"Why are you looking at me like that?" John asked the maid, who had been avoiding eye contact.
"...."
The maid remained silent, refusing to answer. John sighed and lay back on the bed, his mind racing as he considered his next move. He was in
The Legend of Divine Twig
—he was almost 98% certain of it. The message he had received from the author had clearly stated "bet," which suggested that the author was truly a deity who ruled over this world.
At least, that was his first theory. There could be other explanations, but for now, this made the most sense.
Cling, cling, cling.
The bell rang again, and the creaking door opened. The maid swiftly moved to the side and bowed. John glanced toward the entrance and saw a middle-aged man with a well-trimmed beard, brown hair, and sharp brown eyes. His face had a square, commanding shape.
"Good morning, my lord. The young master has fully recovered," the maid said with utmost respect.
The man entered with a dignified air, his presence filling the room. John couldn't help but feel a sense of awe. From the brief context, he gathered that this was his father. In the novel, the Duke had far more screen time than Reeva—and rightfully so. The author had made him a far more compelling character.
"Recovered?" The Duke sneered. "You call this cripple recovered?"
"I'm sorry, my lord."
Faced with the Duke's overwhelming presence, the maid quickly retracted her words.
"You," the Duke said, pointing at John. "Do you know what you did wrong?"
"I... lost?"
Unsure of what to say, John blurted out the first thing that came to mind. The Duke's eyebrows twitched slightly, the only sign of his mild surprise. He stepped closer to John, his movements deliberate and measured.
"Half right."
In one swift motion, the Duke lifted his right leg and lightly pushed John. The force was enough to send John's body flying from the bed and slamming into the wall.
"Argh!"
"You're half right that Antores cannot lose. That's your first sin."
The Duke grabbed the corner of John's bed and flipped it over with his bare hands. It crashed into the wall, splintering on impact. He strode over to where John lay slumped against the wall, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
John's tongue tasted like iron.
"The second sin," the Duke continued, "is that you lost to a commoner."
He stepped closer, looming over the miserable boy. John looked up and saw a man dressed impeccably in a black suit. The Duke wore his outer shirt like a cloak, its fabric swaying with every step. A silver sword gleamed at his hip, catching the light, and his attire was adorned with intricate crests of crossed swords.
The Duke of Crossing Sword.
Even in his battered state, John couldn't help but admire the man. If not for the kick that had sent him flying, he might have bowed before the Duke out of sheer respect.
"And the greatest sin of all..."
The Duke drew his sword and rested the blade on John's shoulder. The young man held his breath, bracing for what would come next. The maid closed her eyes, and the nun began to pray. In an instant, the room turned icy, the tension palpable. Their eyes locked, neither willing to look away.
"You broke the silver sword," the Duke declared, his voice echoing like a death sentence. "A sword passed down through generations as a family heirloom. The punishment for breaking it... is death."
The sword pressed closer, its edge biting into John's neck. A sharp pain flared as the blade drew blood, which trickled down onto his shoulder. Thankfully, his head remained attached—for now.
"Do you have any last words?"
The Duke's voice was low, his gaze unwavering as he stared down at the son he was about to execute. In the novel, the Duke was the one to end Reeva's life when he turned into a demon. John knew his next words would decide his fate.
"I will accept my punishment," John said, his voice steady. "You may take my life, Duke."
"....."
The Duke's grip on the sword tightened, but then he slowly retracted it. "At least you still have some honor. But that doesn't absolve you of your sins. The unworthy have no place in this family. I will give you 100 stac. Use it wisely—and never return."
With that, the Duke turned and left the room. Only after he was gone did the tension dissipate, allowing the three remaining occupants to breathe again.
"Master, are you alright?"
"Do I look alright?" John snapped.
"..."
The maid fell silent. John was fairly certain his heart might have stopped beating at any moment during the confrontation. He swore his life had flashed before his eyes when he'd answered the Duke.
The maid's worried expression softened him slightly. The gesture warmed his heart—a reflex honed by years of corporate drudgery, where even small kindnesses felt rare. She reached into her pocket for a napkin and dabbed at the blood on his neck.
"Why did the lord spare you?" the nun asked, lingering near the door. Her tone was curious, almost skeptical.
"Honor," John replied. "Our family... holds such things in high regard."
The maid stared at him, disbelief etched into her features. Her shock went unnoticed by John, who was already dissecting his own response. His answer hadn't been about self-preservation. In the novel's later Chapters, Reeva had survived the Duke's punishment—barely—and John gambled that the same plot armor might protect him now.
The real reason had been to gain more than nothing. He'd deduced that the Duke had come to disown him, so answering that way wasn't just about self-preservation—it was about securing the 100 stac that the original Reeva never would've received.
But John would've been lying if he'd claimed he wasn't terrified. The pain in his neck still throbbed, a visceral reminder of how close he'd come to death. Without a doubt, it had been the most exhilarating—and terrifying—moment of his life.
"Then, with no further business, I'll take my leave..." the nun said, turning toward the door.
"Wait." John stopped her. "Could you heal my neck?"
The nun paused, her expression flattening into a deadpan stare. Wordlessly, she approached Reeva.