Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!-Chapter 117. Justification

Freya broke the silence with a mutter, "No wonder they were so determined to capture you. If they believe that story—if they think awakening the White Dragon means unlocking some kind of catastrophic power—then..."

Zyon exhaled slowly, then added in a grim tone, "They want to use your mother to awaken that bloodline. Maybe they tried to do it through you first... but when that failed, they shifted to another candidate."

Amelia’s heart thudded painfully in her chest.

Evelyn picked up the thread, her brows knit with worry. "It’s starting to make sense—the fragments of information, the rituals, the coordinated attacks. The puzzle pieces are fitting together... but still, I can’t shake this uneasy feeling. Like there’s something we’re missing."

Amelia’s response was swift and absolute. "We don’t have the luxury of dwelling on maybes. If they want to awaken something inside my mother, then it’s for something terrible. We need to stop them before it’s too late."

Zyon nodded in agreement, his tone hardening. "Yeah. I’m sure of it. These bastards—Opalcrest—they’re not doing this for peace. They’re monsters, and I wouldn’t trust them to spare a single life if it meant power."

Their eyes met, and for a second, Amelia saw the fire in his gaze match her own.

"We move. Now," she said.

But Zyon’s stare didn’t waver. "No. We move. You need to rest, Amelia. Your mana still hasn’t stabilized from the overload. If you push yourself again, you might burn out completely. Let us take this for now. We’ll find Aunt Liana—just trust us."

His words were firm, but the hand that touched her shoulder was gentle.

Then, Freya reached out and placed a hand on Zyon’s forearm, her voice soft yet heavy with meaning. "I know you mean well, but saying that only makes it harder for her. A child won’t sit still when their parent is in danger, no matter how much sense it makes."

Zyon lowered his gaze, his jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue.

Amelia glanced at her hands, still faintly glowing with the lingering backlash of mana. She closed them into fists, forcing the tremble to stop.

"Has Father returned yet? From the diplomacy meeting?" she asked, needing to know if at least one of her parents was safe.

Evelyn answered solemnly, "The meeting ended. Thanks to Uncle Lucian, the war was deterred.... But your father never came back. The envoys claim he left immediately afterward. Said he was searching for someone."

Amelia’s heart squeezed again. "He must be looking for Mother..."

Freya nodded slowly. "Then what’s our first move? We need a proper plan."

Zyon straightened, his eyes sharp and focused again. "We call Art. He said he’d report back once he had something solid. With any luck, he’s found another trail."

Evelyn agreed. "Yes. And we need more allies. We can’t walk blindly into this alone. The more help we have, the better."

Freya hesitated before adding, "Did Art mention anything about Cassius? He’s been missing for weeks now. No contact, no trace."

Zyon shook his head, a shadow falling over his face. "No... still nothing. But Art did mention that he’d been tracking movement across multiple regions. He said something about ten regions being blitzed in seven days. He suspects Cassius might’ve passed through one of them."

Evelyn’s hands clenched at her sides. "I hope they’re alright. Both of them. Art’s overworking himself... and Cassius... I just—" she stopped herself.

Amelia nodded in quiet agreement. "Then let’s move. Time isn’t on our side."

Freya stood from her seat and stretched out the stiffness in her limbs. "Right. Celeste and Lilith are being tended to by the nurses. They’ll recover in a few days. Hopefully."

Zyon moved closer to Evelyn. "Get your teleportation device ready. Let’s head back to Everhart Valley."

Evelyn gave a small nod and pulled out a square crystal chip from her satchel. She murmured a spell under her breath, the device glowing faintly in response. One by one, she attached a binding tether from the chip to each of them—Zyon, Freya, Amelia, and finally herself.

"All set," she whispered.

"Then let’s go," Amelia said.

In the next instant, there was a brilliant flash of blue light, followed by the distinct snap of spatial distortion.

BAM!

They vanished.

And reappeared moments later on a high ridge surrounded by rolling hills and whispering trees—the same spot Miss Celia had left them at on the very first day of their academy trip.

The Everhart Valley stretched out beneath them like a green ocean.

The sky was overcast now, clouds churning with quiet thunder in the distance. A storm was brewing. Both in the sky, and in their lives.

....

Region-60.

A wasteland of death and ruin.

The region looked like it had been swallowed whole by an apocalypse and spit out with indifference.

Buildings lay in shambles—what was once homes, shops, or shelters were now piles of rubble and ash.

The ground was painted in a visceral shade of red, soaked so deeply with blood that it looked like the land itself was weeping.

Hundreds—no, thousands—of corpses littered the terrain.

And they weren’t just dead.

They were ruined.

Bodies mangled beyond recognition. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles, some torn clean off. Heads cracked open like eggshells, the grayish pulp of brains exposed to the scorched air. Intestines strewn like discarded rope. Eyes hollowed out. Necks snapped. Flesh peeled.

Every single one of them was like that. Every single one.

It wasn’t just a massacre.

It was artistry of violence.

As if something not human—but once was—had decided to make a statement.

And right in the heart of it all, amid the chaos and the corpses, he sat.

Arawn. Masked. Still. Drenched in blood. A pool of crimson clung to his boots like a shadow.

His amethyst hair was matted, sticking to his jaw and neck. His white mask, emotionless and serene, now had streaks of red smeared across its edge—like war paint.

His shoulders were slack. Chest barely rising. Like the storm had passed. Like this was the silence after the slaughter.

Beside him sat a smaller figure.

A boy.

White-haired. Crimson-eyed. Rufus Everhart.

Amelia’s younger brother. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them could.

Cassius—no, Arawn—was staring at his own hand. The blood on it wasn’t dry yet. It slid down slowly, drop by drop, glistening under the gray sky. It wasn’t his blood.

It was theirs.

People he had killed.

People who had begged. Fought. Screamed. Died.

A translucent screen floated in the air before him.

«Blood Boost, Skill Rank Up!!!»

«Blood Boost»

Rank: ★★★

Effect: EXP gained from killing humans increased by 100%.

Kills until next rank up: 20,367 / 100,000

’Over twenty thousand.’

He couldn’t even feel proud. The number meant nothing anymore.

Arawn exhaled, low and sharp. He rubbed his temples, brushing his mask up for just a moment, as if to feel something—anything—that reminded him he was still human.

’How long... has it been since I snapped like that?’

His thoughts raced, a feverish mess of fragments and denials.

’Years... it’s been years. I was supposed to be done with this. I left this behind. I got therapy. I stopped being a fucking monster.’

His fingers curled into a fist. Blood squelched between them.

’I walked away from that life. I left the underworld. I left Sophia. I erased my name. I erased myself.’

He looked down again at the mutilated bodies scattered before him.

’And now I’m here again. Painting the ground red. Killing like breathing. Like instinct.’

’Have I changed? Really? Or am I just... pretending?’

He shook his head. As if to fling the thought away like a fly.

’No. I only killed trash. Human garbage. They were scum. All of them. Traffickers. Slavers. Murderers. Not a single innocent.’

’Not one.’

A silence followed in his mind. Then a whisper of doubt.

’But... is it really their fault that they’re all shitty? Or is it mine? Am I just looking for excuses to kill again?’

He clenched his teeth beneath the mask.

’NO. They deserved it. They did. I don’t kill without reason. I’m not that person anymore.’

He repeated that sentence in his head. Over and over. Until it almost sounded true.

But the guilt crept in anyway, slipping through the cracks of his justifications like smoke.

’I wanted a normal life... damn it.’ His shoulders shook. ’I wanted peace. Just... peace.’

His voice was hoarse. Barely audible. "I don’t like this. I didn’t want this."

Rufus, who had said nothing this whole time, looked up at him. His crimson eyes reflected no fear. Only a strange quiet understanding. And maybe... a little sadness.

Arawn didn’t meet his gaze.

He didn’t deserve to.

He pressed his bloodied hand to the ground, feeling its warmth. Its life.

’This place was supposed to be just another lead... just a search for clues.’

But he had blacked out. Again. The berserker state had taken over. The moment he saw what they were doing to Rufus...

The moment he saw him getting tortured...

Everything snapped. He saw his own face in him... his past.

And now?

He exhaled again, this time slower.

"I can’t stop. Not yet."

He rose to his feet, towering over the carnage.

His mask back in place. Emotionless. Faceless.

"There’s more of them out there. And if I don’t kill them, they’ll keep doing this."

Rufus followed silently. His small hand clenched into a fist. He said nothing, but stood behind Cassius without question.

Together, the two figures disappeared into the lingering mist of Region-60, walking through the trail of blood they left behind.

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