The Rich Cultivator-Chapter 389. Premonition of imminent disaster

The elf man glanced toward the screen, his eyes tracing the shadow of his partner on the other side.

The elf’s eyes widened. His heartbeat quickened. His breath caught in his throat. The shape was unmistakable. Someone was on the bed with his partner. But who?

The man started to touch his partner, followed by moans.

The male elf clenched the sheets.

His fingers inched toward the screen, trembling. He wanted to rip it away, scream, confront—protect.

But then came the hesitation.

The rules.

If he peeked, he can stop it. But he’d lose his freedom.

But if he did nothing, and his love truly betrayed him...

What was left?

He stared hard at the screen, frozen in indecision.

A man is promising her freedom. The elf girl who was a slave for almost 6 months couldn’t take it anymore.

She cried and decided to let the man do anything he wants.

The male elf heard everything. He saw his woman kissing another man.

The bed shook.

They removed their dress and familiar moans that only he knows was resonating.

The elf couldn’t care anything and removed the screen.

There was no other man.

There is no one except the Elf Girl was sitting confused.

It was a ruse. A trick of light and shadow.

A test of trust.

Other couples faced similar dilemmas. Some had whispers echoing from the shadows. A moan here, a gasp there— But some where real.

One woman tore the screen down, only to find her husband is railing an unknown female with all his might.

Another participant refused to look, even when he thought he heard the unmistakable sound of kissing. His partner, on the other side, was praying quietly, hoping he wouldn’t tore the screen and see herself who is riding another man.

"Yeah... Now we’re talking." Mathilda leaned forward, eyes gleaming as the second game unfolded before them. The cozy beds, the curtains, the psychological stakes—it was twisted in all the right ways. "I like this concept. It’s spicy."

She kicked her feet up, resting her chin on her palm. The sinister glint in her eyes was unmistakable. Mischief practically oozed from her voice.

"If it were me running the game..." she paused for dramatic effect, then smirked, "I’d have one partner take a strong dose of Aphrodisiacs. The other would be forced to watch everything through a magical screen. The only way to earn their freedom? They have to sit through it without reacting. No interruptions, no peeking, no shouting."

She laughed softly, darkly. "If they interfere, they lose everything." freeweɓnovel.cøm

The group collectively turned to stare at her.

Tyler raised an eyebrow. "Your ideas are scarier than this entire circus combined."

The silk screens were pulled away, and the results laid bare for all to see. Gasps rippled through the arena. Some couples clung to each other in tears.. Others turned their backs, the silence between them louder than any scream. And a few...

A few simply walked away, their bonds shattered.

Not a single pair had won.

Not one couple had earned their freedom.

Whether through betrayal, mistrust, or sheer manipulation, every participant had lost something—some their liberty, others their love.

The arena grew quiet for a moment, absorbing the raw emotional carnage left behind.

Then, from the upper stands, the Clown burst into laughter.

"Hahaha... Yes! Yes!" he clapped like a madman, his mask tilting as he doubled over in joy. "This is exactly what I wanted! Isn’t it delicious?"

The Ring Master stood, arms spread wide like a stage performer. "So many claim loyalty, claim trust, claim eternal devotion... but with just a screen and a few whispers, they crumble!"

His voice echoed through the arena.

"I’ll play with those so-called loyal couples later... Oh, I’ll break them one by one. Love is such a fragile thing!" The Clown muttered.

The Ring Master glanced down at the arena floor, where couples were being escorted away—some sobbing, some staring blankly, others refusing to look at each other at all.

"No one even got their freedom," The Ring Master said.

The lights in the arena flickered once.

Then again.

The spotlight turned slowly toward the Ring Master, who now stood center stage beneath a haze of crimson fog. The crowd fell silent, holding their collective breath as the eerie organ music returned—haunting, dissonant, and full of ominous flair.

"And now..." he purred, stretching his arms wide with theatrical flair, "let us prepare for the Final Game..."

A fresh wave of tension swept across the audience. Whispers buzzed through the air like locusts—some excited, others fearful. Everyone knew the final game would be unlike the others. Something darker. Something unforgettable.

"The Final Game," the Ring Master declared, pausing dramatically, "is just a simple game."

A mechanical groan echoed across the arena. Once again, massive metal sheets slid into place, enclosing the entire space in darkness. A few seconds later, the sheets peeled back like curtains unveiling a stage—only this time, it wasn’t a circus or twisted playground. It was a castle.

A towering, black-stone fortress emerged from the depths of the arena, surrounded on all sides by a river of bubbling lava. The heat radiating from the molten moat shimmered in the air, casting the castle in a surreal glow. Fiery geysers erupted in the distance, and winged shadows occasionally darted across.

"The contestants are already inside," the Ring Master said, his voice echoing like a god from above. "They’ve lived in this castle for nearly six months. They’ve trained together, fought together... trusted one another."

The crowd leaned forward.

"But among them... is a traitor."

Gasps rippled through the arena.

"The traitor’s only task is simple: eliminate the others without getting caught. And the rest? Their job is to survive... and expose the traitor. All while continuing their duties until the scheduled meetings begin."

As he spoke, a massive screen lit up above the arena, showing live feeds from different parts of the castle. A girl with short hair traced glowing symbols into a wall—an array specialist, perhaps. A man stood alone near a balcony, sharpening a dagger. Another group shared a meal in what looked like a war room.

"To preserve the suspense," the Ring Master added, grinning with sinister delight, "we will not reveal who the traitor is... not even to you, dear audience."

The screen cut to black. Then, with a chime, it showed the first meeting room.

A long table.

Blood on the floor.

One body slumped over—dead.

The remaining contestants took their seats, their faces pale with fear. Heated arguments erupted. Accusations flew like daggers. Finally, they voted.

The one chosen screamed as a trapdoor opened beneath their chair. They fell—straight into the lava.

Silence.

The screen showed no sign of celebration. The game didn’t end.

That Person is Not A Traitor

"Wrong guess," the Ring Master whispered, amused. "The traitor still lives."

In the VIP seats, Tyler leaned back, arms crossed. "Interesting setup," he muttered. "Feels like a twisted version of a murder mystery."

"Yeah... I can already guess who the traitor is..." Lily said calmly, brushing her white hair behind her ear.

Tyler turned to her, eyebrow raised. Mana stopped chewing her snack, suddenly focused. Mathilda, Alna and Darla leaned in as well. Even Su Fei too.

"Really?" Tyler asked, curious.

Lily nodded. "It’s the girl in the red dress."

"No way..." Mathilda’s eyes widened. "You mean... Red is sus?"

"Highly," Lily replied with a faint smirk. Didn’t explain.

The game continued for hours. Each in-game day brought new betrayals, new deaths, new paranoia. Trust crumbled. Alliances shattered. Suspicion became a plague.

Finally, with just four contestants left, the remaining players turned on the girl in the red dress.

She tried to act innocent. Her voice cracked. She wept.

But it was too late.

They voted.

She fell into the lava.

The screen froze for a moment. Then, in fiery letters:

TRAITOR ELIMINATED. GAME OVER.

The audience erupted in applause, cheers, and whistles. The tension released in a wave of excitement. Even Tyler clapped once.

"Well called," he said, glancing at Lily. "If you were in there. You would have finished the game in the First round huh."

"Yeah... Boring game," Lily replied.

But this time... there was no laughter from the main seat.

The throne atop the grandstand—the one the Clown had occupied during every game—was empty.

Tyler noticed.

"He’s not there," he muttered.

"Bathroom break?" Mathilda offered with a shrug.

"Maybe..." Tyler replied. But something felt off.

Far behind the giant throne, deep in the shadows of the performer’s lounge, the Clown sat hunched over, clutching his head with both hands. His wide grin was gone, replaced by something unfamiliar on his painted face—panic.

"No... no, no, no... This can’t be happening... AHAHAHA...!"

Tears smeared his white makeup as he began to cry and laugh simultaneously, the sound echoing eerily in the empty chamber.

The Clown felt intense pain in his head. He has ability to see a glimpse of future.

Visions flooded his mind.

Visions of Future.

Blinding flashes.

Smoke.

Fire.

He saw Fun Streak Island, once a land of joy and madness, in ruins. The vibrant cities reduced to ashes. The forests scorched. The grand circus tent—his tent—engulfed in flames, its laughter silenced forever.

And there, standing atop the burning wreckage of the Big Top, was the harbinger of destruction.

The Clown is confronting the Culprit.

The Culprit is covered in gleaming red dragon scales, his eyes glowing like molten gold. In his hand, he held an Abyssal Trident, crackling with dark energy.

It is Tyler White.