Chapter 172: Cursed Tools
In the blink of an eye, three days passed. During that time, the girls indulged themselves fully, swimming through clear waters, riding jet skis across the open sea, and exploring every corner of the island with restless excitement. Laughter came easily to them, light and unrestrained, echoing through the villa from morning till night. In contrast, Damian devoted himself entirely to his work and personal training.
Even he knew it was ridiculous. After clashing with Ruby and Racheal, he had gone out of his way to avoid the same form of training, only to end up alone again.
In his defense, it was not training in the traditional sense. He was not pushing his limits against opponents or grinding for strength. Instead, he explored his power quietly, testing its boundaries, refining control, and familiarizing himself with every subtle change. Everything was done with restraint.
That routine came to an abrupt halt on Wednesday.
This should have been the day they returned to Chicago if not for the incident. Instead, it became the day of the deal. The cursed weapons had to be sold, and the timing could not be delayed any longer.
They still had until Saturday before their booking ended, so cutting the vacation short for business felt wrong. Clara, especially, had earned this time more than anyone. She had worked alongside him every night without complaint, sharing the burden without asking for rest. Damian had no intention of ruining the vacation for her.
So the decision was made. He and Racheal would handle the sales while the others remained behind.
That Wednesday morning, while the rest had already left for their early spar session, Damian and Racheal sat alone on his bed. Their suitcases were packed lightly for a two-day trip, resting quietly by the side. Between them sat two small black chests.
Damian stared at them with a blank expression.
For items supposedly steeped in power, they looked painfully ordinary. Simple, aged containers that could easily be mistaken for relics from a forgotten era. While their appearance alone was enough to raise an eyebrow, what unsettled him more was the absence of presence. There was no aura, no oppressive weight, nothing that hinted at the horrors they were meant to contain.
If cursed equipment were truly special, shouldn’t they carry something more?
"You look like you don’t know what cursed weapons are," Racheal said, watching him closely.
"No one ever gave me a clear explanation," Damian replied with a casual shrug.
Her face flushed instantly.
The realization struck her harder than expected. She had grown comfortable again, speaking freely as if nothing had changed, forgetting the tension that still lingered between them. This was the same issue that had caused their conflict in the first place, the same lack of clarity. In that moment, Damian’s anger felt justified all over again.
She wanted to apologize, but she stopped herself.
Apologies meant nothing now.
Not to him.
He had changed. He was no longer the weak human she first met, someone who could be placated with words alone. What mattered to him now were actions. Effort.
"Cursed items are usually weapons or objects tied to tragic events," she began, steadying herself as she reached for one of the boxes. "Think of something like a fire that burns down an orphanage and kills everyone inside. These items carry the scars of that tragedy. The pain lingers, and it binds itself to them."
Buzz.
The moment her fingers touched the lid, an invisible force spread outward, sealing the room completely. An isolation barrier formed around the villa without a sound, cutting them off from everything beyond its walls.
She opened the box.
Buzz.
A surge of dark energy spilled out instantly, manifesting as thick black miasma that spread across the room. It moved like smoke but carried weight, suffocating and oppressive. Inside lay a black whip with a thorn-covered hilt that twisted in an unnatural way.
Damian’s eyes narrowed.
The moment he focused on it, the world shifted.
He heard them.
Screams layered over one another, desperate voices pleading, crying, breaking. Feminine voices, filled with pain, echoing endlessly within his mind. The sound was overwhelming, clawing at his thoughts. His hand twitched slightly, a faint urge rising within him to reach for the weapon, though he restrained himself.
"The cursed weapons we brought are among the highest grade you can find on this planet," Racheal said calmly. "This one was used by a man to abuse his wives and daughters. He whipped them until they died, and a year later, he hanged himself with the same whip."
Damian blinked, caught off guard.
He would have ignored it entirely at first glance. If not for the unnatural hilt, it would have meant nothing to him. To think such a weapon existed...
"What does it do?" he asked.
Racheal raised two fingers, a smug smile forming on her lips.
"Weeping Home possesses two traits. Any injury inflicted by it cannot be healed, and the wound begins to decay rapidly. Even the lightest scratch can become life-threatening within an hour."
She snapped the box shut.
The miasma vanished instantly, as though it had never been there.
"Wow..." Damian murmured, genuinely stunned.
To him, the ability felt limited. But on Earth, in battles between mortals, it would be devastating. Something like this would command an outrageous price.
"How much did you get from this?" he asked.
"Two hundred million..."
Damian drew in a cold breath, his eyes widening. That figure far exceeded his expectations.
"And the other?"
Satisfied with his reaction, Racheal opened the second box without hesitation.
Inside lay a rusted dagger with no hilt. It looked crude, worn, and stained with dried blood. A disturbing object, one that carried an unsettling presence even in its stillness.
"Joking Boy is the name of this one," she said. "A high school student loved by everyone because of his humor and personality. He fell for a girl who was already involved with a gang member. They found him in an alley with one hundred and eighty-seven stab wounds. He stayed alive through all of them and struggled until his last breath."
"Wow..." Damian’s expression twisted in discomfort. "So you got it from the UK?"
"Yep, but from another Earth," Racheal replied casually.
Her demonic force wrapped around the dagger and lifted it effortlessly. With a flick of her fingers, it shot forward and pierced one of the pillows on the bed.
Bam.
The reaction was immediate.
An endless number of cuts burst open across the pillow, slicing through it from every direction at once. Foam exploded outward, scattering across the room as the fabric was shredded beyond recognition.
Damian froze.
"Whatever Joking Boy cuts is subjected to a thousand slashes," Racheal said proudly. "We secured three hundred and fifty million for this one."
She closed the box and looked at him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes expectant. She leaned forward, subtly, as if waiting for a reward.
Damian barely noticed at first. His mind was consumed by the numbers. Three hundred and fifty million for a single weapon.
His heart jolted, and he rose to his feet abruptly. With that amount of money on the line, there was no reason to waste another second in the Maldives.
Three hundred and fifty million.
Insane.
He replayed the demonstration in his mind. A single scratch triggering a thousand cuts. Judging by the depth of the damage on the pillow alone, any normal human would die instantly.
A one-hit kill weapon and it wasn’t even sheathed. That alone spoke volumes.
"That explains why she lifted it with her demonic force and not her hand," he thought.
Damian reached forward, cupping Racheal’s cheeks gently. He pulled her closer and pressed a soft kiss against her forehead. Pulling back slightly, he held her gaze.
"Let’s go."
Racheal blinked in surprise, her face reddening.
"Why? I haven’t told you about the buyers or how I plan to receive the money," she protested.
Damian shook his head without hesitation.
"You can tell me on the flight."
There was no patience left in him. Over half a billion dollars was waiting for him in Mexico.
Right now, nothing else mattered.