... they're so bright... I—I'm just a servant..."
WHACK.
A silver needle, imbued with stinging lightning-Qi, buried itself in Dver's shoulder. He let out a high-pitched, girlish shriek and tripped over his own feet, sprawling onto the jade floor.
The Elders roared with laughter. One high-ranking guest actually spat his wine out. "Shen! Where did you find this clown? He has the cultivation of a warrior and the soul of a frightened rabbit!"
"He's a specialty breed," Shen smirked, basking in the attention. "The more you hit him, the more he cries. Watch."
For twenty minutes, the Great Hall was a theater of cruelty. Ran and Mei took turns using Dver as a moving target. They didn't aim for vitals; they aimed for the "funny" spots—the ears, the palms, the backs of the knees. Dver spent the entire time rolling, flailing, and begging for mercy. He "accidentally" smashed his face into a pillar. He "clumsily" ripped his own tunic while trying to crawl away.
He was the perfect jester. The ultimate humiliation.
High above, the Saintess Lyra watched with a face of stone. She looked at the blood on the jade, then at Dver's face. For a moment, Dver's head lolled back as he "fainted" from a strike.
His eyes met hers.
In that split second, the "clown" was gone. Those dead, black-hole eyes stared into her soul with a cold, terrifying promise. They weren't crying. They weren't hurting. They were counting.
Then, he blinked, and the "fainting" slave was back, sobbing for his "Master."
The Long Walk Home
The banquet ended. The guests departed, sated on wine and the spectacle of a broken man.
Deacon Shen, drunk on the Grand Elder's praise, decided to stay at the Inner Peaks to discuss "business." He tossed the leash-chain to his wife. "Take the dog home, my dear. If he survives the night, I'll use him to carry my luggage to the Spirit-Spring tomorrow."
Madam Shen sneered, jerking the chain so hard Dver's neck bruised. "Come, trash. My daughters aren't finished with you. Ran wants to see if your blood can change color if we mix it with hemlock."
Dver followed them. He limped. He whimpered. He kept his head so low he could see the silk hems of their dresses dragging in the dirt.
The moment they stepped inside the private estate and the heavy iron gates thudded shut, the atmosphere shifted. The guards were dismissed to the outer barracks. The house was silent.
"In the center of the courtyard, dog," Madam Shen commanded, sitting on her veranda. "Ran, Mei—get your tools. I want to hear a different kind of scream tonight."
Dver stood in the center of the moonlit grass.
He didn't kneel.
Slowly, with a terrifying, rhythmic clicking sound, Dver stood up straight. His spine lengthened. His shoulders broadened. The "clumsy" slouch vanished, replaced by a predatory, supernatural stillness.
"What are you doing?" Ran snapped, raising her whip. "I said kneel!"
Dver didn't look at her. He reached up to his neck. His fingers, now steady and thick with dense muscle, gripped the "Soul-Binding Shackle."
CRUNCH.
With a single, effortless squeeze, the black iron shattered like cheap glass. The crimson runes flickered and died, unable to contain the absolute Abyssal pressure that suddenly detonated from Dver's core.
The temperature in the courtyard plummeted. The flowers in the garden instantly turned black and crumbled into ash.
"The Soul-Binding..." Madam Shen gasped, her wine cup shattering in her hand. She stood up, her Foundation Establishment Qi flaring in panic. "How?! Guards! GUARDS!"
"They can't hear you," Dver whispered. His voice was no longer a stutter. It was a low, vibrational hum that felt like it was coming from the ground itself.
He turned his head. Those dead, empty eyes locked onto Madam Shen.
"You liked the wine at the banquet, didn't you?" Dver asked.
He moved. He didn't run; he erased the distance.
One moment he was twenty feet away. The next, his hand was clamped around Madam Shen's throat. Her Qi, her "Foundation," felt like a flickering candle against a hurricane.
"M-Mother!" Mei shrieked, drawing her sword.
Dver didn't even look at her. He backhanded the air. A wave of Void pressure slammed into Mei, shattering every bone in her arms and pinning her to the wall of the manor like a broken doll.
Dver looked back at the mother. She was clawing at his hand, her eyes bulging.
"You said I had a sturdy back," Dver murmured. "Let's see if yours is as strong."
He didn't kill her quickly. That would be a waste of the data.
With surgical, terrifying precision, Dver reached into her mouth. He didn't use a knife. He used the Void. He literally unthreaded her tongue from her throat, pulling it out along with the connecting tissues, as clean as a string from a coat.
She couldn't even scream. Her mouth was a hollow, silent cavern of gore.
Then, he began the "Art."
Two Hours Later.
The sun began to peek over the Blood Lotus Mountain.
Deacon Shen walked through his front gates, humming a tune, feeling powerful. He was ready to call his "dog" and head to the Spirit-Spring.
"Dver! Get out here, you useless—"
Shen stopped.
The smell hit him first. It wasn't just the smell of blood; it was the smell of a slaughterhouse that had been organized by a madman.
Hanging from the rafters of the main veranda were his two daughters. They weren't dead—not yet. Their eyes were pinned open, forced to look down at the center of the courtyard.
In the middle of the grass, a wooden post had been erected.
Tied to it was Madam Shen. Or what was left of her.
Her abdomen had been opened with the precision of a master butcher. Her organs hadn't been removed; they had been rearranged. Her intestines were draped over her shoulders like a silk shawl. Her liver and kidneys were hung from her ears like grotesque jewelry.
And in her hand, forced into her dead, cold grip, was her own tongue.
She had been hollowed out, turned into a decorative piece of furniture—exactly how she had treated Dver.
And sitting on the steps of the veranda, calmly drinking a cup of tea from a jade cup, was Dver.
He was wearing a clean, white silk robe he had stolen from the Deacon's wardrobe. There wasn't a single drop of blood on him.
He looked up as the Deacon fell to his knees, vomiting.
Dver's eyes were still dead. Still empty. But as he looked at the broken man before him, a tiny, chilling spark of amusement flickered in the blackness.
"Good morning, Master," Dver said. "The floors are clean. Would you like me to pour your wine?"