"Take her hand."
The voice was cold, piercing, and left no room for defiance.
The man in the black cloak moved swiftly, his massive hand gripping the wrist of a white-haired girl. The grip was not a mere hold, but a brutal, heart-wrenching tug.
The girl shrieked, her voice catching in her throat as she felt every muscle, every vein, and every bone in her arm forced to surrender. Pain exploded, burning from her wrist to her shoulder, then spreading through her entire body like the fires of hell.
She could feel her joints creaking, her muscles tearing, and her skin stretching to its limit. The air around her felt thin, and her vision began to blur with tears and unbearable horror.
"Arghhh... no... please stop! It hurts! It h-hurts so much!" Her voice trembled, pleading, only to be met with an even stronger pull.
She could feel her bones snapping one by one, the sickening sound of cracking echoing in her ears. Blood began to seep out, drenching the man's black cloak and staining her dress and pristine white hair.
"Please... I beg you... stop... it hurts... Young Master... Young Master!" She gasped, every breath a struggle.
Her world spun, and the girl only wanted the darkness to take her so the pain would stop. The sensation of her arm separating from her body was the most terrifying thing she had ever felt—worse than death itself.
Her final scream was a mixture of despair and indescribable agony. With a sickening 'splat,' the girl's arm was torn off completely.
Blood sprayed, drenching the marble floor beneath her, and the girl collapsed, her body writhing in convulsions from the shock and excruciating pain. She sobbed, whimpering soundlessly, feeling only the emptiness and the stinging ache in her now-vacant shoulder.
The man in the black cloak stood tall, holding the small, smooth severed hand as if it were nothing but a worthless object. Expressionless, he knelt before the youth who gave the order, and with perfect respect, handed over the girl's hand.
"Good work, Hans."
The youth's voice broke the deathly silence, his tone flat yet laden with authority.
Hans, the man in the black cloak, rose from his kneeling position after delivering the severed hand.
The youth took the small, smooth hand, observing it for a moment as if it were the most disgusting object in the world. Then, without hesitation, a dense black flame ignited in his palm, devouring the hand swiftly and mercilessly. Within seconds, the hand was scorched to ash, leaving no trace, as if it had never existed.
The white-haired girl lay on the floor, her body limp and helpless. Her sobs were now only faint whimpers, mourning her empty shoulder and the unrelenting pain that pierced through to her very soul.
Yet, more than the physical pain, the gazes of everyone in the hall were like thousands of needles piercing her pride. The overwhelming shame almost surpassed her physical suffering.
Around her, the nobles invited to the youth's party at his residence watched the horrific scene with pale faces. They discussed in a near-silent hush, faint whispers filled with horror and disbelief.
However, when the youth glared at them sharply, as if issuing a warning, all whispers ceased instantly. The hall fell silent again, leaving only the sound of bated breath and a faint scent of char.
The girl, unable to bear the weight of pain and shame crushing her any longer, finally lost consciousness. Her body lay senseless on the cold, blood-slicked marble floor. The youth looked down at her with blatant disgust, as if looking at trash.
"Take her to the dungeon," he ordered coldly to Hans. "Lock her in there."
Hans did not utter a word. He simply bowed deeply, and without mercy, his hand gripped the girl's white hair. With a brutal yank, he began to drag the girl's limp body toward the hall doors.
A trail of blood stained the noble marble floor, creating a gruesome sight that further deepened the chilling atmosphere among the nobles. Muffled whispers were barely audible, but the terror in their eyes was unmistakable.
Just before Hans reached the threshold, a middle-aged man with white hair stepped forward. His face was filled with worry and a fragile courage. He blocked Hans's path, his gaze sharpening, piercing directly toward the youth sitting calmly on his throne, filled with a hostility that could no longer be hidden.
"Young Master," his voice trembled, yet there was a steadfastness in it, "I beg of you, show her a shred of your mercy. Allow my daughter to receive treatment from a doctor before she is imprisoned."
The youth returned his gaze. His eyes were cold, devoid of expression, and filled with absolute dominance. "You dare to order me?" he asked, his voice quiet yet carrying a threat that chilled the bone.
The middle-aged man's face turned pale instantly. Horror gripped him. He could imagine the wrath that had previously fallen upon his daughter now turning toward him.
Cold sweat drenched his temples. With palpable fear, he immediately moved out of Hans's way, bowing deeply and muttering apologies repeatedly to the youth.
He let Hans continue his pace, cruelly dragging his unconscious daughter away, leaving a heartbreaking trail of blood behind them.
The hall went mute, a suffocating silence enveloping every corner. No one dared to speak; no one raised their head. Everyone looked down, cloaked in indescribable fear and terror—a fear so thick it felt like it was choking their lungs.
All of this trouble, all of this fear, was caused by one person: the youth sitting gracefully on his grand throne.
His hair was pitch black like a starless night, contrasting with his pale white skin. He wore a black suit with sharp red stripes running from the collar down, radiating an aura of absolute power. His eyes, red as blood, stared coldly without a hint of mercy, like a demon disguised in human form.
The youth broke the silence with his calm voice, yet every word carried a heavy weight.
"Forgive the slight interruption," he said, his gaze sweeping over the trembling crowd of nobles. "With this, my birthday party—Lucien Vornhart's party—shall resume!"
For a moment, the hall was silent. The nobles looked at each other, doubt and fear clear on their faces. However, in just a matter of seconds, they all jolted. Not out of joy, but out of necessity.
They immediately cheered, shouting "Happy birthday!" with forced voices. Fake smiles were carved onto their faces, attempting to cover the very evident fear—an ironic spectacle in the midst of a lavish birthday celebration.
That night, Lucien Vornhart was dubbed the Noble Demon of the Demon Noble Family, the son of the Grand Duke Vornhart of the North.
Fifteen years ago, before the bloody banquet, in the midst of the grim grandeur of a black palace, a baby boy was born.
Stone walls towering high seemed to swallow the light, yet behind the carved windows, there was an undeniable elegance. The baby was named Lucien Vornhart, a name laden with history and the weight of expectation.
When he reached exactly one year of age, little Lucien was sent away from that grand palace. Not to a warmer or more loving place, but to a remote mansion ten kilometers away from the black palace.
The purpose of this transfer was not a vacation or ordinary upbringing, but to undergo a trial. A hereditary obligation passed down through every member of the Vornhart family for thousands of years—a tradition that tested their endurance and strength from an early age.
From the moment Lucien arrived at that mansion, his life turned into a living hell. Not a single act of kindness was ever shown to him.
The servants who were supposed to care for him instead treated him poorly. Jealousy gnawed at their hearts, envious of Lucien's identity as the Vornhart heir, even though he was but a helpless infant.
The soldiers guarding the mansion were no different in their disdain. They looked down on Lucien, viewing him as nothing more than a small, insignificant burden. No one respected him, no one cared, and no one wanted to look after him sincerely.
Every day, the food given to Lucien was merely the scraps from the servants' meals.
His clothes were tattered and filthy, and his cramped room was always in a state of disarray. They did it intentionally, certain that Lucien was still a baby and would not understand anything about the mistreatment he received.
They thought he was merely a doll to be toyed with. However, unbeknownst to them, when Lucien turned three years old, something extraordinary happened.
In the darkness of his stifling room, memories from a distant past suddenly awakened in his mind.
Once, he was a university student from Earth named Osric. He did not know how or why he died, but now he was reborn in the tiny body of Lucien Vornhart.
At that moment, the memories of Lucien's life—filled with torture and suffering—flooded his head like a crashing wave. The excruciating pain tore through his mind, making him scream in agony as if being ripped apart by wild beasts.
Fortunately, his room was underground, isolated from the outside world, so his harrowing voice was not heard anywhere, by anyone.
The moment Lucien's memories possessed him, the child's gaze changed. From the eyes of an innocent infant, there now radiated a deep sharpness and bitterness, filled with a burning vendetta.
"Those bastards..." Osric muttered, his voice hoarse and full of rage. "How dare they treat me like this?"
Lucien's memories, feelings, and thoughts possessed him, merging with his consciousness.
An unbearable anger burned within him, triggering a powerful desire to kill every servant and soldier in the mansion until none remained, to repay every ounce of suffering Lucien had endured.
The torture Lucien had experienced all this time had gone completely unnoticed by the child himself. He had considered it normal—a part of his life.
As Osric realized Lucien's innocent thoughts regarding the "normality" of that torture, his rage exploded. He destroyed the items in the room, breaking whatever he could reach, venting the overflowing anger.
"I won't let this continue," he hissed, his breath coming in gasps. "They will pay dearly!"
Then, Osric's consciousness and Lucien's burning vendetta merged into a single, bloodthirsty entity. His rage was so thick it was able to vibrate reality itself. An intense crimson-black aura exploded from his tiny body, making the floor tremble and the stone walls begin to crack by force.