I Got My System Late, But I'll Become Beastgod
Chapter 151: The Mask Cracks

Chapter 151: The Mask Cracks

The morning sun should’ve felt like a blessing. But today, it brought no warmth.

Karunik stepped out of the chief’s house, his armor polished, posture confident — as if nothing had happened the night before. His expression was calm, almost amused.

"Hai, friends. What’s all the commotion about?" he asked, his voice smooth and unbothered.

Villagers gathered slowly. Whispering. The air grew heavy with tension. Something felt wrong.

Priya didn’t come out. Her absence was noticed.

Whispers turned into murmurs. The villagers shuffled closer together, eyes flicking between the chief’s house and Karunik’s silver armor.

Someone muttered, "Where is Priya? She never misses the morning prayers..."

Another whispered, "She’s hurt. I saw her limping last night. She didn’t come home."

Even the children sensed something was wrong. A little boy clutched his mother’s scarf. "Is the knight going to hurt us?" he asked.

"Hush, son," she said, pulling him closer. But her voice trembled.

A brave woman called out from the crowd, voice trembling but clear. "We know what you did last night... with Priya."

An old teacher — once a soldier in his youth — stepped forward, jaw tight with restrained rage.

"We have questions, Sir Karunik. Last night, something terrible—"

Karunik raised his hand, silencing him mid-sentence. His eyes went cold. His smile sharpened into a smirk.

"You dare raise your voices... at a knight of Aryavrata?"

Gasps swept through the crowd. Mothers pulled children close. Even some of Karunik’s own soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.

He took a step forward, voice louder, sharper.

"You think your silence hides your sins? I’ve seen the markings. The rituals. This place reeks of sorcery."

A younger man shouted back, fists clenched. "There’s no magic here! We’re farmers, workers—families!"

An elder spat at Karunik’s feet. "Lies! You speak of honor, but you’re hiding your own shame!"

Karunik’s expression twisted — something darker flashed in his eyes. The warmth was gone. Only ice remained.

"Purge the corruption," he said calmly, coldly. "Aryavrata commands it."

One of the younger soldiers hesitated, his torch shaking in his hand.

"Sir... are we really doing this? These people... they have children."

Karunik didn’t even look at him.

"Disobey, and I’ll gut you myself," he said coldly.

The soldier lowered his gaze and lit the nearest hut.

His soldiers moved fast.

Torches flew.

Flames roared to life.

Homes burned. Screams rose. Smoke curled into the clear blue sky.

Animals ran wild. Pots shattered. Children cried.

An old man tried to protect his daughter with a wooden rake. A soldier slammed him to the ground. Blood pooled.

A teenage girl tried to run with her baby brother. An arrow struck her leg. She screamed, crawling through the dirt, trying to shield the child with her body.

A young couple held each other in the center of their burning home, refusing to leave. They vanished in the smoke.

"They’re not even fighting back!" someone cried. "They’re just people!"

No one listened. The fire kept growing.

Men tried to fight back — some grabbed farming tools, others just their bare hands. But they were no match for trained soldiers.

Karunik watched like a king punishing rebels. His mouth barely moved. He didn’t blink.

A boy tried to stop a soldier with a shovel. He was cut down.

A woman screamed as her home collapsed behind her.

Zorawar and Vyuk dove into the chaos. They pulled children out of fire, helped elders run. Vyuk shielded a mother and child with his body. A soldier raised his blade — Zorawar tackled him just in time.

Zorawar’s hands burned as he grabbed hot wood to pull a toddler free. His palms blistered. He bit back a cry.

"This isn’t justice... this is slaughter!" Zorawar shouted, his voice hoarse.

Chains clinked as women and children were forced into carts. The soldiers called it "cleansing the bloodline."

One soldier roughly yanked a girl by her braid. She fell, crying. Another boy, barely ten, tried to bite his captor’s hand. He was slapped so hard he didn’t get back up.

Priya fought back when they grabbed her. Her hands lashed out, nails digging into a soldier’s cheek.

"Let go of me!" she shouted.

They forced her down. But her eyes never dropped. Even bruised and bleeding, she looked at Karunik like he was filth.

"You’ll burn in a fire worse than this," she spat.

Priya was dragged out by two soldiers. Her lip was split. Her eye swollen. But she didn’t cry. Her face stayed calm, proud.

She locked eyes with Karunik as they pulled her forward. There was no fear in her—only defiance.

Zorawar stood in front of a group of fleeing children, trembling, blood on his clothes.

"You said... you were a protector. A knight."

Karunik stepped forward, towering over him. The crowd quieted, watching.

"I am," he said with a sneer. "I’m protecting this land... from filth like you."

Zorawar’s voice cracked. "Karunik... why...?"

Karunik didn’t reply.

Instead, he turned... and suddenly drew his sword.

Gasps rang out.

With a flash, he swung it at Priya, who had managed to push past the guards in a moment of confusion, trying to escape with a few wounded villagers.

The blade slashed through the air — but didn’t land.

Vyuk had stepped in.

He used a wooden stick — barely stronger than a broom — and blocked the blade.

The force knocked him back. The stick shattered. His arm split open, blood running freely down his sleeve.

He stumbled but stood, glaring.

"Why did you do this?" Vyuk asked, voice shaking, pain in his eyes. "He admired you so much."

Karunik scoffed.

"There are many who admire me. I don’t give a shit about any of them."

Then, without warning, he stepped forward and kicked Vyuk in the stomach.

Hard.

The boy flew backward, crashing into a barrel. The wood cracked under the impact. Vyuk groaned, unable to stand.

Zorawar tried to crawl toward Vyuk, but a soldier stomped on his back.

"You’re weak," Karunik said, voice flat. "You always were."

Vyuk coughed, blood on his lips. He raised his head, barely able to sit.

"I might be weak," he said through gritted teeth, "but I’m not a coward. And I’ll never kneel to you."

Karunik tilted his head. "No? Then die proud."

He raised his sword again—

"NO!" Zorawar screamed, forcing himself up. He threw a stone with all his strength. It struck Karunik’s gauntlet, making him pause.

"Touch him again, and I swear I’ll kill you myself one day!"

Zorawar screamed, rushing forward, but a soldier held him back.

"Let me go! Let me go! YOU MONSTER!"

Karunik looked at him, eyes empty. "I am the hand of Aryavrata. The law. The judgment."

Smoke rose.

The village — their home — was falling.

And the man they thought was a hero had revealed the monster underneath.

Zorawar collapsed beside Vyuk, shielding him with his body. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with soot and blood.

Around him, everything burned.

The orphanage. Amma’s spice jars. The flower vines. The swing he and Vyuk built. All gone.

Karunik stood tall, like a shadow against the fire. His silver armor reflected the flames.

"I am the hand of Aryavrata. The law. The judgment."

But all Zorawar saw was a murderer.

His fists clenched. He looked at Vyuk — wounded but still breathing.

He looked at Priya — dragged, but still staring fire into the eyes of evil.

And something inside him broke. Not in fear — but in rage.

The man they thought was a hero had revealed the monster underneath.

And Zorawar would never forget it.

The flames had begun to die, but the air still stank of smoke, ash, and blood.

The sun, once golden, was now hidden behind thick black clouds. Not from weather — from burning roofs, shattered carts, and the lives ripped apart beneath them.

Zorawar sat in the dirt, silent, unmoving. His legs were scraped. His shirt was torn. But he felt nothing.

Beside him, Vyuk lay still, his breathing shallow. His arm still bled, staining the earth beneath.

No one came to help.

The few who survived the chaos were herded like cattle. Hands tied. Heads down.

Sobs filled the air. Some cried for children. Some cried for lost homes. Others didn’t cry at all — their silence louder than screams.

Zorawar stared blankly at the ruins of the orphanage.

The swing was gone. The door Amma used to scold them from — gone. The pots of haldi and masoor — gone.

He remembered a moment. Just yesterday, Priya had handed him a thread bracelet for protection. "It’s silly," she had said, smiling, "but sometimes belief matters more than power."

He looked down at his wrist.

The bracelet was burned.

Nothing felt real.

Not Karunik’s betrayal. Not Vyuk’s pain. Not the chains he could hear clinking nearby as soldiers rounded up survivors.

Everything felt... wrong.

A boy no older than seven sat a few steps away, hugging his knees. His nose bled. His shirt was soaked. But he didn’t speak.

Zorawar crawled to him, hand trembling. He placed a hand on the boy’s head, gently.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

The boy didn’t react. He just stared at the fire, like it had swallowed his soul.

Zorawar turned back, his eyes falling on Priya.

She sat upright, though her hands were tied. Her face was bruised. Her braid half-untied. But her back stayed straight.

She met Zorawar’s eyes.

No words passed between them.

But in that gaze — there was fire.

Not revenge. Not rage.

Just resolve.

Karunik had taken everything from them.

But he hadn’t broken them.

Not completely.

A soldier barked orders in the distance. The clang of chains echoed louder. More shouting. A crack of a whip. Another scream.

Vyuk stirred beside him, groaning softly.

Zorawar knelt down and gripped his hand.

"You’re okay," he said softly. "You’re okay, Vyuk."

Vyuk blinked, trying to speak.

Zorawar leaned closer.

"I should’ve stopped him," Vyuk murmured. "I tried. I—"

"You did," Zorawar whispered back. "You stood up. No one else did."

Vyuk looked away, ashamed. "He didn’t even flinch. Like I was nothing."

Zorawar swallowed. "Maybe we are nothing to him. But we won’t stay nothing."

Vyuk closed his eyes. "He’ll kill us all."

Zorawar didn’t respond.

A gust of wind passed through the ruined village, picking up soot and broken leaves. It carried with it the faintest scent of burnt flowers.

It used to smell like marigolds here.

Now it smelled like endings.

Zorawar turned his eyes to the horizon. Somewhere out there, far away, the world kept turning. People laughed. Rivers flowed. Birds sang.

Here, there was only silence and flame.

He looked up at the smoke-filled sky.

He had no sword. No magic. No strength.

But something deep inside him was still alive.

Something sharp.

Something waiting.

Before that sharpness could take form, heavy boots thudded behind him.

A rough voice barked, "Bind them."

Zorawar didn’t resist as cold iron cuffs clamped around his wrists. Vyuk groaned as two soldiers yanked him up by his arms, his wounded one dangling uselessly.

Their faces were shoved into the dirt.

Chains clinked. Shackles tightened.

Someone kicked Zorawar in the ribs. "No more speeches, little hero," the soldier hissed.

He didn’t reply.

He couldn’t.

His throat had gone dry. His mind was drifting between rage and silence.

Vyuk coughed beside him, barely conscious.

Zorawar turned his head enough to see Priya. Her hands were bound behind her back now. She was limping, but still upright. Still unbroken.

Karunik walked past them like a god surveying insects.

He didn’t even spare them a glance.

"Get them moving," he said coldly.

Soldiers began forming a line, dragging the villagers into a ragged procession. Old men. Women. Children. All chained. All defeated.

Zorawar and Vyuk were pushed into the line like cattle.

Zorawar stumbled forward.

He didn’t know where they were going.

He only knew this — they were no longer villagers.

They were prisoners.

Slaves.

And the sky above them remained black with smoke.