Chapter 567: You’re cruel
Albert stood paralyzed for a moment. His eyes roamed her face, and the voice he wanted to form simply wouldn’t come.
But it wasn’t his silence that silenced him.
It was her gaze.
A gaze that pierced the raised blade and crushed any remaining emotional defenses.
“I understand…” Scathach’s voice wasn’t a scream now. It was something much worse: low, icy… and filled with a revulsion that coiled like poison. “I understand why my son would never want to go near this place.”
The word “mine” came out as if it were a warning of possession and a threat at the same time.
And then he realized—her hatred wasn’t just for what was happening now. It was something deeper.
In the seconds before the attack, Strax had told her. Everything.
The contempt. The life thrown away. The random family who took him in as a burden. The mine. The “slave labor.” The cold, the hunger, the humiliation.
And Albert… despite who he was… allowed it.
Scathach’s expression changed. Hatred turned into something darker. It wasn’t pure fury. It was disgust.
Disgust at a man who, to her, had lost any right to call himself a father.
The air around her trembled. The pressure increased, as if gravity had increased tenfold. The oak floor creaked and split under the invisible force.
Her aura exploded like a black and crimson fire, consuming the shadows of the office and dyeing the walls with a demonic glow that seemed to come from the bowels of hell.
Glass shattered in the neighboring buildings. Stone gargoyles tumbled from rooftops. Birds fell dead in the air.
Albert planted his feet, muscles tensed, teeth clenched. He was one of the strongest beings alive… and yet, her presence was overwhelming, like an ancient predator facing a seasoned warrior.
“Scathach…” he began, but couldn’t finish.
“Shut up.” Her voice pierced the space, and a wall of demonic energy appeared around him, isolating the entire building. “Every word you say will be another reason for me to rip off your arrogant head.”
Her spear reappeared in her hand, formed of pure energy, vibrating with living, pulsing runes. Each symbol burned with ancient, forbidden power, distorting the air around it.
Crimson and black flames snaked from the tip, spreading across the ceiling as if they were alive.
Albert raised his sword. Not because he wanted to fight—but because, instinctively, he knew that if he didn’t get up now, there would be no second chance.
“You…” she took a step forward, the impact of that single movement shattering the marble floor to the subterranean level. “…gave up my son. The blood that carries my essence…to live and die like a dog in a mine.”
Each word was accompanied by a thud in the air, like the beating of a war drum.
And then she didn’t speak again.
She vanished.
The spear appeared less than a foot from his face.
The shock shook the entire structure of the office, and for an instant, it seemed as if Vorah would crumble.
Albert’s blade caught the blow—but behind him, three walls split open in clean cuts, as if carved by a divine scalpel.
Air exploded out of the windows, sending shards of glass flying hundreds of meters away.
The battle hadn’t truly begun. But the decision had already been made:
Scathach no longer saw an ally, nor a former love.
Only the man who had condemned her son.
The sound of Albert’s blade and Scathach’s spear clashing echoed like suppressed thunder—not the normal clang of steel against steel, but a muffled roar, as if the air itself screamed from the pressure.
The force of the impact pushed Albert backward, his boots dragging across the marble floor and leaving a trail of burning sparks. The smell of burnt stone spread, mixed with a metallic aroma, almost like boiling blood.
Scathach hovered in the air, her loose hair dancing like black flames in the wind, her eyes incandescent, so deep it seemed if you stared too hard, you’d be pulled in. Her aura wasn’t just power—it was a sentence.
Albert was a man who had faced ancient dragons, armies of wizards, and monsters from forgotten ages. He had never retreated. But now, the weight of her presence not only forced him to defend himself… it reminded him of something he had long tried to bury: what she meant to him.
“You seem to have forgotten your dying wishes,” Albert said, his voice deep, almost breathless from the blockage.
The sound of her blade pressing against his steel grew louder, a sharp screech that seemed to tear at his eardrums.
“I asked him not to be coddled, but to be taught to be strong. Especially with his physique,” Scathach countered, with a calmness more menacing than any scream. “I heard it from his mouth. And every word was a blade piercing me… because of you and the shitty family you built.”
She drew back her spear so quickly it seemed to knock the air out of her—and reappeared in a downward arc, aiming for his shoulder. Albert spun, raising his sword in a diagonal parry. The collision unleashed a beam of light and energy that sliced through the ceiling like paper, revealing the murky sky above.
Shards of stone and wood rained down upon the room. The ancient maps on the wall instantly caught fire from the heat of the demonic energy alone.
“He’s alive, isn’t he?! As you asked,” Albert roared, counterattacking with a sideways blow that would have split any ordinary enemy in half.
Scathach spun in the air, her spear describing a perfect circle, dodging and using her own momentum to slam the shaft into his chest. The impact threw him against the nearest bookshelf, smashing wood and parchment, scattering dust across the floor.
“Alive…” she planted her feet on the ground, moving forward slowly. “You call that living? A boy who had my blood… the blood of a warrior, treated like scum. They threw him into the darkness of a mine, amid screams and chains. And you…” she raised her hand, pointing the spearhead at him. “You have the nerve to say he’s alive?… It’s certainly not because of you!”
Albert stood, breathing heavily. Not from physical exhaustion—his body was intact—but from the pressure of the moment. “I did what had to be done.”
“You did what was easiest,” she snapped, her tone cutting deeper than any blade. “You never believed him.”
He didn’t answer. For the first time in a long time, he had no words to defend himself.
Scathach, on the other hand, was thirsty to kill him…
[Elsewhere…]
Strax lay in Beatrice’s lap, relaxed, as she placed grapes one by one into his mouth, almost like a lazy ritual.
“You’re cruel, you know that?” she commented with a soft smile, but with that look that said it wasn’t exactly a criticism. “My parents were horrible to you, but… let’s face it… you were quite dramatic in the stories about your childhood.”
Strax chewed slowly, a half-smile forming.
“Dramatic? Maybe. But I call it… balance.” He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the moment. “What could I steal from my father? I thought about taking Diana from him, but… I lost interest. Now… making the woman he loved most hate him to the core? Now… that’s art.”
Beatrice let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.
Monica, who was nearby and couldn’t help but overhear, leaned in with a lopsided smile. “Exaggerated? Yes. But I confess I agree. That was the best move you made. Making sure she never gets involved with that man again… it’s a surefire hit.”
She crossed her arms, leaning toward him with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“And, exaggeration or not…” her voice dropped, almost a whisper laced with venom, “still… it was the truth.”
Strax just smiled, as if savoring the effect of her words more than the grapes.