Chapter 162: A Twisted Sick Game
The trio stood rigid beneath the oppressive gaze of the Sword of Red Run, its crimson eyes boring into them like twin embers in the twilight. The air was thick with tension, the weight of their predicament pressing down like an invisible shroud.
Emma Dawson and Rodney Luther’s voices rang out in unison, each declaring, "I’ll stay!" Their words overlapped, a desperate bid to protect the other, revealing the depth of their bond even amidst the terror.
Rodney turned to Emma, his eyes softening with concern, but before he could speak, she pressed forward, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Esteemed Sword Born. Please, let me stay. Senior Brother Luther’s cultivation is stronger; he’ll find the mighty Senior Brother Krogh Hanz and finish your task faster." Her plea was earnest, driven by both love and logic, though her heart ached at the thought of separation.
Rodney shook his head, his expression torn. "No, Emma, you should go. Your keen senses as a female cultivator will uncover clues we male cultivators might miss." His voice carried a quiet resolve, masking the fear that gnawed at him, the fear of losing her to the estate’s lurking horrors.
Jorge Blue stepped forward, his voice measured and deferential, though a quiet dread coiled in his chest. "Esteemed Sword Born," he began, choosing each word with care. "Your Highness must have seen by now that the two lovebirds are deeply devoted, their hearts entwined. To part them would be... a cruelty beyond necessity. If it pleases you, allow me to go in their stead." His tone remained polished, respectful—yet beneath the surface, unease lingered, unspoken.
The crimson sword hovered motionless in the thick air, its crimson eyes pulsing like dying embers in a slaughterhouse. The silence stretched just a heartbeat too long—the terrible pause of a predator deciding whether to play with its food or simply devour it whole.
Then it erupted into a fit of wet, gurgling giggles, the sound bubbling up from its blade like blood from a fresh throat wound. "Ooooh yes! You use such pretty words! Makes sooo much sense, doesn’t it?"
The sword executed a slow, predatory circle around the trio, its tip leaving faint red trails in the air that smelled faintly of copper and burned flesh. "The two male cultivators will remain, and the female will search alone." Its voice was cold, final, cutting through the air like a blade.
Jorge’s expression shattered like thin ice, his usual cold control splintering into raw disbelief. His lips parted, then twisted as if the Sword’s words were a physical blow. "What?" The word tore from his throat, ragged and unguarded—a sound he’d never allowed himself before. Beside him, Rodney stood frozen, his silence louder than any protest.
Emma took a half-step back, her breath hitching. The Sword’s choice settled over her like a spider’s legs skittering down her spine. "Why... me?" Her voice wavered, thin as a frayed thread, betraying the dread pooling in her stomach.