I Am Not The Duke's Evil Son
Chapter 63: Decision

Chapter 63: Decision

Amid her despair and unbearable pain, Thalia stared at the sky, praying with all her heart for salvation. To her, every second she lived was an unbearable hell, and the worst part was that she was fully conscious of it.

Suddenly, she saw a blurry figure standing beside her.

’Please, free me from my torment,’ she wished, though she couldn’t utter a word. None of her body responded to her commands even her vision was too blurry to focus.

’Save me, kill me,’ she screamed internally, but all that escaped her lips was a faint groan.

The strange man stared at her for a few seconds before moving his hand. Despite her blurry sight, she noticed he was holding something. Instinctively, she assumed it was a dagger.

’Thank you,’ she said in her mind, thinking he was going to end her suffering. She closed her eyes and waited silently to have her throat slit or heart stabbed. But nothing happened. The pain she was enduring, hellish in intensity, suddenly lessened significantly. Her body relaxed slightly, and she let out a tired exhale.

In disbelief, she opened her eyes and stared at the stranger, unable to understand what had happened. Her vision was still too blurred to make out his features — or rather, to notice he was wearing a mask.

She was too exhausted to think, so she simply gazed at him in a daze. Gently, the masked man slipped his hand under her head and lifted it from the ground. Now that he was closer, she finally noticed the mask covering his face. With the last bit of strength she had, she asked, "Who are you? What are you doing to me?"

But she got no answer. She only felt something cold touch her lips — a strange liquid entered her mouth, and she involuntarily swallowed it. As it flowed through her, a refreshing, strange sensation spread inside her body like heavy rain after years of drought.

Her pain eased dramatically, and her awareness returned. She looked at the masked man and said with realization, "You healed me," then immediately lost consciousness. The only reason she hadn’t fainted earlier was the unbearable pain.

...

Arthur slowly laid her head on the ground and looked at the empty jar in his hand with regret. "Let’s hope that wasn’t just a waste of money," he muttered, tossing the jar aside and walking toward the restrained Thorne.

As he approached, he heard Thorne ask in a tense voice, "My lord, how is my sister? Please tell me will she recover? Will there be any complications in the future?"

A faint smile appeared on Arthur’s face. He felt a strange sense of satisfaction and calmly replied, "Don’t worry, she’ll make a full recovery. She just needs a few days of rest."

’And one more healing potion,’ he sighed internally, but didn’t let it bother him.

Hearing that, Thorne let out a relieved breath and smiled with immense joy. He turned and glared at Arvan’s horrified face. "You failed miserably, you useless piece of trash."

"Mmmhhmmm," Arvan shook his head as tears streamed from his eyes.

Thorne’s grin widened, and he laughed, uncaring of Arvan’s pain. "You’ll die a gruesome death, bastard. Cry and beg for your life."

’This guy is so dramatic,’ Arthur sighed internally and began walking toward them. But he didn’t notice that the healer, who had been lying motionless on the ground, had suddenly stood up and was now running at him with a small dagger coated in poison, aiming for his back. The healer’s face was twisted in hatred and rage. When Thorne had cut off his hand earlier, he’d fainted from the pain, but had woken up a few minutes ago. At first, he pretended to be dead, but quickly realized that plan would fail the masked man would likely check all the bodies to confirm no survivors. So, he resolved to eliminate him at the first opportunity — now.

Because of his position behind Arthur and Thorne, only Arvan noticed the healer sneaking up behind Arthur. His eyes widened in shock, and he felt a twisted sense of joy as he watched the scene unfold, praying with all his heart for the healer’s plan to succeed.

When the assassin was only a few steps away, Arvan smirked darkly and silently cursed, ’Take that, you son of a bitch.’

In front of him, Thorne noticed his facial expression change. ’Is he... smiling?’ he thought with suspicion. "Have you finally lost your mind, you pile of dung?" he mocked.

Arthur, watching from afar, chuckled inwardly. ’What an idiot.’

Then calmly, he moved a finger.

Suddenly, a razor-sharp root erupted from the ground behind him and shot straight toward the healer’s head. The man didn’t see it coming. He couldn’t dodge. Helplessly, he watched the root pierce his eye and skull with ease, the force lifting him into the air.

Seeing that, Arvan’s face went stiff, and all hope of escape shattered. More tears streamed down his face, and he resumed crying in despair.

"Wait, what just happened?" Thorne sensed something was off. With difficulty, he turned to look around, and that’s when he saw the healer dangling in the air, impaled through the head. His body trembled slightly at the strange, chilling sight, and he asked Arthur, now standing beside them, "What just happened, my lord?"

"Nothing." Arthur didn’t elaborate. He simply drew his sword with chilling calm and looked Arvan in the eyes. "Now, what am I going to do with you?"

"Kill him, my lord. He’s just a cursed bastard," Thorne said respectfully, though his desire for revenge was clear.

But Arthur didn’t like how much he talked, so he said with annoyance, "Shut up. Keep your mouth closed. Don’t interfere in what doesn’t concern you.’"

Thorne quickly realized his mistake. "Yes, my lord. I’ll stay silent."

Arthur exhaled deeply. He had spent a long time thinking about what to do, but still hadn’t reached a decision. ’If I kill him, I’ll get rid of a useless nuisance. But his life might be valuable a bargaining chip if I ever clash with the duke, especially since his wife loves her ungrateful son dearly.’

His hesitation made sense. He was certain that his actions had already altered the original sequence of events from the novel, which meant unknowns lay ahead. He had to prepare for what he didn’t know. After all, he wasn’t omniscient.

While lost in thought, he looked at Arvan’s face and noticed something. ’He really does look like me. That’s odd. Black hair like mine. Clean pale skin. Brown eyes. Our facial features are kind of similar too. Even his silky sleepwear looks a bit like the sportswear I used to wear. Anyone who heard his description but hadn’t seen his face would definitely confuse the two of us. That actually explains a lot.’ He scoffed internally at the absurdity of the situation.

Suddenly, he remembered his first day in the barony — the misunderstanding, how he became lord. Back then, he was terrified and overwhelmed, but fortunately, he had handled things smartly and survived. That chain of events had brought him to this moment.

’It’s only been a month, but I’m nothing like I used to be. The world is full of surprises.’

He shook his head with mixed emotions. After a short while, he sighed and said, "Alright. I’ve decided. I’ll let this trash live... for now."

He sheathed his sword, pulled out another healing potion, and turned to Thorne. "Open your mouth."

Thorne obeyed without hesitation. Arthur calmly poured the potion in. "I expect your loyalty. So forget everything you saw today. Arvan is alive and well and from now on, you’re his subordinate."

Thorne didn’t understand a thing Arthur meant. His focus was entirely on the refreshing sensation spreading through his body, which greatly eased his pain. That alone reassured him that his sister would recover.

Noticing his distraction, Arthur snapped his fingers near Thorne’s ear and scolded, "Listen."

Thorne blinked and finally looked at him. "Ah, yes, my lord. What do you mean exactly?"

Sigh.

Arthur raised his hand sharply. Dozens of thin thorny roots sprang from the ground, wrapping around the chains binding Thorne. They began pulling in all directions with force.

"Ahh!" Thorne groaned from the intense pressure, but he resisted.

Crack!

After about a minute of agony, the chains shattered. His body was free. He dropped to his knees, took a deep breath, and calmly stood up.

He felt relief and immediately wanted to run to check on his sister. But he stopped himself he didn’t want to disrespect their savior.

"My lord, my savior, we haven’t fulfilled the Right of the Ancestors yet. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?"

"I am." Arthur drew his sword again and calmly cut his right palm. Thorne did the same, then reached out for a handshake.

Arthur didn’t hesitate. Their bloody hands clasped together, and the moment their blood mingled, both felt a strange, deep connection.

’That’s a weird sensation,’ Arthur thought but the feeling suddenly vanished, replaced by an intense, irritating tingling. Within seconds, a blood-red mark shaped like a full moon appeared on the back of his hand. It was proof that he had been granted the Right of the Ancestors.

’But is it genuine or fake?’ he wondered.

The question made sense.

In truth, not all werewolves carried the Ancestors’ Mark in their magic cores. Only the descendants of leaders and chieftains sealed by the first Werewolf King bore the true mark and there were many of them. Still, even common werewolves had their own version of the mark, though it was inauthentic.

After the first Werewolf King died, one of his grandchildren took the throne. He possessed strength and charisma comparable to his grandfather, and out of admiration for him, decided to carry on his legacy. The first thing he did was order every tribe and pack leader to implant a version of the Ancestors’ Mark in their followers.

The tradition became law one no werewolf dared to defy. And over time, it became almost sacred.