The Grand Duke's Son Is A Heretic-Chapter 28 - :Den Of Filth

Baret and Gare stood frozen feeling their minds racing.

'What just happened? Is this really the same Young Master we know? The lunatic who fights first and talks later? Why did he suddenly let it go?'

Kael turned to Chris, who had a dark expression. "Disappointed? Feeling lost?"

Chris didn't answer. He just clenched his fists tighter.

"Remember boy!"

"You need to step back to jump and..."

Kael's grin widened. "Sometimes, you have to give the other party some hope before giving them emotional damage."

He raised his fist and spoke in a chilling tone, "Let him think he won the game. Let him relax. Give him hope. Let him feel safe and secure. And then..."

"Crush his ego without any mercy."

Baret, Gare, and Chris all felt goosebumps crawl over their skin.

Kael stretched his arms, cracking his neck. "I won't be going back to the estate tonight."

"There won't be a problem as long as we send a message," Baret confirmed.

"Good. Tell them Young Master Kael wants to enjoy some leisure time. And Chris..."

"Yes?"

"Take me to the filthiest, most disgusting place in this city. The kind of place where scum gathers."

Kael's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"I want to power up."

"Powerup?"The three asked but Kael ignored it and asked.

"Does he have children?"

"He has a son.He is infamous for his debachurry."Chris answered.

"Ohh!" Kael's lips twisted in delight.

"Now that's very good information that I can use."

......

The gambling den stood like a festering wound in the middle of nowhere, far from the city's prying eyes.

It was a massive structure, once perhaps an estate, now twisted into something far darker.

The air was thick with smoke, the stench of alcohol, sweat, and something fouler lingering in every corner.

Inside, the large hall was packed with men screaming, cursing, and laughing as they tossed their coins and fate into the hands of rigged games. The dealers, sharp-eyed and expressionless, ensured the house always won.

In the dimly lit corners, women dressed in torn and revealing clothes hung onto lecherous men, their fake smiles barely masking the emptiness in their eyes. Some were too broken to even pretend anymore, their bodies bruised and covered in marks of previous "clients" who had paid extra to leave a reminder of their time.

A man slapped a girl hard across the face, sending her crumpling to the floor. "Fucking whore, smile when I tell you to!" he barked, before stepping on her fingers with a twisted grin.

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She didn't even cry either too numb or too aware that it would only make things worse.

Further inside, the real hell began.

A dimly lit staircase led underground, where men who had lost everything—money, dignity, even their freedom—were shackled like animals.

Some had been forced into fighting pits, thrown in with wild dogs for the amusement of the rich after losing all their chips

Others were forced to work, their backs carrying heavy crates filled with stolen goods, their bodies whipped if they slowed down.

"Move, you useless fuck!" A guard slammed a rod against a young man's back, making him stumble. He had once been a merchant's son, but bad luck had stripped him of everything, leaving him here—nothing more than a beast of burden.

And amidst this filth, at the front entrance—

Knock....Knock.

A dull thud echoed against the heavy wooden gate.

Inside, the gatekeeper, a burly man with rotting teeth and a broken nose, grumbled as he walked up, sliding open the small hatch. His bloodshot eyes peered through the slit.

Outside, in the dim moonlight, a lone figure stood.

It was a man dressed in black, his uniform neat and spotless, as if the dirt of this world dared not touch him. A half-mask covered his face from his nose down to his neck, hiding everything but his cold, piercing eyes.

"Who?" the gatekeeper grunted.

The masked man spoke in a calm, almost pleasant voice. "I'm here to collect a debt."

"Debt!"

"Yes!"

For a moment, the entire world seemed to hold its breath.

The burly haired man made a confused expression and scratched his bald head wondering since when did gambling dens owe debts to others.

Shouldn't it be the other way around?

"Hey bastard! Are you playing with me sick ass..."

Before he could finish his words, a loud bang echoed.

Screech!

The wooden door nestled as it was pushed open by a brute force causing the burly-haired man to slam onto the floor with a thud that knocked him out.

"What's going on?"

A man stumbled out, swaying like a drunk. He was hideous having his face pockmarked with scars, his nose crooked from too many fights.

In one hand, he clutched a small knife, more for intimidation than real combat. He rubbed his nose, sneering as he eyed the masked man up and down.

"From the way you're dressed," he snorted, "you look like you belong here."

"I came from outside to take care of the debt."the masked man spoke.

He spat on the ground, barely missing the masked man's feet. "So, whose debt are you talking about?"

The masked man smiled under his mask. "Your daddy, Loreno's, debt."

The thug yawned, still half-asleep, but as the words sank in, his body stiffened.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he barked.

"Did I stutter?" The masked man tilted his head. "I said, Loreno's debt."

The thug's face twisted in fury. "Fucker, do you even know whose name you're saying?"

"Oh, I know," the masked man replied coolly.

"Then you should also know you're fucking dead!" The thug roared and lunged forward, knife raised.

CRACK.

The sound of bone snapping echoed through the night.

Before the thug could even blink, the masked man caught his wrist mid-air with one hand. His other hand shot out, wrapping around the thug's throat in an iron grip.

The thug's eyes bulged as he gasped, struggling to pry the fingers away, but it was useless.

TWIST!

His neck was then snapped at an unnatural angle. His body convulsed. But it didn't end there.

A dark, eerie energy pulsed from the masked man's hand.

[Devour.]

The thug's body jerked violently. His skin withered, his muscles shrank, his eyes rolled back as the very essence of his life was sucked away. Within seconds, all that remained was a dried-out husk, a shriveled corpse that collapsed to the ground like discarded trash.

The masked man wiped his gloved hands as if brushing off dust.

"Thanks for the meal."

Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walked forward toward the den of filth.