Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!
Chapter 177. Cost of being a leader

Chapter 177: 177. Cost of being a leader

Hours later.

The forest was still, but not peaceful. The silence wasn’t serene—it was suffocating.

The search teams finally returned.

And when they stepped past the shattered treeline and saw the remains of their so-called "camp"...

Everything stopped.

The world tilted.

It was decimation. Not a battle. Not a massacre.

Slaughter.

Tents were upturned, shredded as if a storm had passed through them. Pools of blood congealed under the moonlight, soaking into the earth like sacrificial ink.

Limbs, torsos, twisted organs scattered like discarded meat. The stench—copper, rot, something sour—clung to their throats like invisible claws.

The forest didn’t whisper anymore.

It wept.

And among the survivors, standing frozen in place, was Freya Winterbane.

All eyes turned to her.

Not in awe. Not in admiration.

But expectation.

Judgment.

Their gazes bore down on her like knives. Each glance a question, each glare a silent accusation. Within the sea of students, her once-radiant figure felt... small. Too small.

A girl with frilled hair broke through the crowd, her boots squelching as she stepped into a puddle of blood. She moved shakily, eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on a head—just a head—lying a few feet ahead with lifeless eyes.

The girl knelt beside it, her voice breaking into fractured syllables. "F... F-Freya... this isn’t real, right...?"

Her hands trembled as she reached for the dismembered scalp, not touching it, but hovering there. As if by not touching it, she could pretend.

"This can’t be real... please tell me it’s not real... P-please, tell me this is some illusion... a prank... a nightmare..."

Freya’s throat tightened.

She wanted to say something.

But what?

"Yes, it’s fake"?

"Don’t worry, they’re just sleeping"?

There was no comfort here.

No lie strong enough to hold this grief together.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to the others. Her fists clenched.

Her voice came firm—shaking slightly, but resolute. "I know... I know this is devastating. I know it hurts. But listen to me—this isn’t the time to collapse."

She took a step forward, addressing the crowd.

"This is not just a tragedy—it’s a message. The thing that did this... it’s still out there. Still watching. Maybe even still feeding. If we fall apart now, we’ll be next. We have to act. We have to hunt it down before it—"

"STOP!!"

A voice erupted—loud, brash, laced with fury and heartbreak.

A boy stepped forward. Messy hair, ragged uniform, hands clenched into fists so tight they were white.

His eyes burned—not with resolve, but with betrayal.

"Just stop, Freya."

He stepped closer, his voice like venom.

"We followed your lead. You. You told us we’d survive if we worked together. That if we grouped up, we’d be fine. Look around! Look what it got us!! They’re gone. Torn to pieces."

He motioned behind him—where blood stained the ground, where someone’s spine still twitched with mana that hadn’t yet died.

"I don’t want to follow you anymore. I’d rather rot here than take one more fucking step under your command."

The others stirred. Quiet murmurs spread like ripples.

And none of them contradicted him.

Another student—tall, gaunt, his face twitching with anger and fear—pointed at her with a trembling finger.

"Wasn’t it you?" he sneered. "Wasn’t it you whose entire team died during the entrance exam? Weren’t you the only one who came back alive while the rest of your team got slaughtered?"

Freya’s heart dropped.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The image came back unbidden.

Skyshadow Basilisk.

Its maw. Its enormous figure. The snapping of bones. The screams of her comrades. Their blood on her face. Their faces twisted in pain and confusion.

Her legs weakened.

Her hands trembled at her sides.

She blinked—and the forest faded. She was there again. In that dark accursed mountain. Surrounded by death. Helpless. Cursed.

More voices rose.

"Yeah, you’re cursed. You lead people to die. First them. Now us. Maybe we should’ve realized sooner."

"Why the hell should we go searching for the thing that killed our friends? You think it’ll spare us because we’re braver? Get real."

"She’s pathetic... can’t even learn her lesson when it cost people their lives."

"Just how many people need to die for this bitch to finally realize she’s worthless?"

And then—

BAM!

A solid crack rang out across the clearing.

A body hit the dirt.

Hard.

The boy who had just spoken was on the ground, wheezing, spasming for breath. Blood spilled from his lip. His eyes rolled, stunned and dazed.

And all eyes snapped toward the one who struck him.

A figure stood there, pristine white hair brushing against his cheekbones, white eyes cold as steel. His jaw was clenched. His fist still raised.

Leon Stroud.

He lowered his hand slowly, letting the silence breathe around him.

His voice was calm.

"If you say one more word like that again," Leon said, voice low and heavy, "I won’t just break your jaw. I’ll rip out your tongue and make you eat it."

The crowd didn’t move.

Some were stunned.

Some were scared.

Most were silent.

Leon turned to face the rest of them, his gaze sweeping across the students, dragging their shame and cowardice into the open.

"You think blaming her makes you right?" he asked. "You think pointing fingers makes you strong?"

His voice rose—not in anger, but disappointment.

"You’re scared. I get it. We all are. But how fucking dare you spit on someone who’s trying while you’re standing here doing nothing. You think you’re better than her? Then where were you when those students were dying?"

He motioned around.

"Where were any of us?"

Silence.

He walked to Freya’s side, glancing once at her trembling form.

"Freya Winterbane isn’t cursed," he said quietly. "She’s braver than anyone here."

Then louder—addressing everyone.

"She stayed behind to pull bodies out while the rest of you ran. She looked that damn basilisk in the eye and kept fighting. You call that cursed? I call that a survivor. And to be perfectly clear, she would have died there fighting with her comrades, if it weren’t for her friend who saved her."

He looked at the boy on the ground, who was slowly recovering consciousness, groaning.

Leon’s eyes narrowed. "Don’t ever talk about her again. Ever."

Freya stood there, stunned.

Tears welled in her eyes, and for once, she didn’t blink them away.

...

It was much later when the second search group finally returned—Aka Freya’s friend group arrived.

Their arrival should’ve brought comfort. Relief.

But it didn’t.

They stepped into the devastated campsite. The stench of blood still hung heavy in the air, and the metallic tang clung to their throats.

Their boots squelched in the mud, soaked with crimson remnants of fallen classmates. The full weight of the destruction settled on them like an invisible fog, thick and suffocating.

Lilith’s expression faltered, her lips parting slightly in stunned disbelief. "What... what the hell happened here?"

No one answered.

None of the surviving students even turned their heads. Not one. They all stood in scattered clumps, hunched over, backs stiff.

Lilith frowned. "Okay... what’s up with them? This isn’t your typical reaction to death. I mean, sure—blood and guts, yeah, that’s terrifying, but look at them." Her voice dropped into a whisper. "They’re not just scared. They’re ashamed."

Celeste nodded grimly. "Yeah... and none of them are looking at us. Avoiding eye contact. It’s like they don’t want to be seen at all."

Then her eyes widened. "Wait—Freya! Where’s Freya?!"

Zyon and Art, who had quietly followed behind, immediately grew alert at her tone.

"Right," Zyon muttered, scanning the destroyed site. "She was the one leading them. If something happened, she’d be the most affected."

Art grunted. "Let’s not waste time. She’s probably nearby. That girl wouldn’t leave."

They didn’t need to search long.

Not far from the remains of the camp, under the shadow of a hollowed tree stripped bare of leaves, Freya sat on the dry, cracked soil. Her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, body hunched like she was trying to disappear inside herself.

She was trembling.

Shaking.

Sobbing so quietly it was almost as if she didn’t want the others to hear.

Lilith’s steps slowed, her brows furrowed in concern as she cautiously approached. She glanced at Celeste, then nodded slightly. Together, they stepped into the quiet bubble of grief Freya had curled herself into.

Lilith was the first to sit beside her—on Freya’s right. She didn’t say anything at first, just let the silence breathe. Then, with a gentle sigh, she wrapped her arms around Freya’s trembling shoulders.

"Hey..." she whispered. "What happened? Why are you crying like this...?"

Freya didn’t lift her head.

Lilith continued, her voice soft, firm, but uncertain. "Is it the bloodshed? The bodies? Yeah, it’s horrible, but this isn’t like you, Freya. You’re strong, remember? This wasn’t your fault. It couldn’t be. No one knew that... a monster would come. We weren’t prepared. It’s not on you. It’s—"

Freya lifted her head then.

Just barely.

Her face was pale, cheeks soaked in tears, eyes bloodshot. Her lips trembled as she met Lilith’s gaze.

"It is my fault," she whispered.

Lilith blinked.

"I gave the orders," Freya choked. "I told them to stay. I gave the direction. I told them to hold back. I told them to not engage unless necessary. I was in command. They listened to me. And now they’re gone."

Her body trembled harder. "They trusted me... and I led them to their deaths."

Celeste moved in beside her, placing a firm hand on her back. Unlike Lilith, she didn’t offer kind words. She didn’t try to argue.

She simply said, "There’s no point in trying to make you feel better now."

Freya flinched.

"You won’t listen anyway. Not yet. You’re drowning in it. So just cry it out. We’ll wait right here, okay?"

Freya didn’t reply. Her breathing grew uneven, shoulders convulsing as another wave of silent sobs wracked her body.

And her friends sat beside her.

Waiting. Holding space.

They didn’t tell her to stop.

They didn’t tell her to move on.

They just stayed.

Zyon and Art stood a few feet away, watching the scene unfold.

Art let out a long breath, arms crossed, his tone flat. "Someone must’ve said something."

Zyon’s brow furrowed. "What makes you say that?"

"Call it a hunch," Art replied. "Freya might blame herself—but the way she’s reacting? The way the other students are looking at her? It’s deeper than just guilt. Someone must’ve pushed her off the edge. Verbally. By the way, have you seen Amelia?"

Zyon stayed quiet for a beat. Then nodded. "Makes sense. And I didn’t see Amelia either... she was with a different squad during the search."

Art shook his head. "Not a trace. Hmmm... Maybe she’s still scouting."

Then Art narrowed his eyes and said, as his voice darkened, "we better figure out what happened here before that thing returns to clean up the rest."

Art glanced back toward Freya’s broken form, then toward the quiet, disillusioned crowd.

Zyon nodded in grim agreement. "Let’s split up. Ask the survivors what they saw. Even if they’re silent now... someone’s gotta talk."

"Yeah," Art muttered.

They went on with their search while. Back under the dead tree, Freya finally raised her head again.

Her breath shaky.

Her voice broken.

"I didn’t want to lead..."

Lilith glanced at her.

"I just... wanted us to survive."

Celeste smiled faintly. "Then that’s exactly what we’ll do. One way or another."

Freya didn’t answer.