"I hereby beseech the Mother of Pure Darkness, the goddess who governs life itself. Surely, your divine power can cure the curse within my bloodline..."
In a cramped stone chamber, thick lines, no wider than a finger, were etched into the cold granite floor, forming a five-pointed star—the shape of a summoning circle. The grooves were filled with fresh, pulsing blood.
On either side of the ritual circle lay two people, a man and a woman. Their wrists had been slit open, and it was their blood that completed the formation of this wicked array.
At the center of the circle knelt a tall, bloated figure—completely naked, hands clasped to his chest in solemn prayer.
Just then, the man lying on the ground opened his eyes. His neck stiff, he slowly looked around before squeezing his eyes shut again.
"Woke up too fast… saw a pig praying… gotta sleep that off."
A few seconds later, Gao Yang opened his eyes once more. This time, he clearly saw the curly white hair growing from the fat man's big toe.
That was Donald's foot.
Wait—Donald? Who the hell is Donald?
A tide of memories crashed into his mind all at once.
...
Surrounded by the overwhelming stench of blood, Gao Yang realized a shocking truth—he had transmigrated into another world. And very quickly, he pieced together the situation he was now in.
This was a vibrant, fantastical world—filled with gods, dragons, elves, dwarves, orcs, martial energy, magic, and of course, legendary artifacts and divine miracles.
An incredible world, truly…
If only he hadn't ended up in this guy's body.
The original owner of this body was named Rus, an orphan from the city of Moen. His parents had died young, and he'd grown up in an orphanage run by the Church of Light.
Gifted with a silver tongue from a young age, Rus managed to charm the orphanage's only matron by the time he was eight. Thanks to that, he got an extra slice of coarse black bread at every meal, the occasional cup of milk, and even some rare pieces of smoked meat.
This steady diet gave him a sturdy frame that didn't belong in a place like an orphanage.
And Rus was nothing if not "grateful."
Shortly after turning fourteen, he climbed into the matron's bed.
He had a knack for sin, that much was clear. Before long, he and the matron were partners in crime, selling off supplies from the orphanage. Sure, it was just things like barley flour and cornmeal—barely worth a few copper coins—but quantity added up over time.
As the orphanage children grew thinner and more malnourished, their pockets grew fatter.
Of course, the truth always comes out eventually. Despite how careful they were, whispers began to reach the ears of the orphanage's headmistress. She tried to reform Rus, to lead him back to the light.
To her credit, she had the patience of a saint—she didn't reach for her broom until the fifth time Rus tried to hit on her.
One broom by itself couldn't stop the now-strong Rus. But a broom held by a Tier-2 Battle Priest? That was another story.
Rus was thrown out. Apart from the matron, everyone at the orphanage celebrated his departure.
He was fifteen that year, and already as strong as a grown man.
As the old Imperial saying goes:
"Many idle people do evil."
Now free from the orphanage, Rus was like a fish returned to water. He put all his talents to good use—
Theft. Robbery. Extortion. Kidnapping. Smuggling.
With his cunning and perfectly balanced greed, Rus thrived in Moen's criminal underworld, eventually earning himself a nickname:
"Little Bee."
Because he just couldn't say no to women.
From eighteen to eighty, pretty or plain, thin or thick—he welcomed them all.
When Donald's personal guard found him, Rus was "hard at work" in a tavern room with one of his usual companions.
Dragged out mid-act, Rus received a surprise that blew his mind:
His real surname was Claydon. He was the last heir of a noble baronial bloodline.
A Baron!
Sure, it was the lowest of the five noble ranks—Duke, Marquis, Count, Viscount, and Baron—but it was still nobility!
Real nobility!
In the entire Cairns Empire, newly ennobled families were so rare you could count them on one hand.
After confirming the documents, Rus spent half a month traveling and finally arrived at his new fiefdom—Hawk's Domain.
It even had a real castle!
The lord of the castle was his uncle, the current imperial baron—Donald Alta Claydon.
Donald was obese and massive, but cheerful and welcoming.
From the bottom of his heart, Rus prayed that Donald would soon return to the embrace of the merciful God of Light… and even began plotting how to speed things along.
At first, Rus was thrilled. Everyone called him "young master" wherever he went. Meals always included fresh white bread and meat stew—sometimes even homemade red wine!
But soon, things started to feel... off.
The castle was eerily quiet. Aside from a steward, three guards, and a cook, there was no one else.
Not even a single maid.
His movements were tightly restricted. He wasn't allowed to leave the castle, and no matter where he went, at least two guards followed him at all times.
He wasn't being treated like an heir. More like a prisoner.
Through careful manipulation and casual conversation, Rus uncovered more about the Claydon family's past.
Apparently, no man in the family had ever lived past forty. Donald's two sons and one daughter had all died within seven years of each other—and their mother had also mysteriously passed away.
Donald's new wife rarely returned to the castle at all.
Rus could smell the conspiracy from miles away and immediately began planning his escape. He picked tonight for the attempt.
The reason? The Church of Light's appointed priest for Hawk Town—a Tier-2 Cleric named Lax—was scheduled to visit the castle today. It would be the one time surveillance on him might loosen.
Just as Rus was preparing to make his move, Donald himself knocked on the door and led him down into this very chamber.
Upon seeing the dried blood—rust-colored and caked along the walls and floor—Rus instinctively pulled out the miniature crossbow he always carried for self-defense.
Donald slapped it out of his hand with one blow. The next punch knocked him unconscious.
All that sounds long, but for Gao Yang, it had only been two minutes since he woke up.
Gao Yang—or rather, Rus, now—let out a sigh.
"What a prize-winning piece of human garbage…"
He turned his head slowly. Donald was still kneeling, deep in prayer. Meanwhile, the blood in the magic circle was flowing faster and faster, its texture becoming increasingly glassy and transparent—like red crystal.
There was no doubt about it—this was a sacrificial ritual.
And the sacrifices were the two people lying on the ground: Rus, and the woman beside him.
It wouldn't be long now. Once the ritual is completed…
He would be dead. Completely, unquestionably dead.
Considering all the crimes Rus had committed, in Gao Yang's old world, the guy would've been executed a dozen times over. Just dying once? That was a bargain.
"But I'm innocent!"
He had just transmigrated, finally escaping a life of 9-to-9-six-days-a-week grind. In his 27 years, he hadn't even held a girl's hand—and now the universe was telling him to die again?
WTF?! Seriously?!
Who the hell did I piss off!?
Stay calm… stay calm...
Rus forced himself to focus. Blood sacrifice rituals like this typically demanded both body and soul. If he had taken over the body, that meant the original soul had likely already been offered. If he could survive until the ritual ended, there was still a chance he'd live.
But on the flip side—rituals involving the blood of church clerics were strictly forbidden by the Church of Light. Donald wasn't going to leave any witnesses behind.
If he wanted to survive—he had to kill Donald.
The objective became crystal clear.
But how?
Donald stood over six feet tall and weighed at least 250 pounds—a literal wall of meat.
Worse yet, he was a Tier-2 Blood Knight.
Rus had seen someone like that in action once, during a gang clash. The infamous "Sabertooth Tiger" Honduras had activated Tier-2 Flame Aura and cleaved three burly men in half with a single swing.
The gap between them was like a mosquito trying to fight an elephant.
Rus's body began to heat up. His blood surged. His heart pounded like a war drum.
The summoning circle beneath him glowed blood-red, the light as bright as a spotlight in a city plaza. This was the climax of the ritual.
And oddly enough—that's when Rus went completely calm.
His eyes scanned the room. Then they locked onto something in the corner. A flicker of hope lit up.
The hand crossbow.
About the length of a forearm, the weapon had a matte steel frame forged from pure iron. Its grip was made from solid ironwood. But the most expensive part? The bowstring—just under two grams of Star Iron, yet that tiny amount made up most of the weapon's eight-gold-coin cost.
It was already cocked and loaded with a barbed, armor-piercing bolt, enchanted and deadly. The arrowhead glistened with a coating of castor venom, reflecting a faint green shimmer.
It was his only shot—literally.
Rus slowly shifted his body, reaching for the crossbow. His blood loss had left him so weak, he could pass out at any second.
The ritual circle's pull was immense, like Donald himself was pressing down on his body. Every small movement cost him everything he had.
Cold sweat poured down his forehead. But still, he forced his breathing to remain slow and silent, not daring to alert Donald.
Finally, his fingers brushed the grip of the crossbow.
Clang—!
The steel frame scraped against the hard floor, producing a piercing metallic sound.
Donald's eyes shot open.
Rus's scalp went numb. No time to think. He scooped up the crossbow, twisted his body, aimed—and fired.
The movement was swift, fluid, and instinctive—burned into the body's muscle memory.
The Star Iron bowstring snapped taut, launching the bolt straight toward Donald's throat.
At this distance—less than two meters—even a kid couldn't miss.
"Rus!" Donald roared. Blood-red energy enveloped him, forming a tight sheath of light, like a translucent bodysuit.
It was a proto–Battle Aura Armor. It had resistance to magic and could rival quality leather against physical attacks.
Despite his bulk, Donald moved with terrifying speed. His large, aura-cloaked hand reached into the bolt's path—
The intricate runes on the bolt lit up. The Beginner Sharpness Enchantment activated, slicing through the aura, punching clean through Donald's palm, and drilling deep into his not-so-obvious throat.
Splurt—!
Blood exploded like a fountain, misting through the air in a red haze.
Donald staggered back, clutching his bleeding neck, eyes wide with disbelief. His face twisted in shock and rage.
He tried to speak, lips trembling—but life was draining from his body too fast.
He managed only one step before crashing to the ground with a loud thud, his fat body quivering like jelly.
"Hah… hah…"
Rus panted heavily, propping himself up with both hands, then slowly sat up.
"Damn... this world is way too dangerous."
"...Good thing I'm better than average!"
He managed a faint, smug grin—but it didn't last.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Donald's blood wasn't pooling like it should've. Instead, it was flowing into the summoning circle.
The light dimmed, but the ritual hadn't stopped.
Rus didn't know exactly what the array was meant to do, but it was clearly not good news.
He scanned the room, looking for anything that could disrupt the circle. Then he saw it—Donald's clothes piled in the corner… and his personal rapier.
Rus took a shaky step toward it, but pain and weakness shot up from his legs. It felt exactly like after the 5K fitness test back in college—legs not even under his control anymore.
Then he heard it.
Gurgle… glorp…
The noise was grotesque, like a country kid kicking a pig bladder full of water. Rus turned his head and froze, hand slowly reaching for his belt.
Donald's corpse was swelling—rapidly. His already bloated frame doubled in size. Pale fat piled in grotesque rolls, all squirming like a massive white maggot.
POP!
Donald's body burst like an overfilled balloon, splattering the room in thick, green mucus.
And from within the mess, something crawled out.
It stood over two meters tall, powerfully built, and completely hairless. Its skin and muscles were translucent, exposing its bones, veins, and pulsing organs underneath—like some medical dummy from an anatomy class.
But this wasn't a fake. Rus could see the blood flowing and the heart pumping inside its chest.
Its face—still unmistakably Donald.
"Heh… HAHAHA!!" Donald cackled, his voice echoing like madness. "Rus, my dear nephew… thank you so much!"
"All these years—I sacrificed Ted, sacrificed Monka, even my sweet little Lisa. I had to kill the woman I loved… and still, it never worked."
"Turns out I was missing one final step!"
"Death was the key to rebirth. Only by breaking the cocoon can the butterfly emerge. I've never felt this alive!"
"And for helping me complete the ritual…"
Donald's mouth stretched wide in a manic grin, baring two rows of pristine, sharp teeth.
"I'll let you become one with me!"