Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!-Chapter 99. Where is your goddamn cellar, Bitches?

"Identity theft. Money laundering. Human trafficking. Child exploitation. Sexual assault—on women, children, even men. Blackmail. Theft. Murder. Mass murder. Homicide..."

The young man’s voice was quiet, yet each word struck the wind like a curse.

His amethyst-colored hair shimmered under the pale daylight, strands brushing against his cheeks as the breeze danced across the rooftop.

His bangs fell over his right eye, only slightly parted by the wind, but nothing could soften the intensity behind those eyes.

He stood atop a broken building—not entirely ruined, but cracked and charred, its bones scorched by recent fury.

Yesterday, this place had been a thriving den of filth. A gathering nest for the worst kind of people—traffickers, war profiteers, and the diseased minds who enabled atrocities.

But now?

Now it was silent.

Because Arawn had reduced it to ash.

He had razed it down, brick by brick, body by body. No mercy. No survivors.

He stared down at the streets below, silent for a long moment. Then, he clenched his gloved hands into fists.

"Decades..." he muttered, his voice a hoarse whisper of restrained fury. "This entire scheme... was planned for decades."

It wasn’t righteous anger. He wasn’t some holy knight driven by justice or a guardian of the weak. No, Arawn had never claimed to be a hero.

He was something else entirely.

His anger stemmed from something colder. Deeper. Something that simmered just beneath his skin like acid.

Children. Innocents. People who had no role in the war—they were the ones caught in its teeth.

He could accept bloodshed in a battlefield. He understood war. But this wasn’t war. This was cowardice dressed in military garb.

A puppet show where the strings were soaked in blood, and the audience applauded from thrones.

"If you want to fight," he growled, "then fight fairly."

That had always been his belief, even back on Earth—back in the Underworld.

In the lawless zones where no one respected rules, there had still been his rules. A twisted code, but one he enforced with unwavering brutality.

And now, here in this new world—this world that had so many faces but the same rotting soul—he was seeing it again.

Opalcrest.

They had a reputation for strength. Their soldiers were brutal, yes, but honorable, some claimed. Their banners flew proudly, their generals spoke of courage and legacy.

But behind the frontlines?

Behind the patriotic speeches and polished swords?

They were cowards.

Underhanded. Using the lives of the helpless to pressure the noble families of Everhart. Poisoning the kingdom from within.

It wasn’t just political betrayal.

It was systemic.

Seventy percent of the Everhart nobles were already compromised—traitors waiting to be activated.

Most of them weren’t even doing it out of loyalty to Opalcrest. No. They were being blackmailed, coerced.

Their wives.

Their sons.

Their daughters.

Held in secret prisons, tortured, used as leverage.

"So-called warriors..." Arawn spat the words like venom.

He hated them. Not just for the pain they caused—but for how pathetic it all was. Was power worth so little that they had to hide behind the suffering of innocents?

Back in the Underworld, things had been different. No one dared stoop that low. Because they knew what would happen if he found out. And he always did.

There, he was the monster that hunted monsters. The judge and executioner in the black fog of lawless cities.

And now?

In another world?

It was the same play. Different stage.

"I guess... humans are the same everywhere," he muttered, his expression twisted with cold hatred. "Rotten pieces of shit."

From the corpses he’d left behind yesterday, he had pulled more than blood.

He had pulled information.

Precise. Valuable. Disgusting.

The captives—those nobles’ families being held hostage—were all kept in a high-security zone. Region-50.

A name stripped of humanity, buried beneath bureaucracy. A place no commoner could enter.

But Arawn?

He wasn’t common.

He stared out across the ruined skyline, eyes narrowing.

He knew what needed to be done.

"Looks like it’s time to go back to my roots," he said softly, the wind catching the words like an omen.

Back to the shadows.

Back to the Underworld.

...

Region-50 looked deceptively normal on the surface. It was bustling with over twenty thousand people, moving in and out of busy streets lined with shops.

There were stalls selling fresh meat, glittering jewelry, enchanted accessories, minor artifacts, weapons of varying quality, and shady ’rare’ items that wouldn’t last a week in real combat.

To the uninformed eye, this place could pass as a thriving trade hub. But Arawn wasn’t an uninformed eye.

He stood at the edge of the main street, watching.

People walked, talked, and traded with rehearsed ease, but he saw it all. The slight twitch of a merchant’s lips when he spotted a soldier.

The mother gripping her child’s hand too tightly while subtly checking her surroundings.

The man pretending to sharpen a dagger behind a stall when he was clearly watching the street reflection through its polished edge.

Their bodies were tense. Their eyes too alert. Their movements too measured.

’They’re all ready to strike at a moment’s notice.’

Every person here wore a metaphorical mask.

They smiled, laughed, or bartered like ordinary civilians, but the cracks were clear to someone like him.

The furrowed brows, darting eyes, fingers twitching toward concealed blades or hidden pouches.

The entire district reeked of danger.

"Children are used as beggars here... or worse, for street prostitution," Arawn muttered under his breath, his voice tight.

It was the kind of thing he’d seen far too often. Another reminder that evil didn’t change form—it only changed names and borders.

Unlike before, Arawn wasn’t hiding today. He wore his formal attire: a white, uniform, draped with a sleek black coat.

Embroidered on his chest was the unmistakable golden rose insignia—of the Rose Academy.

It marked him immediately as an outsider.

And it was working exactly as he intended.

People noticed. Eyes followed him. Whispered voices shifted, subtle glances exchanged in corners.

He felt their discomfort coil around him like smoke.

’Let them squirm,’ he thought.

With his hands tucked calmly into his coat pockets, Arawn began to stroll through the district.

He moved at a leisurely pace, eyes never still, monitoring the way people’s behavior changed based on his location.

He entered weapon shops. Examined their blades. Passed by blacksmiths and item vendors.

Even stepped into a brothel where the madam offered him a tired smile—almost mechanical.

Yet strangely, their fear remained low. Calculated. Controlled.

’Professional,’ he thought. ’Too professional.’

But then, he reached the tavern.

The Obsidian Tavern.

It stood apart from the others.

Built of dark stone with weathered obsidian trims etched into the wooden beams, the tavern exuded a kind of quiet menace.

Its exterior was clean, preserved, even admired—yet every inch of it screamed "danger."

He stepped forward, but did not enter yet.

Instead, he stood outside its heavy doors, his gaze sweeping the windows, the rooftop, the alley nearby. It only took seconds for him to feel the shift. freewebnσvel.cøm

The anxiety levels spiked.

Those watching him from rooftops moved closer to the edge.

Two men playing dice across the street stopped mid-game, hands frozen. Conversations around him grew quieter. Eyes widened just a fraction.

’So this is it,’ he thought. ’The core of their operations.’

With a small smirk, he stepped inside.

The tavern went silent immediately.

Wood creaked under his boots as he crossed the threshold.

The scent of alcohol and sweat mixed with the iron tang of blood—old and faded, but still present.

Dozens of rugged men and women turned to look at him.

Gaunt faces. Scarred necks. Missing fingers. Soldiers who’d long left the battlefield for something darker.

They didn’t say a word.

Until a towering man stepped forward. A full beard covered his jaw, and muscles bulged beneath a leather vest.

His nose had been broken more than once, and his left eye was slightly glassy.

He walked up to Arawn like a bouncer at a bar he owned.

"This ain’t a place for children," the man growled, voice deep and gravelly. He waved his hand dismissively. "Get lost, brat. Don’t make me throw you out."

Arawn tilted his head slightly, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. For a heartbeat, he looked amused.

Then lightning crackled.

In the blink of an eye, Arawn’s fist surged forward—glowing with arcs of violet lightning.

The punch landed squarely against the man’s face with an explosive crack.

The man’s body lifted from the ground as if shot from a cannon, soaring across the tavern and crashing into the far wall with a thunderous boom, splintering wood and stone.

He collapsed in a heap, groaning faintly.

Silence fell again.

Only Arawn’s slow, measured footsteps echoed now as he stepped deeper inside.

He stared at the group. His eyes burned with cold intensity—no anger, just precision. Just calculation.

And then he spoke, voice like ice.

"Where is your goddamn cellar, bitches?"

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fre𝒆webnove(l).𝐜𝐨𝗺