Ruin has come to our family

As the steward put on his spectacles, he finally saw the figure standing in the doorway, faintly illuminated by the candlelight in Susan's hand. But Lance's face, twisted with a silent fury, seemed sinister and terrifying in the flickering light. The steward could not help but cry out.

"No... It cannot be..."

"Do it," Lance commanded, his voice cold, his killing intent naked and undisguised. He paid no mind to the steward's sensitive position within the estate's history. His eyes, however, were fixed on the target with a sliver of apprehension as he added a final warning. "Show no mercy. Put your full strength into it."

Dismas did not question the order, assuming it was simply Lance's hatred for a traitor. He thrust his dirk forward, aiming for the steward's heart. The blade slid easily through the man's withered body. When Dismas withdrew it, blood flowed freely, and the steward collapsed onto the bed, displaying no inhuman strength.

But this was the man who had served the Ancestor. Lance did not know if he was still human, but in his mind, the steward was more dangerous than anyone he had yet faced. To say nothing of the fact that he was the only one who could expose Lance's lies. He had to die.

"Ah!"

The woman on the bed, startled from her sleep by the scene, let out a scream and tumbled from the mattress in fear. Just as Dismas was about to deliver a final blow, Lance stopped him.

"I have questions for him. Get her out of here," Lance said, waving a hand impatiently. Soon, the room was empty, save for him and the dying steward.

"Where are my things?" Lance stood by the bed, the flintlock pistol aimed at the steward's head. The slightest movement, and a bullet would tear through his brain.

Though he was at death's door, a strange smile bloomed on the steward's face as he looked at Lance. He spoke, his voice ragged and broken.

"Cold, mad, cruel... you are the very image of the Old Lord. And so the curse that flows in the Hamlet bloodline will live on in you."

"What do you mean?" Lance's brow furrowed. So there was something wrong with his bloodline.

"Cross the wilds, pass the ruins, and enter the old manor of our house. Riches, renown, power... I have left it all there. Go and claim that which is yours."

With a final, strange laugh, the steward's head lolled to the side. He was dead, having given Lance no chance for questions.

Damn all riddlers.

But it was not Lance's habit to lose his composure. Staring at the lifeless steward, he banished his chaotic thoughts and raised a hand to perform the [Sacrifice].

This time, however, something was different. Unlike the effortless rituals before, a strange resistance occurred. The devouring void came, but the steward's body did not immediately vanish. Instead, it convulsed, and his eyes snapped open.

His withered body began to inflate as if pumped full of air. The thin clothes he wore were torn asunder by bulging muscles, revealing a powerful physique that now fought against the eerie power of the void. Lance stepped back, dodging a wild swipe from the man's hands. The arms, now corded with muscle, swung aimlessly, and the wooden bed shattered like tofu. A mere glancing blow would do the same to a human body.

Hearing the commotion, Dismas ignored Lance's orders and burst back into the room. The sight of the monster froze him in his tracks. A fear he had not felt in a long, long time washed over him—the madness that comes from gazing upon the unspeakable!

Lance paid Dismas no mind. His face was a cold mask as he stood to one side, observing everything.

The twisted thing the steward had become was powerful, but the force emanating from the void was clearly stronger. No matter how it struggled, its efforts were futile. Realizing the immense gap in power, the steward's earlier look of grim acceptance vanished, replaced by a terror that warped his twisted features.

"No! Impossible! What is this?"

In its struggle, the steward's body began to lose control. A proliferation of limbs and organs began to sprout, costing him his human form. More arms and legs grew from his torso. Muscles roiled as tumorous growths swelled and burst. Viscera pushed its way to the surface, embedding itself haphazardly across his form. New faces gestated beneath his skin, and countless eyeballs erupted from his flesh, swiveling madly. Great, fanged maws tore open all over his body, from which tentacular, pointed tongues writhed forth.

But no matter how many new limbs and organs it grew, its body was consumed piece by piece by the void, vanishing as if it were a lump of clay having chunks torn from it. As the struggle intensified, the steward became a truly unnamable mass of flesh. But in the end, it was all devoured by the void, leaving behind nothing but a ruin.

Lance stared coldly at the scene, a chill creeping into his own heart. He had tried sacrificing other things before and had discovered that only non-resisting organic matter met the conditions. This meant that the steward could only have passed the [Sacrifice] check by feigning death. The steward had been with the Ancestor for years; it was impossible he hadn't been exposed to these things. He was, in essence, a scion of the god of flesh. In a real fight, not just the three of them, but the entire town would not have been enough to bring him down.

But the steward, in his own cunning, had played himself. He had pitted himself not against Lance, but against the entity above Lance.

Lance felt the power of his patron, and a sliver of security wrapped around him.

An unprecedented amount of [Boon] flowed into him from the void. This time, the motes of light were a strange color. And before he could even use [Bestow], they began to affect him. An intense, agonizing pain that was also an itch spread through his body, as if his muscles were all being torn from his bones, while a million ants crawled all over his skin. The sensation was more intense than simple pain, almost unbearable. He nearly cried out. But Dismas was right there. He knew that if he screamed, his life as a lord would be over. He could only clench his jaw, biting back the agony, his hands balled into fists so tight his nails dug into his palms.

At the same time, the sheer volume of the boon threatened to overwhelm his body's capacity. Without hesitation, Lance began to use [Bestow] on himself, consuming the energy and using the refreshing state of the level-up to resist the torment.

Mercifully, the sensation soon subsided, replaced by a vitality he had never felt before in either of his lives.

Lance checked his panel as the data refreshed. A new skill had appeared.

[Reconstitution of Flesh]: Consume boons to control the knitting of flesh, even regenerating severed limbs.

It was, without a doubt, a healing skill. It instantly filled a critical gap in the party's capabilities. The steward, even in death, had given him a great gift—a great boon in the depths of winter.

But, Lance wondered, why would he feign death rather than simply kill me?