Forty-Four Deaths
My impression of the Nebula Duke Family Estate, after that madman burst my heart and then asked for my thoughts on it, was singular.
How much money did they dump into this place?
From the moment I stepped out of the car and entered the estate, it had been a relentless golden spectacle.
And that impression only sharpened as Sebastian Eldra, the head butler who introduced himself, led me along, explaining every treasure and artwork in excruciating detail.
Even the sword designated a national treasure of some kingdom—Sequda's Fall, was it?—barely stirred me when he described it.
Maybe it was because Mist, trailing a step behind me, had already filled me in on the family's history.
'Smells like blood.'
Anyone would lose their mind in the face of such violent wealth.
But knowing it came from a family rife with fratricide—blood kin slaughtering blood kin—made it all feel... tainted.
Just idly taking it all in, I followed Sebastian's tour, though I had no idea why he was bothering with the explanations, until we reached the top floor of the mansion.
"This is where the family head resides. I pray you have a peaceful time."
Sebastian bowed politely, making it clear he had no intention of entering the room.
Mist, standing stock-still a step behind me, showed no sign of stepping into the family head's presence either.
"Thanks for the guide."
With that, I entered the family head's room alone.
My impression upon stepping inside was simple.
Heavy.
It felt like diving naked into the deep sea—oppressive pressure battering my body from all sides.
Not mana. No matter how advanced the mana-concealing technique, my abilities would have detected any mana filling the room like this.
A superpower, then?
No. I'd fought plenty in the capital's back alleys, and superpowers always had that distinct feel when activated.
If it wasn't mana or a superpower, there was only one source for this pressure.
"Come in."
A middle-aged man on the verge of death, utterly ravaged.
So frail he could barely eat, his muscles wasted away, leaving a pitiful shell. Yet his eyes burned with a clarity that drilled straight into my brain.
The head of the Nebula family. King of the back alleys. True ruler of the south.
The name Mist had told me before I came here.
Cervan de Nebla.
'Ha...'
Looking at Cervan before me, it all clicked.
The pressure in this room was emanating purely from the man on the bed.
'A monster?'
His body was riddled with illness.
Lifting a glass of water would probably exhaust him, yet he exuded this aura?
"Thanks for the warm welcome."
Admiration aside, I bowed to the duke.
"But why summon me here?"
He looked so far gone, I could've believed he'd drop dead any second.
Hearing that, the duke curled one corner of his mouth in a phlegm-rattled rasp.
"To see the heir who'll carry on my family."
"..."
"Closer. My eyes are dim; I can't make you out from there."
"Understood."
As requested, I approached the duke slowly.
A massive room. And in its center, sprawled on an equally massive bed, the duke.
Why?
Why build a room like this?
Thud.
It felt like...
Thud.
A space built for unrestrained rampage.
Thud.
The thought made my hand twitch involuntarily, confirming the cigar in my pocket.
I'd left it unlit out of consideration for the "invalid," figuring I couldn't smoke while facing him anyway.
Thud.
And that courtesy was my fatal mistake.
"Gahk!"
Sudden. Utterly without warning.
I felt it—something intangible seizing my heart through my back.
'What the—?!'
Crunch.
Heart exploding amid the shock of the assault.
Everything started fading.
Without my wildly pounding heart, my body raced toward death.
The air on my skin vanished; the taste of blood flooding my mouth grew distant.
Death's embrace from my past life washed over me.
My vision slowly blackened.
...
"So, what do you think?"
"Hahk!"
My darkened vision regained color.
The hospital-room stench I'd smelled upon entering hit my nose first, senses flooding back.
"Hahk. Hahk."
Reflexively, my hand clutched my chest.
My heart had burst. I'd died.
Thump. Thump.
Yet it pounded fiercely, mocking my certainty.
'What the hell?'
The smoke was still active.
The thin defensive layer coating all my vital points, maintained 24/7—even in sleep. My ultimate bulwark.
Tough enough to stop sniper rounds or high-tier spells at least once.
And it got pierced?
Fine, if it pierced, I get it. Countering an attack beyond my common sense isn't easy.
'No, it didn't pierce.'
My defense had never been breached—not even in one-on-one with this family head.
He killed me by bursting my heart directly, bypassing the defense?
Then why am I alive?
I had no idea. My brain was mush, tangled in useless thoughts amid total chaos.
"More composed than I expected. The last one screamed bloody murder the instant his heart burst—deafening."
The duke's raspy voice hammered into my muddled mind.
I glared at him, breath ragged.
"So, what do you think? How's tasting death?"
He smiled like it was a minor mishap.
What? How's it feel?
"Fucking awful, obviously."
Politeness be damned.
Why speak nicely to the bastard who just attacked me—burst my heart?
"What kind of shit is this?"
"Hahaha. Fair enough. I wouldn't be polite either if you pulled that on me."
I raked back my disheveled hair, glaring with a sunken voice.
"Hey, what the fuck was that?"
I needed time.
No cigar meant limited usable smoke in my body.
The duke replied calmly to my question.
"A test, naturally. People show their true selves at death's door. So I killed you once to see."
What? True self?
"Varied reactions. Some scream when death hits unexpectedly; others freeze in terror."
Bullshit. That's just instinct—nobody wants to die.
That's your "true self"?
Classic psychopath rationalization.
"But you were different. Analyzing even as you died—impressive."
Only because I'd reincarnated. Death was old news.
Once you'd tasted it, reactions differed.
"Ah, right!"
The duke's words barely ended before I gathered every scrap of stored smoke—plus the defensive layer on my vitals—into a massive sword and lunged.
A greatsword rivaling a car's size, forged from condensed smoke.
Boom!
Deafening roar matching its scale, dust billowing.
Obscured vision. And in my hand, somehow, a fresh cigar.
I was about to light it and replenish when—
Slash!
My wrist severed; the cigar clattered to the floor.
'What?!'
Vision was blocked.
Even if he saw, blocking my attack and slicing my wrist?
"Krrk!"
My severed hand hitting the floor, blood geysering from the stump—it felt real.
Yet my hand was intact, mocking the sensation.
Skin split, muscle and bone cleaved— but whole?
"Ahaha. Counterattacking too? Better catch than I thought."
The duke's voice reached my stunned ears.
A massive shield, defying reality, had blocked my strike around him.
Grind.
"Oho, some power. Smoke ability, right? Sorry—I don't arm those who attack me."
The bizarre scene before me.
My adrenaline-fueled brain spun at full speed.
Recent events. That unrealistic shield.
Reality manipulation? No, impossible. No such cheat ability.
Besides, true reality-warping would've killed me outright or healed the wrist instantly.
Heart burst, wrist severed—sensations only, no real damage.
Piecing it together. Calm brain amid pounding heart yielded one answer.
"Hallucination?"
Yes. Hallucinations explained it.
Penetrating my vital defenses.
Heart-burst feel, yet alive.
Wrist sliced, yet fine.
Only issue: the shield blocking my attack—what was that?
"Correct."
Hearing my mutter, the duke confirmed it with a chilling smile.
And so, precisely 44 times, I experienced death by hallucination.