10x God-Tier Stealing System: Pumping S-Rank SuperHeroines Daily!-Chapter 161 - Awakened Humans

The patriarch lurched over the mahogany desk, desperately trying to grab the weapon. His eyes were wide with genuine, unscripted terror.

He saw his own terrified reflection in his son’s dead, unwavering eyes. The heavy muzzle pressed deep into Cruxius’s skin. He didn’t even blink as his finger squeezed the trigger.

BANG!

SCRRCHH—

"Wh-what did you just say?"

The confused, soft voice belonged to Lira. She lurched forward in her seat, startled by Cruxius’s sudden, highly unconventional demand.

He was seated on the plush sofa, his dark eyes blinking away the jarring, hollow memory of his past regression before seamlessly composing himself in the present.

"I said, use that needle to draw my blood."

Cruxius cast a lazy side glance toward an open, velvet-lined suitcase. Resting inside was an archaic, thick metal syringe.

He didn’t ask Darithi or Ytrisia, who were seated quietly nearby. He specifically ordered the pink-haired woman. Her golden eyes visibly trembled at the nonsensical, intimidating command.

Lira hesitated, her soft lower lip trapped between her teeth.

Her trembling fingers hovered just an inch above the cold metal. The archaic-looking syringe lay quietly in its custom slot—silent and incredibly ominous.

The slender column of her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. Her plump lips parted, but the nervous words died before they could escape.

Cruxius didn’t move a muscle. He simply watched her finally pick up the heavy tool with stiff, unsure hands.

She slowly shifted closer, the short skirt of her uniform riding up her pale thighs as she settled right beside his leg. She looked entirely torn between questioning his sanity or simply obeying.

Her golden gaze flickered nervously from his sharp jawline down to the needle.

"Go on," he muttered. His tone was entirely flat. It was far too calm and emotionless for a man who, in his own mind, had just blown his brains out a mere second ago.

She leaned forward, the motion causing the frilled neckline of her uniform to dip. Her bare, soft knees nervously brushed against the firm edge of his thigh.

He didn’t retreat. He didn’t twitch.

Her delicate fingers gently brushed against his warm skin, tracing the spot near his thick upper bicep where a blue vein was clearly visible beneath the muscle. He offered no protest.

The cold tip of the needle pressed against his flesh.

Still, he gave her nothing.

She pushed it in, surprisingly soft and careful. He didn’t jerk away. He didn’t flinch or let out a single sound of discomfort.

But Lira’s own heart clenched in her chest. A sharp, sympathetic breath escaped her parted lips, as if the sharp metal had pierced her own soft skin instead.

Her golden eyes squeezed shut. Her delicate brows pinched together, and her long pink lashes trembled against her flushed cheeks.

The snug fabric of her bodice strained as her chest rose sharply with each erratic breath. It was a potent mix of lingering guilt, deep fear, and total helplessness.

She reacted as if it was her own vital blood being siphoned away. As if his physical pain was somehow hers to bear.

Cruxius watched her closely.

His dark eyes shifted at a lazy pace. He took in the subtle, pained twitch of her brows, then the slight tremble of her pink lashes fluttering against her smooth skin.

Her vibrant pink hair, slightly messy from the day’s chaos, fell forward. It draped like a silky curtain over one side of her face, brushing against her collarbone.

When her golden eyes finally fluttered open again, they looked entirely too alive with genuine worry. She wasn’t even trying to mask it.

That was the core problem.

She left all her soft, bleeding-heart emotions right there on the surface.

Even after every cruel thing he had subjected her to. Even after he had brutally murdered her with a simple dining fork in a timeline not too long ago—she still...

...cared?

Cruxius felt the corner of his lip curl. It was slight. Incredibly subtle. It wasn’t born of his usual mockery, nor was it sheer cruelty.

It was just... amusement. A dark, lingering fascination with this strange, resilient flicker of human emotion.

He tilted his head back against the sofa. His predatory gaze took a slow, deliberate scan of her flushed face, before dropping down to her tailored outfit.

The traditional black and white maid uniform clung snugly to her waist and chest. She wore it like a physical brand—an identity forcefully stripped and replaced. It was a subservient role a proud woman like her simply didn’t belong in, yet the contrast only made her look more appealing.

Her heavy chest lightly heaved against the restrictive apron. Her warm, sweet breath practically brushed against his bare shoulder as she focused solely on the vial.

She refused to meet his dark gaze, terrified of what she might find in the heavy intensity of his silence.

"You’re far too soft," he murmured quietly into the space between them.

She instinctively looked up, her golden eyes wide. "I—"

A sharp mechanical click interrupted her. The needle locked firmly into the vial slot, and a thick, crimson thread of his royal blood began spiraling rapidly into the glass tube.

"Shut up," he muttered, his tone dropping back to ice. "I wasn’t complimenting you."

"Y-you evil man...." Lira whispered, feeling the corner of her soft mouth twitch in frustration.

Yet, despite the insult, her delicate hands remained perfectly steady. She didn’t dare do a single thing that might accidentally cause him pain.

The sky above the sprawling Blac Mansion was painted in a bruised, golden orange by the bleeding sunset. The estate stood like a silent, brooding giant against the fading light.

Tall walls of imposing dark stone guarded the perimeter. Two massive lion statues flanked the iron gates, casting long, creeping shadows.

In the center of the pristine courtyard, a grand fountain gently sprayed mist into the cooling air, a serene contrast to the unnatural tension thickening the grounds.

A line of personnel stood rigidly just outside the massive gates. Maids in immaculate, form-fitting uniforms and broad-chested guards in tailored black suits held their breath.

At the very front stood two imposing figures.

One was an older man with a sharply trimmed white beard and chillingly calm eyes—Ermond, the head butler.

Beside him stood Raekin Blac. The head of the family was a towering presence. His broad, muscular shoulders visibly stretched the fine fabric of his dark grey overcoat. He stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, exuding a quiet, dominant authority.

Their gazes were collectively drawn upward.

From the bleeding sky, a man was slowly descending.

He wore a long, heavy black cloak that swirled around his lean frame like living smoke. His dark boots defied gravity, untouched by the evening wind, and his pale, flawless face looked entirely untouched by time.

His eyes glowed a faint, predatory red in the shadows. A cruel, lazy smile curled the corners of his lips.

Nervous whispers rippled through the line of maids, their chests rising and falling erratically under their starched aprons.

"Who’s that?"

"He must be another awakened superhuman..."

"Is he floating? I swear he’s floating..."

Yet, none of them looked truly terrified.