Depraved Noble: Forced To Live The Debaucherous Life Of An Evil Noble!-Chapter 520: Forsaken And Abandoned

At first, Sister Maria believed she could hide the fact that she was pregnant.

Loose robes, careful posture, and long hours spent alone in the chapel’s garden helped conceal the gentle swell that grew beneath her waist.

For months she prayed that her condition might remain unseen until she could find a discreet way to leave.

But secrets rarely survive in a place where gossip travels faster than the church bells.

Whispers began softly.

Curiosity about why she fainted during morning prayers, why her face looked tired yet radiant, why her hands always drifted protectively toward her midsection.

And then one morning, as the sunlight cut through the stained-glass windows, a fellow sister caught sight of her figure from the side and gasped.

Within days, the entire Hawthorne Estate was alive with rumor.

A nun—holy and sworn to the Goddess—carrying a child?

It was unthinkable.

What began as disbelief quickly twisted into malice.

Some of the older women, who had long envied Maria’s beauty and the warmth she inspired, whispered that she must have used her charm to lure men into sin.

Their words spread through the servants quarters, then into the markets, until every corner of the estate buzzed with the same cruel refrain.

"She’s no saint—she’s a temptress."

"They say she calls men into the chapel at night."

"She pretends to forgive their sins and commits new ones instead."

"A succubus in holy robes."

Soon, what had once been admiration turned into disgust. Her kindness was re-interpreted as deceit, her smiles as seduction.

Even the men who had once confessed to her in tears now looked away in shame or spite, afraid to be seen near her.

When her belly could no longer be hidden, the Church made its judgment swift and merciless.

Before the congregation, the head priest declared her impure, a violator of sacred vows. She pleaded that she had never betrayed her faith, begged them to let her stay and serve.

But her words fell on stone hearts and the chapel that had been her home, her sanctuary, was closed to her forever.

The doors slammed shut behind her. And it wasn’t just the chapel’s doors.

The people of Hawthorne, the same souls who had once run to her in their darkest hours, now crossed the street to avoid her.

Merchants refused to sell her bread.

Mothers pulled their children away.

Some mocked her openly, throwing bits of refuse or muttering slurs as she passed.

"Fallen woman." They called her. "Unholy sow."

Still, Maria never cursed them.

She prayed for them instead and at night she would cradle her daughter Joy, whispering lullabies under her breath and telling herself that the Goddess saw all, even if the world refused to.

And the man responsible for it all—Lord Reinhardt—knew every word of it.

From the windows of his manor, he watched her struggle, his conscience burning, yet he did nothing.

He could not.

Any attempt to aid her would raise questions, questions whose answers would destroy him.

And so, like a coward, he let her suffer.

Maria’s strength also began to fade as time went on.

There were nights she went to sleep in the fields, clutching her belly and whispering prayers for her unborn child.

And when she finally decided to leave Hawthorne, it was not out of hatred, but out of hope.

That somewhere beyond these cursed walls, she might find a place where her daughter could live without shame.

But before she could go, a letter arrived.

It bore the seal of Lady Helena Hawthorne, the lord’s wife.

In elegant handwriting, Helena invited Maria to return to the estate—not as a nun, but as her personal maid.

The letter spoke of forgiveness and compassion, of charity and a wish to offer Maria a second chance.

Maria wept with gratitude when she read it. She saw in it the hand of divine mercy, a sign that the Goddess had not abandoned her.

Smiling through her tears, she accepted.

But it was actually...the greatest mistake of her life.

Lady Helena’s kindness was a mask—one that concealed a soul eaten by jealousy and betrayal.

She had learned the truth of her husband’s sin, and though she despised him for it, her hatred found an easier target: the woman he had defiled.

So, to the outside world, Helena was the image of virtue. She welcomed the disgraced nun into her household, spoke kindly of her, and claimed to offer her redemption.

But behind the curtains of the manor, her mercy turned to cruelty.

Maria became her outlet for rage.

At first it was verbal, the sharp slap of words that cut deeper than knives.

Then came the blows.

Helena’s fury knew no limits: she struck her with rods, burned her with candle wax, forced her to kneel for hours on cold stone floors.

When Maria faltered under the strain, Helena’s punishments grew harsher.

She made her eat scraps meant for dogs, scrub floors until her fingers bled, stand outside in the freezing rain until she could barely feel her limbs.

And whenever Maria wept, Helena would whisper that if she ever tried to flee, her daughter would pay the price.

So Maria endured.

She bore every humiliation with a broken smile, convincing herself that as long as her daughter was safe, her suffering had meaning.

And just like that, the years passed like this, endless night of torment that stretched over a decade.

All the while, Lord Reinhardt remained silent.

Fear held his tongue and chained his heart. He told himself it was too late to change anything, that confessing now would destroy everything he had built.

And so, he turned away from the woman he had ruined and let his wife’s cruelty continue unchecked.

Ten years.

Ten years of pain, silence, and false piety—until at last, something within that quiet household began to change.

Because Joy, no longer a child but a sharp-eyed girl, had seen it all.

She saw the bruises her mother tried to hide, heard the muffled sobs behind locked doors, watched as the world spat upon the woman who had given her nothing but love.

For years she swallowed her anger, trying to be the gentle daughter her mother hoped she would be.

But each act of cruelty carved a mark into her heart until one evening, as Joy helped her mother to bed, Maria’s body finally gave way.

Her hands trembled too much to hold a cup, her breath came in shallow whispers, and her eyes—those same eyes that once shone like dawn—had turned dim with exhaustion.

And in that moment...something inside her snapped.

She realized that if she did nothing, this slow dying would continue forever. No prayer, no plea, no saint would intervene. Only she could end it.

And so Joy decided to act.

She would stop the suffering. She would make every person who had turned their back on her mother taste the same helplessness they had forced upon her.

Her chance came with the Harvest Festival—the grandest night of the year for the Hawthorne Estate.

The festival was always a dazzling spectacle.

The village square was lit by hundreds of lanterns swinging gently in the evening breeze. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meat, loaves of honeyed bread, and barrels of golden Harvest Nectar, the spiced drink brewed once a year to honor the season’s bounty.

The Hawthorne family watched from a raised wooden stage overlooking the crowd.

Lord Reinhardt, elegant as ever, stood beside Lady Helena, who smiled graciously, her hands resting on the shoulders of her two children.

It was a perfect night, a portrait of harmony painted over years of deceit.

Then, the first scream shattered the music.

A man near the center of the square clutched his chest and collapsed.

At first, people thought he had simply drunk too much, but when another fell—then another—the laughter curdled into panic.

One by one, men and women began dropping where they stood, their eyes wide, bodies stiff. The mugs of Harvest Nectar rolled from limp fingers, spilling across the cobblestones like liquid amber.

A wave of dread swept through the crowd as realization dawned that the very drink they had toasted with—the sacred harvest brew—had been poisoned. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

Yet it was no ordinary toxin: though their hearts still beat and their eyes darted frantically, their bodies refused to obey them. They could breathe, they could think, but they could not run.

The entire square—hundreds of people—lay helpless.

And in the sudden, crushing silence.

A sound echoed through the night.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Footsteps.

Light ones.

And beneath those footsteps...a dragging sound.

Slow. Steady. Inevitable and those who could still turn their eyes did so.

And when they saw the figure stepping into the festival lights, waves of terror rippled through the paralyzed crowd.

It was a girl.

No older than ten.

Pink hair tied back in a loose, messy tail.

A simple dress, now dirtied and worn.

Her small hands wrapped around the handle of a weapon so large it looked almost comical—until one realized what it was.

A battle axe.

Massive. Heavy.

The blade alone was nearly the size of her torso.

But she dragged it with ease, the steel edge carving thin lines along the cobblestone with each step.

And her eyes...

Her eyes were not the eyes of a child.

They were cold.

Emotionless.

Disdainful in a way that made even the adults tremble.

The same eyes she had inherited from her father, but sharpened by the suffering her mother endured.

Every few steps, someone whimpered or twitched, trying to crawl away, but they could not. The poison had frozen even their fear inside their throats.

But she did not look at them.

She only had eyes for the stage.

Lord Reinhardt rose halfway from his chair, his voice trembling.

"J-Joy, dear? What are you doing? What is the meaning of this?"

Meanwhile, Lady Helena’s lips curled into a cold smile, though fear trembled just beneath it.

"Oh Joy? Come to beg for her forgiveness? You should—"

Then Joy leaned forward slightly and whispered something.

Soft, quiet and inaudible to the crowd below.

But whatever she said made Helena’s face drain of color.

Reinhardt’s knees nearly buckled.

The two children clung to each other in terror.

And then with a cruel smile on her lips, she lifted the axe.

Immediately, gasps rippled through the square as the axe rose above her head, catching the firelight like a shard of lightning.

The paralyzed onlookers could only watch, their minds screaming while their bodies refused to move.

Joy’s eyes then met her father’s, utterly devoid of mercy. And in that breathless instant before the world erupted into a bloody massacre, the only sound was her cold voice.

"For all the suffering you have caused my beloved mother."

...And then the axe came down.