Chapter 205
At a local ruin, while a lone boy was shouting with joy, a commotion broke out in the capital residence of Giuseppe Boltolinde, the duke who ruled the northern territories.
"Wine! Bring me wine!!"
Jacaran, hailed as a hero of the Boltolinde ducal house, hurled an empty wine bottle at the butler.
"Eek! Right away!"
What should have been a nobleman's beautifully appointed room had been reduced to a pitiful state by Jacaran's rampage.
Clicking his tongue at the butler who fled the room, Jacaran reached out to a nearby woman.
"Hey, you—get over here.""Y-yes."
The woman obediently complied with a smile, gently pressing herself against him and letting him touch her as he pleased. Her expression seemed affectionate, as if she adored him—but her true feelings were far different. She fought against terror, desperately maintaining her facade, controlling her emotions, and walking a tightrope to keep him pleased.
Before her, many women had been given to Jacaran—first prostitutes, then village girls from the northern territories, powerless noble daughters, even women plucked from the streets.
Let it be said that none of them met a peaceful end.
The skill of the Raging God does not activate only in battle. It is active at all times, in every moment of daily life.
The slightest provocation triggers violence enhanced by his empowered physique—and that violence is always inflicted on those closest to him.
No ordinary person could withstand such brutality, leading to the gruesome fates of those women.
The unbecoming rumors of this so-called hero were all suppressed by Duke Boltolinde's influence, leaving only the faintest whispers—if they existed at all.
"Women who enter the Boltolinde estate never return."
Such rumors spread widely enough to hint at the brute's misdeeds.
There was no proof—but everyone knew something was amiss.
On the surface, he was a hero who slaughtered bandits and slew rampaging monsters.
Yet the people could not bring themselves to praise him wholeheartedly. Though they knew they shouldn't feel this way, the citizens regarded Jacaran with deep distrust.
The woman attending to Jacaran now had survived longer than any before her by playing her role perfectly.
And so, she understood.
This man was no human.
He was a beast—no, a monstrous fiend.
As a former prostitute who had seen all kinds of men, she recognized his true nature.
He was not merely wicked—he was a calamity in human form.
Blinded by wealth, she had become his mistress. Now, she regretted it with every fiber of her being.
On days when he ignored her, the estate’s staff treated her like a princess. But this was only because she was the sacrificial lamb meant to placate the beast.
If she broke and took her own life, they would have to find another to soothe Jacaran’s savagery.
The servants, unwilling to imagine the dark alternatives—training dummies for men, or worse for women—cast aside their pride and devoted themselves to her care.
"Hey.""Yes, here you go."
She was a precious canary, sensitive to the beast’s slightest moods. Even now, as his thick arms wrapped around her slender waist—so fragile it might snap with a squeeze—she hid her terror and dutifully offered him fruit.
How much longer would this nightmare last? She longed to wake tomorrow not in this luxurious bed, but on the cheap, hard mattress she once knew.
But her wish would never come true.
She knew too much. And the duke would never allow such secrets to surface.
She understood—this nightmare would last until her dying breath.
And so, she endured, surviving by embracing the horror.
Day by day, the gold coins, fine dresses, and jewels piled up in her chambers.
Yet these treasures would be reclaimed the moment she died.
They were nothing but illusions in life.
The instant she stepped into this estate and became the beast’s mistress, her future had been sealed.
But within these walls, there was one who spared no thought for her suffering.
"How is the brute behaving?"
A man with a serpentine face, not looking up from his documents, addressed the butler assigned to monitor Jacaran.
The butler stiffened at the question from Giuseppe Boltolinde himself but answered dutifully.
"He rages in his room, but for now, the woman and wine keep him contained.""And his destructive impulses?""We had him spar with soldiers during the day. That helped... somewhat."
The master of the beast—the so-called "Castle Serpent"—was, by noble standards, exceptional.
But his brilliance served only himself.
Taxes were set at the absolute limit the people could bear. Soldiers were funded just enough to maintain order, while immigration was forbidden.
He preserved appearances, secured his position, and burned with ambition to crown himself king in his own lifetime.
"Good. Keep watching him. You know what happens if he slips your sight?""Y-yes! Understood!"
For this ambition, no betrayal among his pieces could be tolerated. To Giuseppe Boltolinde, Jacaran was no hero—just a tool to be used and discarded.
A stupid, violence-driven beast. The duke had simply found a way to wield him.
"There’s also an unscheduled report from that man.""Code?""'Red Horse.'""...Show me.""Here it is."
In a sense, Giuseppe Boltolinde was fair. He valued only ability—those without were crushed. Even the former leader of a bandit group Jacaran had nearly wiped out was kept for his usefulness.
"..."
Grund—a cunning, greedy man—was perfect for dirty work. The duke maintained minimal contact but provided support as needed.
Taking the crude letter from the butler, the duke’s slender white fingers unfolded the parchment as his serpentine eyes scanned the contents.
The report detailed Grund’s usual crimes—eliminating families to abduct women—but this time, he mentioned a discovery: the ruins of a fallen cult’s stronghold.
Grund was sharp and self-interested. He wouldn’t report something trivial unless it benefited him.
The problem was the rest.
The cult’s base appeared to be a research facility—one with still-functioning equipment. Though details were unclear, it seemed to house monstrous specimens, including an unknown creature.
Grund, wisely avoiding contact, had set surveillance and reported.
This was why he survived—and why the duke valued him.
"Understood. Anything else?""No, my lord.""Dismissed."
The butler withdrew. After a pause, the duke spoke again.
"Duplo.""How may I serve?"
From the shadows, a voice answered where none should have been.
"Investigate this letter’s claims. Urgently.""At once."
This was the darkness that upheld the Boltolinde name—a lineage of shadows. Had Liberta known, she would have paled, for this was the very force that opposed her in the ducal house’s storyline.
But this was no coincidence—or perhaps a divine jest. Though the duke sensed danger, he couldn’t foresee its nature.
To him, even a god could be a tool. The unknown was his only true enemy.
Yet even he knew nothing of FBO’s game world—or that the cult’s legacy was tied to an event storyline: the Eight-Headed Serpent Dragon, Aži Dahāka.
A limited-time event, unknown to all but veteran players. Even Liberta, distracted by the main story, would have recalled it instantly—and acted in panic.
"Report within a month.""Understood."
The duke, unaware, would proceed as always. The letter mentioned a pulsating mass of flesh, like an egg—but to a man with power, armies, and Jacaran, no threat seemed insurmountable.
Had this been Edelgard and Liberta, warnings would have been heeded. But the duke had no loyal advisors, no knowledgeable allies—only fearful subordinates and a beast drunk on his own might.
No one would sound the alarm.
Such was the loneliness of power.
And so, the gears of fate turned unchecked.
Jacaran, surviving by violence, and the "Castle Serpent" duke—had they never met, this tragedy might have been avoided.
Fate weaves cruel futures at times. The proof would come soon.
Thus, the twisted gears of the serpent-entwined tyrant’s destiny began to unravel.