"No—no! Noooo! What have you done?! After all we've done for you? We treated you well and this is how you pay us?!" Dave's wife screamed in horror, her voice filled with raw disbelief as she shook her husband's lifeless body, desperately trying to keep him alive.
Lancelot, lying quietly on her lap, wanted to scream at Steve—he wanted to shout and curse and cry—but all that came out was a sharp baby wail, helpless and full of anguish.
With no one controlling the wheel, the car jerked forward violently, swerving erratically as though it was about to crash at any moment.
Steve, stone-faced, ignored the devastated woman. He moved swiftly to the front seat, his boots splashing in the blood pooling on the floor. With a cold snort, he opened the door and shoved Dave's corpse out of the car like it was nothing more than trash.
Then, in one smooth motion, he took over the driver's seat and began steering the car calmly—as though he hadn't just murdered the man who had trusted him with his life.
He did it quickly. Efficiently. Like someone who had done this more than once. And that was true—he was military, after all. Killing wasn't new to him.
Yes, he had loved this couple. Truly. But his hands were forced. There was no way he was going to lay down his life for anyone—not even them.
As much as he didn't want to, he had to kill Dave. The situation was dire, and Dave had become a threat. If he hadn't acted, he would have died. They all would have died. The beast was still on their tail, and there was no room for hesitation.
So no—he didn't feel guilt. Not even a shred. Even if he could turn back time, he was sure he'd do it again. His life was too precious.
Dave's wife stared at Steve in horror, eyes wide with disbelief and rage. Watching her husband's most trusted security escort—the man Dave treated like a younger brother—coldly discard his corpse like it was worthless...
"You fucking bastard! Your mother is a whore! You motherfucker! How dare you kill and treat my husband like that! I'll kill you!!! I'll f*cking kill you!!!" she shrieked, her words trembling with fury as she slammed her fists against Steve's back, over and over again.
She cursed and cursed, but Steve said nothing. He let her hit him, let the insults rain down like acid... but after a while, his patience began to thin.
"Please hold her," he said to Jane, his tone low and dangerous. "I can't endure her fuck-up any longer. I'm afraid I might kill her if this continues."
Without delay, Jane dragged the woman to the back seat roughly and pinned her down with firm hands. Then she returned to the front, picked up baby Lancelot gently, and brought him to the back to give Steve space to drive in peace.
Steve sighed and muttered coldly, "I'm sorry. I was forced. Your husband made the choice for me. If I hadn't killed him, he would've killed me... and the beast would have had me next. I gave him a quick death—to ease his pain."
"Bastard! Murderer!" Dave's wife muttered weakly, her voice trembling with grief as she sobbed uncontrollably. "I'll f*cking kill you..."
"I'll protect you... to show how sorry I am." Steve's voice was like ice, flat and lifeless—yet it carried a pleading note, as though trying to justify what could never be justified.
Lancelot's heart ached beyond words. He had always seen Steve and Jane as family—people who raised him like their own son. And now... this?
'Is this really what happened in my last life?' he thought, his tiny fists trembling in Jane's arms. He still didn't realize this was an illusion. He believed—truly believed—that he had traveled back in time.
The feeling of helplessness crushed him. He couldn't change anything. He couldn't stop anything. All he could do... was watch.
Any love he once had for Steve and Jane had withered. What remained was pure hatred.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—the beast stopped chasing them immediately after Dave's body was thrown out.
Then it happened.
Baby Lancelot began crying loudly, but this time the cry was different—there was pain buried in it. His tiny body trembled as an ache swelled in his head, and then...
A voice.
A whisper—soft, seductive, but dripping with malevolence. Feminine... yet utterly terrifying.
It was the Scarlet Fox—The Nine-Tailed Illusion Beast Soul.
'They killed your father!!! They will kill your mother!!!! After everything your parents did for them—this is how they repaid them!!! Was it all for nothing!? Take note of this. Get your revenge!!!'
The pain was unbearable. His little body writhed, his mind drowned in torment. He wanted to scream—not cry—but that was all he could do.
And then... his vision blackened.
---
When his eyes opened again, he found himself lying on a soft, velvet bed inside a grand room—his room. In his Empire. In the future.
His wife was straddling him, smirking as she spoke. "What's wrong? You just stopped…"
"Sorry," Lancelot replied, startled to hear himself speak like an adult again. Then, instinctively, he resumed what he had been doing.
The sudden switch jarred him. He looked around, confused.
'I... I can speak again? I'm not a baby? What's going on? Did Steve and Jane kill me? Is this the future? Did I just skip through time again!?'
He recognized the setting clearly. This was the exact moment from his past life—just before he was betrayed by his brother.
He knew what would happen next.
Someone would ring the electric bell.
And it happened.
Right at the exact moment someone was about to cu—
'What the f*ck!?'
Groaning, he and his wife composed themselves, quickly dressing up before she walked to the door.
But something was wrong. Very wrong.
There were no guards. No chefs. Not even their trusted butler.
His wife hesitated, sensing the eerie silence, but composed herself and opened the door.
Her eyes widened. "The Fourteen Miscreants!? Odin!? What's wrong? What are you guys doing here!?"
"Hmm..." The man she addressed gave her no response.
Odin—the man in the black suit—walked in silently, treating her like air. Not a glance. Not a word.
He was tall, with sharp features, sleek black glasses, a luxury chain watch, and an air of authority that silenced the entire room.
Behind him stood fourteen figures—each one dressed in the official Souler uniform. None spoke. They simply stood there, waiting for a command.
Lancelot's wife was stunned, rooted in place by his disrespect.
Before she could react, Odin entered fully—and Lancelot, driven by instinct, rushed forward to attack him.
But Odin didn't even flinch.
He simply pointed his finger at her. Like a mock gun.
His body glowed faintly with soul essence, and although the sunlight masked most of it, the power was unmistakable.
A ball of energy formed at the tip of his finger, glowing—condensing—growing until it reached the size of a small orange.
Then—
Zap!
The beam of light shot across the room in a blink and struck her square in the chest.
She convulsed violently... then collapsed.
Dead.