System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 301: Vault of Sins
The Witcher stepped through a layer of sticky blood, left several corpses behind, and reached the second floor, the room where the woman’s wails had come from before.
“Knock, knock, knock...”
“Who is it? Bilar? Stand outside like a good dog. I’m busy.”
“Bang! Bang! Bang!”
“Bastard. You still dare knock? Want to die? I’ll skin you!”
After vicious curses and a rush of hurried footsteps,
the door opened.
A young face poked out. The later Hawthorn the Second, that future monster of unspeakable depravity, was not yet twenty. He had greasy dark-gold hair, bloodshot blue eyes, and the mean lips and sinister nose inherited from his father.
His body was thin and small, his bare upper half all ribs, like a child not fully grown.
Yet this fellow’s temper was not small.
With a crooked mouth and slanted eyes, his face full of perversity, he cursed and spat.
“Son of a bitch, do you know the rules or not? Daring to disturb my pleasure at this hour?”
Cyprian Willie suddenly stopped, his face full of confusion.
“No, wrong. You ... who exactly are you?”
The utterly unfamiliar visitor outside the door had handsome, clean-cut features and a long, lean build, far prettier than the hulking brutes of the Willie Gang.
And those dark-gold vertical pupils...
The strange bloodlight behind him...
The longsword dripping blood lower down...
“Hiss.”
His eyelid twitched.
“The man who cleans up rubbish.”
The moment the words fell, the Witcher kicked him in the lower belly like lightning, sending him flying two yards backward. He fell to his knees and clutched his stomach, wailing.
Roy dragged his longsword and strode through the doorway.
He looked around, and his gaze could not help tightening.
The room was lavishly decorated, rich and splendid. In the center stood a striking large bed. Beside the dressing mirror around it were all manner of cruel instruments of torture, tweezers, small knives, steel needles, leather whips.
A pitiful person lay face-down on the bed. Her smooth back was covered in marks of whipping and torment.
To the Witcher’s keen perception, she had already stopped breathing.
Before death, she had clearly suffered no small amount.
“Ten years early, but the pervert is still a pervert.”
“Cyprian Willie, from now on, you will never again have the chance to hurt anyone.”
A cold light flashed in Roy’s eyes. Gwyhyr moved in a sword flourish, and he was about to finish this piece of filth with one stroke.
“Wait. Don’t kill me. I’ll tell you a secret.”
Hawthorn the Second’s eyes nearly split. He suddenly roared.
“Alphonse’s treasure. Crowns, gems. Please.”
In that short moment, he had already understood the situation before him.
Since this stranger with beast-pupils and a body covered in blood could reach this place, it could only mean the entire manor guard, including his father, had met with disaster.
Then he thought of how, earlier, in his extreme excitement, he had ignored the faint wails outside the door.
Even if it was hard to believe, he had no choice but to believe it.
But he was still young. He had not yet heard enough beautiful women scream. He did not want to die at all.
The sword sharp enough to cut iron dragged a shallow line of blood across the man’s neck, then went no farther.
Thought flickered in the dark-gold pupils.
Before this, Roy had only intended to settle the future trouble once and for all. He had not considered seizing wealth.
But once the other man mentioned it, he could not help taking it to heart.
The Viper School lacked money too badly. And Alphonse Willie, as one of the four giants, had ruled a gang for more than ten years and amassed countless wealth. How large a sum could he have saved?
“Cough, cough ... This boss, master, my lord ... You killed Alphonse, didn’t you?” Cyprian observed the other man’s expression, folded his hands together without the slightest dignity, knelt on the ground, and begged humbly.
“Spare me this once. I know where he hid his property. I’ll take you to the manor’s secret room. Money, jewels, antiques, more than you can count, enough for you to spend over several lifetimes.”
“Let you go, and wait for you to take revenge on me?” The Witcher raised a brow.
“No, never. My lord, believe me. Alphonse deserved it.” The man’s expression changed suddenly, and he began cursing his own father in a stern voice. “I wished him dead. I wanted to cut him into a thousand pieces. He was a pervert. A demon.”
“Look, this is all his handiwork.” He suddenly turned around, revealing a back split with flesh wounds, horrifying to the eye.
It was covered in old scars, swelling, and scabs, likely from long-term whipping.
“That old bastard Alphonse tortured me every day. If anything went the slightest bit wrong, or if the mood simply took him, he whipped me, beat me, kicked me.”
Roy’s expression moved.
What did one call this? A father and son both perverts, under one roof?
A father clearly in high position, lacking nothing, yet committing such bestial acts against his only kin.
Perhaps the man before him had become so vicious, perverse, and neurotic, had grown into such a scoundrel, partly because of that father’s long “nurturing.”
As the old saying went, the fortunate are healed by childhood all their lives; the unfortunate spend their lives healing from childhood.
Cyprian noticed the Witcher’s expression ease a little, and his heart loosened. An ugly smile squeezed onto his sickly face, like a mangy dog trying to please.
“You killed my enemy for me. I’m too happy and grateful for words. How could I take revenge?”
“Only say the word. From today, from this moment, Cyprian Willie will become your most loyal subordinate, your old dog ... handling all troublesome affairs for you.”
But none of that excuses your perversion.
“Sorry ... The secret room, the wealth, I’ll take them. But you...”
Roy shook his head and glanced one last time at the corpse on the bed. The five fingers of his left hand traced a blue inverted triangle.
The Sign entered the man’s pupils. His body instantly shuddered, and his eyes went dull as a puppet’s.
Then his mouth opened and closed stiffly, cooperating with the Witcher’s questions and answers.
Two minutes later.
Roy got the answer he wanted. The longsword pushed forward, cleanly piercing through the eye socket and into the brain.
Hawthorn the Second fell forward on all fours and entered eternal sleep without pain.
Defeated ... XP +20. Witcher LV7 (1020/4500).
...
“Hum.”
The Viper School steel sword sang softly, drawing a brilliant arc. A Willie Gang thug holding a hand axe instantly clutched his neck, a few garbled words bubbling from his mouth.
He fell into a pool of blood, twitched for a while, and returned to stillness.
Orin exhaled, tore a cloth from the corpse, and used the rainwater to wipe flesh and blood from the steel sword. His amber pupils looked around.
At this moment, Kael and Flavius, who were guarding the gate, had also finished the battle and were doing the cleaning and finishing work. Aside from the three standing Witchers, there was no other living person present.
In the spacious courtyard lay no fewer than forty corpses. The rainwater pooled on the ground had been dyed the red of blood.
This ambush had reached its end.
...
The three rushed into the villa.
After a search, they met up with bald Letho and Roy.
The five Witchers were almost unhurt, but their mana and physical strength had been heavily consumed, and their faces did not look good.
“Friends, I had an unexpected gain...” Roy swept his eyes over his bloodstained, weary-faced companions and delivered good news. “I found a secret room full of treasure.”
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