Depraved Noble: Forced To Live The Debaucherous Life Of An Evil Noble!-Chapter 109: Spineless Bandits

Rodrick froze, the sword in his hand trembling as Cassius's absurd words sank in. Then, a harsh, barking laugh erupted from his throat, his head tipping back as the sound filled the study with a manic edge.

"Yours?!" He bellowed, his laughter teetering on the brink of hysteria. "You think everything belongs to you? I've gone half-mad with hatred these past years—I'll give you that...But have you lost your mind too, boy? You've got nothing!"

"...That pitiful little mansion I tossed you out of pity—that's all you have! You dare stand there and claim the Holyfield Estate the richest, most powerful seat on the continent—as yours? You're delusional!"

Wayne, still clutching his sword, stared at Cassius in bewilderment, his mind reeling. The Young Master's declaration was absurd...ludicrous, even.

The Holyfield Estate wasn't just land; it was a legacy, a fortress of wealth and influence that dwarfed anything Cassius could hope to command.

To claim it all, standing there with nothing but a smirk and those eerie red eyes...Had he truly gone mad?

Wayne's gaze flickered between the two men, searching Cassius's face for some sign of jest or instability, but finding only a calm, unshakable confidence that unnerved him even more.

Hearing the mocking laugher, Cassius simply chuckled before he stepped forward, his boots silent against the polished floor, his crimson gaze locking onto Rodrick with an intensity that made even Wayne shiver for some reason.

"It's understandable you'd think this is a joke." He said, his voice taunting. "Right now, I must look like a lunatic to you—some raving fool spouting nonsense...But that's not the truth at all." He paused, his smirk widening as he tilted his head, his eyes glinting with a dark promise. "So, to make you understand, I'm going to show you a little example—a wonderful demonstration that'll prove it's not you who's in charge of your life anymore—"

"...It's me. I govern everything you cherish and everything you love."

Rodrick's laughter faltered, his grip tightening on his sword as confusion clouded his fury. "What are you blabbering about, boy?" He snapped, his voice sharp but tinged with unease. "You've got no power here—no men, no claim! What example could you possibly—"

Wayne cut in, his voice trembling as he stepped closer to Rodrick, his sword still raised. "Young Master, what...What do you mean?" He asked, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the cryptic words. "Govern everything? You're not making sense—none of this does!"

Cassius chuckled, a low, rolling sound that reverberated through the tense air of the study, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and menace.

"Oh, it'll make sense." He said, his voice assured. "I'll make sure it makes sense by showing you something that would make everything I say make complete sense."

He then refused to elaborate and tilted his head, his gaze shifting to lock onto Rodrick with a piercing intensity that made the Patriarch's skin prickle.

"Tell me, Father—do you trust this man?" He pointed toward Wayne, his smirk widening as he awaited the response.

Rodrick's answer came without hesitation, his voice firm despite the unease gnawing at him. "Of course." He said, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at his attendant. "I trust him with my life."

Cassius's chuckle deepened, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his features. "Good." He said, his tone almost playful now. "Then how about I take him somewhere? Show him something—don't worry, I'll bring him back safe and sound." He spread his hands slightly, as if offering a gracious concession. "A little trip, that's all."

Rodrick frowned, suspicion flaring in his chest as he studied his son's calm demeanor. The offer sounded too simple, too benign, and he didn't trust it—not for a second.

But before he could respond, Wayne stepped forward, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.

"I'll go, my lord." He said, squaring his shoulders with a soldier's resolve. "I'll see what he wants to show me and report back—everything, just as it is." He met Rodrick's gaze, his expression brave but tinged with a quiet plea for approval.

Rodrick hesitated, his jaw clenching as he weighed the risk. Every instinct screamed that Cassius was baiting him, luring Wayne into some trap—but the chance to prove his son's delusions, to rub his failure in his face, was too tempting to resist.

"Fine." He said at last, his voice cold and clipped. "Go. I'm only agreeing to this to show you, you devil, how far gone you are—thinking you can just waltz in and snatch what's mine. You'll see how laughable this all is when Wayne comes back and tells me exactly what nonsense you've cooked up."

Cassius's smile didn't falter; if anything, it softened into something almost pitying, like he was looking at a petulant child throwing a tantrum.

"We'll see." He said simply, his tone infuriatingly calm. He turned toward the door, his crimson eyes glinting in the lamplight as he gestured for Wayne to follow. "Come along, then."

Wayne sheathed his sword with a decisive click, casting one last glance at Rodrick before falling into step behind Cassius. As they walked, Cassius glanced over his shoulder, his voice casual but edged with a dark curiosity. "You're alright with blood, I take it?"

Wayne straightened, his chest puffing slightly with pride as he replied. "I served in the army, Young Master. I've seen more than simple blood—battlefields, butchery, the lot...I can handle it."

Cassius nodded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Good." He said, his tone deceptively light. "I'd hate for you to pass out at the scene you're about to witness."

"...I need you sharp to report back to Father, after all."

With that, he pushed open the door, and the two vanished into the shadowed hallway beyond, leaving Rodrick alone in the study.

At first, Rodrick maintained his air of confidence, his posture rigid as he sat back in his chair, staring at the door with a sneer. He'd called Cassius's bluff—sent Wayne to expose whatever pathetic ploy his son had concocted.

But as the minutes ticked by, that certainty began to erode.

What if Cassius had taken Wayne somewhere to kill him, a twisted act of revenge for years of loyalty to the Patriarch?

The thought gnawed at him, and soon he was pacing the room, his boots thudding against the polished floor as a storm of doubts swirled in his mind. He didn't care about the Sacred Guard's deadline anymore—his focus was consumed by the possibility that his trusted aide might not return.

Time slipped away, each second stretching into an eternity. Forty minutes had passed since they'd left, and it was now just fifteen minutes until midnight—the deadline for the eternal vow, when the Sacred Guard's failure would be cemented.

Rodrick's worry deepened into dread.

Had Cassius murdered Wayne and fled? Was this his final taunt, leaving Rodrick to stew in uncertainty?

He strode toward the desk, reaching for the bell to summon his men, his hand trembling with anxiety.

But just as his fingers brushed the cord, the door creaked open, and to his utter shock Wayne stepped inside.

Rodrick's breath caught, relief flooding him as he watched him approach. "Wayne!" He exclaimed, his voice rough with urgency. "You're back—are you alright? What did he show you? What—"

But his words faltered as he took in Wayne's appearance.

The man's face was deathly pale, as if every drop of blood had drained from it, leaving his skin a sickly, ashen gray. His eyes—usually sharp and steady—were wide and lost, staring through Rodrick with a hopelessness that sent a chill down the Patriarch's spine.

Wayne stood there, swaying slightly, his hands limp at his sides, looking like a man who'd glimpsed the abyss and couldn't unsee it.

Rodrick froze, his relief curdling into terror. He'd never seen Wayne like this—not in the bloodiest battles, not in the darkest moments of their decades together. "Wayne." He said slowly, his voice trembling as he took a cautious step closer. "What...What happened? Why do you look like that?"

Wayne's gaze finally shifted to meet Rodrick's, and a faint, despairing smile curled his lips—a smile that carried no warmth, only a hollow resignation.

"All these years, my lord...." He began, his voice soft and shaky. "I never accepted that term you used for him—devil. I thought it was too harsh, too cruel to call a child that, no matter what he'd done."

He let out a weak, broken chuckle, his eyes glinting with unshed tears as he shook his head.

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"But now...now I understand. The Young Master isn't human—not even close. He's the spawn of the devil, just like you always said. And not just any devil, my lord..."

He paused, his smile fading as his voice dropped to a whisper, each word heavy with dread.

"He's the devil that's going to bring about the destruction of the Holyfield Household—our house, that's stood strong for centuries."

"...It's all going to crumble because of him."

Rodrick's blood ran cold, his hands clenching into fists as Wayne's words sank in. The room seemed to tilt, the lamplight flickering as if mocking his sudden vulnerability.

"What did you see?" He demanded, his voice rising fury. "What did he show you to make you say that?!"

Wayne didn't answer right away. He simply stared at Rodrick, his pale face etched with a quiet, unshakable certainty, as if he'd witnessed something so profound, so horrifying, that words could barely capture it.

The silence stretched, suffocating, and Rodrick felt the weight of his son's presence, of Cassius's promise pressing down on him like a noose tightening around his neck.

Whatever Wayne had seen, it had shattered him—and Rodrick knew, deep in his bones, that the devil he'd hunted for so long was no longer just a shadow in his mind, but a force poised to claim everything he'd ever held dear.

Wayne's gaze then drifted to the floor, his voice emerging in a monotonous drone, as if the life had been sapped from him, leaving only a hollow shell to recount the nightmare.

"Do you remember the 'Spineless Bandits', my lord?" He asked, his tone flat, lifeless, like a man who'd already surrendered to despair. "The ones in the Wyvern Mountains?"

Rodrick's brow furrowed, but he nodded, his voice rough with impatience. "Of course I do." He said, leaning forward slightly. "A pack of about a hundred or so filthy curs holed up between our borders and the next region. They raided merchants passing through those cursed roads. Cowards, the lot of them—only preyed on the weak, never dared tangle with anyone who could fight back...That's why everyone called them the Spineless Bandits"

His lip curled in disgust as he recalled the tales.

"Worst of all, they raped the women, slaughtered the men—no hostages, no mercy. Ruthless bastards. And slippery as well, as they hid so well in those mountains that no army we sent could root them out, no matter how many we threw at them."

Wayne nodded faintly, his pale face unchanging as he agreed. "That's exactly who they were." He said, his voice still devoid of inflection. He then lifted his eyes to meet Rodrick's, and a flicker of something—dread, perhaps—passed through them.

"...And tonight, in fact just a few minutes ago, I just stood face-to-face with all of them, my lord."

Rodrick recoiled, his chair creaking as he jolted back in shock. "What?!" He barked, his voice rising with incredulity. "How's that even possible? The Wyvern Mountains are three hours from here on horseback—three hours at a hard gallop! What are you saying?"

Wayne's lips twitched into a faint, lifeless smile, his eyes staring through Rodrick as if he were reliving the moment. "Distance wasn't a problem." He said, his tone eerily calm. "The Young Master...He just picked me up and brought me there."

Rodrick's confusion deepened, his hands clenching into fists on the desk. "Picked you up?" He repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. "What in the hells does that mean? How—"

But before he could press further, Wayne continued, his words tumbling out in that same detached monotone, as if his mind had disconnected from the horror to protect itself.

"He somehow knew exactly where they were hiding." He said. "He pinpointed their camp in those mountains like he'd mapped it in his sleep. And at that time, they were partying—drunk on ale and blood, celebrating another raid."

"...And then you wouldn't believe this, my lord, but the Young Master aster...he...he just walked in—right into the center of it all, as bold as you please like it was his own home."

Rodrick's eyes widened, his breath catching as he leaned forward. "He what?!" He snapped, his voice a mix of shock and outrage. "Walked into a camp of a hundred armed bandits? How did he escape that? Did that devil have a death wish?"

Wayne's smile turned rueful, a bitter edge creeping into his hollow tone. "It wasn't him who had a death wish, my lord." He said, his voice trembling slightly now. "It was the bandits...The ones who caught the Young Master's eye."

He paused, his breath hitching as the memory of what he witnessed clawed its way back to the surface. His hands shook, his composure cracking as he stammered.

"He...He..." The words caught in his throat, and he faltered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he struggled to speak.

Rodrick stared, his own heart pounding as Wayne's hesitation stretched the silence into something unbearable. "What?!" He demanded, slamming a fist on the desk. "What did he do, Wayne? Spit it out!"

Wayne broke then, a choked laugh spilling from his lips as tears streamed down his pale cheeks, his body trembling with the weight of what he'd seen.

"HE...HE MASSACRED THEM ALL!" He finally cried, his voice rising into a ragged, desperate wail. "A-ALL OF THEM, MY LORD...HE KILLED THEM WITH HIS OWN HANDS, RUTHLESS, MERCILESS, AND BATHED IN THEIR BLOOD AND...H-HE MADE ME WATCH IT ALL!"

Rodrick's breath caught, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as Wayne's words hit him like a physical blow, while the attendant then sank to his knees, his laughter dissolving into sobs as he clutched at his head, the images flooding back.

"H-He didn't even let them speak." He went on, his voice breaking. "The first one stepped forward—some brute with a club—and the young master started...No weapons, no sword—just his hands. He slashed through them, tore them apart like they were nothing. And the worst part..."

He shuddered, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper.

"H-He actually shoved his hand into their backs, grabbed the base of their spines, and pulled. Pulled their spines right out every single one of them! Pulled so hard that sometimes their ribcage along with all their organs inside came out as well! "

"...Their heads dangled from the ends, swinging like trophies, and he kept going, one after another, until the ground was a sea of blood and a mountain of spines!"

Rodrick's face drained of color, his mouth falling open as he stared at Wayne, who was now rocking slightly on the floor, tears streaming down his face.

"It was a bloodbath." Wayne whimpered, his voice raw with anguish. "The bottom level of hell—gruesome, grotesque, every inch soaked in red. By the end, he was covered in it—blood dripping from his hands, his face, his clothes—and that pile of spines...gods, I can still see it. A hundred of them, maybe more, stacked like firewood."

He lifted his head, his hopeless eyes locking onto Rodrick's with a despair so profound it seemed to age him decades in an instant.

"I was a soldier too, my lord." He said, his voice trembling but resolute. "I've seen war, death, carnage—things that haunt you for years. But after tonight...after what I saw...There's no sleeping. No forgetting."

"...I've seen what the devil can do, and it's him—it's him!"

Rodrick stumbled back, his chair scraping against the floor as he sank into it, his hands shaking as he gripped the armrests. Horror clawed at his chest, his mind reeling as Wayne's account painted a picture too vivid, too monstrous to dismiss.

The Spineless Bandits—vile, elusive, a scourge he'd failed to crush for years—wiped out in a single, brutal display by Cassius's hands. And not just killed—dismantled, their spines torn free as if they were no more than insects to be crushed underfoot.

The image seared into his mind, and with it came a chilling realization: his son who he named as the devil wasn't just a figure of speech.

It was real, tangible, and standing ready to destroy everything he'd built and loved...