My Harem Will Help Me Get My Revenge-Chapter 71: [ - - 63] - Hand behind Marcus

Chapter - 63

Somewhere in some corner of the world.

In a hall that was unlike anything the modern world could birth which was vast, shadowed, and dripping with ancient majesty.

Its pillars, carved from obsidian and etched with timeworn glyphs, rose into darkness far above where any chandelier could reach.

The ceiling was transparent and loomed like the sky before a storm. Tall stained-glass windows stood along the flanks, their colored panes refracting the moonlight into streaks of red, violet, and deep blue across the polished black marble floor.

The stillness was deafening. It wasn’t the silence of peace. It was the silence of judgment, breathing in the presence of something far beyond mortal comprehension.

At the far end of the hall stood a massive door. It was tall, metallic, and almost alive with the energy that pulsed faintly through the symbols carved into its bronze surface.

The door was a thing of terrible beauty, ancient and cold, as if it had been torn out of some forgotten underworld and placed here with reverence... or fear.

Above the door hung a painting, illuminated by a beam of pale moonlight from the ceiling. It depicted a ritual.

In it, there was a circle of hooded figures, kneeling in the dust around a man whose body was being torn open by golden threads of light that poured out of his chest like veins being unraveled.

But despite that his face was contorted not in pain, but in ecstasy. Above him, floating like a god of old, was a figure without a face, its robe flowing like liquid night. Its fingers were outstretched, pulling the golden threads as if weaving something out of the body.

The plaque below the painting read in a forgotten tongue. But those in that big hall knew what it meant.

"Through unraveling the self, one becomes worthy."

And another man could understand it as well. It was Marcus Drone. The very same Marcus we knew. And the Marcus who was kneeling in front of that very same door right now.

He had been kneeling for six hours now. No cushion beneath him. His knees throbbed with a dull, splintering ache. His calves had long gone numb. His back was curved, but his head bowed low, not daring to rise.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down the bridge of his nose and onto the cold marble. His white shirt clung to him like a second skin, soaked and wrinkled. His breath had become shallow and irregular.

But not a single sound had come from behind the door.

’He is watching. I know he is watching...’

Marcus’s mind churned with guilt and pain. But not only physical pain, that was expected. But the shame. The failure. The sheer weight of disappointment he had brought upon himself and his master.

That place should have been bought for the master. His master rarely asked him for anything. Everything was laid down for him, but he messed it up in the end.

And the Grand Architect knew. He always knew.

A cluster of figures, three men and a woman wearing gray ceremonial coats stood near one of the support pillars, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

"Six hours now. He must have done something severe."

"Grand Architect must be disappointed."

"Fool. He was entrusted with that place in Rajasthan. And now that thing is growing."

"He won’t survive this. Not if the Master does not open the door."

Marcus heard them all, but he did not flinch.

’Let them talk. Let them mock. I deserve worse.’

He wasn’t here to be forgiven. He was here to be judged.

Because the person behind that door... he had made Marcus. Pulled him from nothing. He has given him wealth, command, fear, and identity. He owed everything to him.

And now, with one mistake, it could all be taken away.

With a look, with a single command.

But it was all uncertain till the door remained shut.

And the longer it stayed closed, the more Marcus’s chest tightened. There was something worse than death in this. It was uncertainty. Was he being ignored? Or was he being prepared for punishment far crueler than he imagined?

’Let it come. I will take it all, embrace it,’ he thought, closing his eyes.

He lowered himself further, forehead touching the floor. Muscles screamed in pain. Blood vessels throbbed in his temples. A single drop of blood from his nose hit the floor and spread slowly, mixing with the sweat.

The silence continued.

The whispers grew fainter.

Until...

Click.

A sound echoed from behind the door.

’He is willing to meet me. He will forgive me?’

Marcus’s breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare to lift his head.

Then, it came.

A voice. It was not loud, not harsh.

It was so soft and close, it was as if someone had whispered it directly into his ear.

"Come inside, Marcus."

Every muscle in his body spasmed with instinctive obedience. The air grew cold, heavy, like the pressure in the belly of the ocean. He didn’t think at all and just moved.

His legs trembled as he forced himself upright. A shock of pain shot through his knees as the blood returned to his numbed limbs. But he bit his lips and clenched his teeth, and stumbled toward the door, dragging himself like a beggar towards the ultimate salvation.

As soon as his hand reached and touched the bronze slab of the door, it parted. And the door creaked open. It opened just wide enough to let Marcus pass.

And as soon as he did, it shut behind him.

Inside, there was no sound, no light.

But slowly and steadily his eyes started to get accustomed to the dim light.

He was back again in a room not smaller than the hall he was in.

It was shaped like an inverted dome, the ceiling arching high above in a vast oval, shadowed and smoke-choked. The walls were black. It did not look like it was painted, but as if burnt and withered by fire and time. Red veins of unknown material ran like living arteries through the stone, pulsing faintly beneath the surface.

The room could house hundreds or maybe a thousand people. But at this moment it was utterly empty.

At the edge where the door met the room, concentric circles of chairs began. They were wide, high-backed, and arranged perfectly, one after another, like rings of judgment around a sacrificial altar. All of them faced the center, where a single figure stood.

Clad in black and crimson robes, the man’s presence was like a thunderstorm wrapped in human skin. He was motionless, utterly still, but even from a distance, Marcus could feel the gravity that radiated from him.

In his hand, the man held something.

It dangled.

Something Big and Limp.

Was it a ragged doll?

Marcus’s eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of the room. He tried hard to look and make out what was in front of him.

But when he finally managed to see it, he broke into cold sweat.

It was not a doll.

It was a human figure.

A filthy, unkempt, dishevelled human being. The skin of the man was pale as if all its blood was drained out of his body.

The beard on his face was long and tangled. Clothes hanging in shreds. He looked like a homeless beggar dragged in from the streets.

The robed figure held the homeless man by the hair, his entire body limp like a slaughtered animal.

Marcus’s feet moved on their own. He crossed the first circle. Then the second. His body shook with every step. The air here was different. It hummed with power, with madness. With expectation.

By the time he reached the innermost circle, Marcus’s mind was buzzing with confusion and fear.

And then in front of his eyes it happened.

The man in robes moved.

Just a flick of his wrist, he let go of the body, and the body fell to the floor.

But the head remained in his hand.

There was no transition. No wind-up. No blade.

Just a split... So clean and perfect that Marcus didn’t understand it at first.

The body hit the ground twitching, nerves firing in confusion.

Blood squirted, hot and thick, painting the marbled floor in gory arcs.

Some of it even fell on Marcus, splattering across his chest, cheek, and on his lips. freёweɓnovel.com

The iron taste hit his tongue.

He froze. His breath hitched.

And then, "Hhrrgh—!"

He vomited. Violently. Collapsing to his knees as the bile and meat from his last meal splattered beside the twitching corpse.

The man in robes said nothing.

He merely turned, slowly, deliberately, and began walking toward Marcus, the severed head still in his grip.

The sound of his footsteps echoed louder than thunder.

Closer. Closer, and Closer

Until finally, the man stood before Marcus.

His face and eyes hidden beneath a shadowed hood.

His voice, when it came, was like silk dragged across a blade, "You have let me down."

"Tell me, Marcus..."

"Have you forgotten what the consequences of failure are?"

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