Depraved Noble: Forced To Live The Debaucherous Life Of An Evil Noble!-Chapter 108: The Devil Has Come To Visit

Time passed and it was close to midnight, and the dim, blood-soaked basement shifted to the warm, amber glow of a grand study room in the main Holyfield mansion.

Polished oak shelves lined the walls, groaning under the weight of leather-bound books and rolled parchments, while a massive desk dominated the center, its surface cluttered with papers, inkwells, and a flickering oil lamp.

And in the centre of it all, a handsome, middle-aged man with sharp blonde hair streaked with silver sat behind it, his posture relaxed yet commanding as he scribbled his signature across a document.

His attendant, a thin man with a neatly trimmed beard and spectacles perched on his nose, stood before him, reading from a stack of reports in a steady, practiced tone.

"...and the grain shipments from the eastern fields have increased by twelve percent, my lord." The attendant said, adjusting his spectacles as he flipped a page. "The stewards report a surplus, though the millers are requesting additional hands to keep up with demand."

The blonde man nodded absently, his pen scratching across the paper with a faint rasp.

"Good." He murmured, his voice deep and smooth, tinged with a weariness that belied his composed exterior. "See that the millers get what they need. We can't afford delays with the harvest season looming." He set the signed document aside, reaching for another as his attendant continued.

This was Rodrick Holyfield, Patriarch of the Holyfield Estate, a man whose name carried weight across the realm.

A figure of authority and ruthlessness, he ruled his lands with an iron fist softened only by the remnants of a once—gentler past.

But beneath his title and his wealth lay a darker truth: he was Cassius's father, a man who had vowed to see his own son's head roll, a vendetta that burned as fiercely as the lamp illuminating his desk.

The attendant—Wayne Arwald, Rodrick's right—hand man and closest confidant—finished his report on the estate's finances with a crisp nod, stacking the papers neatly before him.

He then hesitated, his fingers lingering on the edge of the desk as a flicker of unease crossed his face. And thenlearing his throat, he ventured into a topic he'd clearly been dreading but couldn't be ignored

"My lord." He began, his voice softer now. "There's...one more matter. The Sacred Guard...Their mission."

Rodrick's pen paused mid—signature, his piercing blue eyes lifting to meet Wayne's. A shadow passed over his handsome features, his expression turning solemn. "What of it?" He asked, his tone low and measured, though a faint edge sharpened his words. "Have they brought back the devil's head already?"

Wayne bowed his head slightly, a gesture of apology as much as deference. "Not...As such, my lord." He said, his voice tinged with regret. "They haven't returned from that part of the estate yet. Word is, they're still there—and it's speculated they've taken up residence in Cassius's mansion."

"...There's talk they might've...switched sides."

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fгeewebnovёl.co𝙢.

Mark—Wayne, rather—braced himself, expecting a storm of fury to erupt from the Patriarch. He knew how deep Rodrick's hatred for his son ran, a venomous loathing that had festered for years, fueled by a wound that refused to heal. To hear that the Sacred Guard, sworn to end Cassius with their lives on the line, might have defected? He anticipated a roar, a smashed inkwell, a tirade against betrayal.

But to his utter shock, Rodrick merely chuckled—a low, rasping sound that grew into something almost manic, his eyes glinting with a wild, unhinged light.

"That boy..." He said, shaking his head as a grin spread across his face. "He's truly the devil, isn't he? Even the Sacred Guard—bound by an eternal vow, their lives staked on his death—and he sways them like it's nothing."

He leaned back in his chair, the manic gleam in his eyes sharpening as he stared into the flickering flame of the lamp. "Proof, if I needed any more, that he's no son of mine—just a fiend wearing a human face."

Wayne blinked, caught off guard by the reaction, but Rodrick's calm swiftly returned, the manic edge smoothing into a cold, calculating demeanor. He waved a hand dismissively, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"No need to worry, Wayne." He said, his voice steady once more. "Even if the Sacred Guard fail, I've got other legions at my disposal. I'll send them after him—hunt him down like the beast he is."

"...The only hitch is the Vindictus family—they'll kick up a fuss if I move too many pieces at once. Their backlash could be...troublesome."

Wayne nodded, his fingers tightening around the reports as he absorbed the Patriarch's words. But something lingered in his eyes—hesitation, a flicker of pity he couldn't quite hide.

Rodrick noticed it immediately, his gaze narrowing as he leaned forward slightly. "What's wrong?" He asked, his tone deceptively soft, though a warning lurked beneath it. "You've got that look again, Wayne...Spit it out."

Wayne hesitated, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He adjusted his spectacles nervously before speaking, his voice low and cautious.

"My lord...Is there really a need to take the Young Master's life?" Не paused, choosing his words with care as Rodrick's expression darkened. "I know he's caused you pain, but he's not at fault—not truly. If Lady Florence were watching from above, seeing you hunt your own son...It'd break her heart—"

But before he could finish, the air in the room turned frigid.

"Wayne..."

Rodrick suddenly called, his voice dropping to an icy, venomous whisper that made the attendant shudder. And when he looked up, he saw the Patriarch's eyes locked onto him, cold and unyielding, like a corpse staring through the veil of death.

Wayne froze, his breath catching as Rodrick continued, each word a shard of frost. "You...Don't you ever bring up such a topic again. You, of all people, know how much I loved Florence—how she was the only light in this miserable, wretched life of mine."

"...And you know the hatred the agony—I felt when that devil took her from me."

Rodrick's hands then clenched into fists, as he leaned forward, his bloodthirsty gaze boring into Wayne like a predator sizing up prey. "I'm warning you this time because you're my closest friend." He said, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury. "But there won't be a next time. That thing that monster—is no son of mine."

"...He's a blight, a curse, and I'll see him dead if it's the last thing I do."

Wayne's shoulders slumped, a pang of sadness tightening his chest as he bowed his head. "Yes, my lord." He said quietly, his voice heavy with reluctant acceptance.

He felt a deep, aching pity for the young master, caught in a web of his father's hatred for a crime he didn't fully understand. But he knew better than to push further; Rodrick's love for Florence and his vendetta against his son were twin flames that had consumed him, leaving no room for mercy.

Rodrick then leaned back in his chair, the icy fury fading into a cold, resolute calm. "Good." He said, picking up his pen once more as if the exchange had never happened. "Now, about those legions—start drafting orders. I want options ready by dawn."

"I want them to be the finest and most ruthless warriors we've got." He continued, his tone hardening with resolve. "And at midnight, put out a manhunt notice for the Sacred Guard—traitors need to be rooted out swiftly—'"

But before the words could fully leave his lips, his eyes darted to the distant corner of the room, widening with a sudden, visceral jolt. His hands trembled, the pen quivering in his grip, ink blotting the page in an uneven smear.

It was as if he'd glimpsed some horrifying creature lurking there, a shadow that had been watching them this whole time.

Wayne paused, his own hand hovering over the stack of reports as he caught the shift in Rodrick's demeanor.

The Patriarch's face paled, his breath hitching for a fleeting moment—fear, raw and unfiltered, flickering in his steely eyes.

But then, just as quickly, Rodrick composed himself, the tremor in his hands stilling as he straightened in his chair and then a slow, almost feral smile spread across his lips.

It was the look of a man who'd been waiting for this moment, who'd rehearsed it in his mind a thousand times and was finally ready for the showdown he'd craved.

"It seems the devil couldn't wait anymore, Wayne..." Rodrick murmured, his voice low and laced with a dark, triumphant edge. "...And he's come to visit me instead."

Wayne frowned, confusion knitting his brow as he followed Rodrick's gaze. "My lord?" He asked, his voice uncertain. "What are you—"

His words died in his throat as he turned to glance behind him, toward the unlit corner of the study where the shadows pooled deepest.

His heart lurched into his throat as he saw them—two glowing red eyes staring back at him from the darkness, sharp and predatory, cutting through the gloom like twin embers.

They fixed on him with an intensity that made his skin crawl, as if he were prey caught in the sights of a hunter who'd been stalking him for hours.

"H-How long...?" Wayne whispered to himself, his mind reeling.

How long had those eyes been there, watching, waiting? He didn't know, but the weight of it's gaze was suffocating, stripping away his composure in an instant.

Instinct kicked in, and he stumbled back a step, his hand flying to the hilt of the short sword at his side. With a swift, practiced motion, he drew the blade, its steel glinting faintly in the lamplight as he positioned himself between Rodrick and the corner.

"Guards!" He barked, his voice cracking with urgency as he prepared to shout for reinforcements.

But the call died on his lips as the figure in the shadows moved, stepping forward into the dim light with a casual grace that belied the tension in the room.

And Wayne's breath caught, his sword wavering as the intruder revealed himself—

Cassius...It was actually Cassius Vindictus Holyfield, the third son of the Holyfield family and the third child of his own master.

The young master stood there, his crimson eyes glowing brighter now, stark against the tousled dark hair framing his face. A faint, almost playful smile curved his lips as he took another step, his presence filling the study with an eerie, magnetic energy.

"Father..." Cassius said, his laced with mock hurt as he tilted his head, his glowing eyes locking onto Rodrick. "Calling me a devil of all things? That stings, you know. How could you say that about your own son?...I'm truly wounded."

Wayne's jaw dropped, his sword still raised but trembling slightly as he processed the scene. Cassius—here, now, in the heart of his father's domain, stepping out of the shadows like a phantom summoned by Rodrick's own hatred.

The attendant's mind raced, torn between shock and the instinct to protect his lord, but Rodrick's reaction rooted him in place.

The Patriarch didn't flinch, didn't reach for a weapon. Instead, his smile widened, a glint of something unhinged flickering in his eyes as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

"Wounded?" Rodrick echoed, his voice dripping with venomous amusement. "You?...Don't play the victim with me, boy. You've got the gall to slink in here, after everything—after what you did to her and pretend at innocence?" He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent a chill down Wayne's spine. "And those eyes of yours—they prove it. No son of mine would carry that hellfire in his gaze."

Cassius's smile didn't falter, though a flicker of something sharper—anger, perhaps, or defiance—flashed in his crimson stare. "Hellfire, is it?" He said, taking another step closer. "Funny, I thought I got these from you—along with the charm and the stubborn streak."

"...Guess I inherited more than you'd like to admit, Father."

Wayne's grip tightened on his sword, his heart pounding as he glanced between the two men. The air crackled with tension, a volatile mix of loathing and familiarity that threatened to ignite at any moment.

"My lord." He said, his voice low and urgent. "Shall I—?"

"Stay where you are, Wayne." Rodrick snapped, his eyes never leaving Cassius. His smile turned colder, more predatory, as he rose slowly from his chair, his hands pressing flat against the desk. "No need to call the guards. I've been waiting for this—dreaming of it. The devil's walked right into my hands, and I'm not letting him slip away this time."

The showdown Rodrick had been waiting for—the moment he'd envisioned in sleepless nights and bitter daydreams—had finally arrived.

He was certain of it, his pulse quickening as he stared at the figure before him. After years of silence, years of neglect and festering resentment, the devil had come to confront him at last.

Rodrick was convinced that Cassius, pushed beyond endurance, had snapped—driven mad by the weight of abandonment and ready to end it all with his own hands, to spill his father's blood in a final, frenzied act of vengeance.

And that was exactly what Rodrick craved.

In this moment, consequences be damned—repercussions, politics, the Vindictus family—all of it faded into irrelevance.

All he saw was the face of the devil who'd ruined his life, the shadow that had stolen his light.

So, in a surge of manic fury, Rodrick seized a longsword from the ornate stand beside his desk, its blade gleaming wickedly in the lamplight. And with a wild, reckless swing, he hurled it across the room, the weapon clattering to the floor at Cassius's feet.

"Pick it up!" He roared, his voice raw with years of pent-up rage. "I know how much you hate me—how much you've wanted my life all these years, just as I've wanted yours! I've dreamed of this day, boy—dreamed of driving my blade through that cursed heart of yours! And I don't care anymore about the estate, about the throne, about anything!"

"...Take it up, and let's see whose hatred burns deeper!"

His words echoed through the study, a mad roar that made even Wayne flinch. The attendant's sword wavered in his grip, his eyes darting between Rodrick and Cassius as he wondered if his lord had truly lost his mind.

The Patriarch's face was alight with a feverish intensity, his eyes blazing with a bloodlust that stripped away the veneer of civility he'd worn for years.

This wasn't the calculated ruler Wayne served, this was a man unhinged, consumed by a vendetta that had festered too long.

But to Rodrick's utter shock, Cassius didn't move.

He stood there, his crimson eyes glinting with something cold and unreadable as he glanced down at the sword at his feet.

Then, with a slow, deliberate tilt of his head, he looked back at his father—not with fury, not with madness, but with a disdain so palpable it seemed to chill the room.

"Why should I fight you, Father?" He asked, his voice low and cutting, laced with a quiet scorn. "Why should I fight for my life, when you, this estate, your family, even your soul—everything you hold dear already belongs to me as..."

"...I am the devil you've proclaimed me as, and this devil has finally come to claim what's rightfully his."