The storm raged on, a fitting symphony for the night's work. The physical labor of disposing of the evidence was trivial for the two brothers—one a creature of feral strength, the other possessing a will that could move the world. They worked in a silence broken only by the howl of the wind and the dull thud of earth. James had chosen a spot deep in the woods, far from the granite bowl, a place where the soil was soft and the roots were thick. He directed with quiet, precise gestures, and Victor complied with the numb efficiency of an automaton.
When the last shovelful of dirt was patted down and the forest floor was strewn with dead leaves and broken branches to erase their crime, the first grey light of dawn was bleeding into the eastern sky. The rain had softened to a cold, miserable drizzle.
They stood there, drenched and muddy, the grave between them. Victor was trembling, not from the cold, but from a shock that had settled deep into his bones. The adrenaline was gone, leaving a hollow, echoing cavern where his rage used to live. He stared at the patch of disturbed earth, his claws—now retracted—itching with the phantom memory of what they had done.
"He made me a monster," Victor whispered, the words torn from him.
"No," James corrected, his voice calm and clear in the damp air. "He tried to make you in his image—a weak, violent man who blames the world for his failures. You transcended that. What you are is something more. Something that cannot be caged by his petty notions of father and son. You are free of him now. Truly free."
It was the perfect lie, wrapped in a sliver of truth. He was freeing Victor from one master only to bind him completely to another. The patricide was the ultimate shackle.
Victor looked at James, his yellow eyes wide with a desperate need for validation, for this new, horrifying reality to make sense. James met his gaze, his own expression one of utter certainty. In that moment, the leash became a chain, forged in blood and sealed in the quiet of the woods.
"Come," James said. "We need to burn our clothes and wash. The world does not need to know what happened here. It only needs to know that Thomas Logan is gone."
Back at the manor, the process of erasure continued. James was a study in meticulous efficiency. The muddy, bloodstained clothes were incinerated in the estate's furnace. Every trace of evidence was systematically eliminated. He then stood under a stream of cold water in the washroom, scrubbing the scent of grave soil and violence from his skin. His mind was not on the horror of the act, but on its perfection. The variable was eliminated. The tool was honed. The experiment was a success.
As he dressed, his System interface glowed softly.
<< Significant Alteration to Local Causal Strand Detected. Bonus: 500 Points. >>
His balance ticked up to 2,610. The Architect, it seemed, appreciated a tidy workspace.
Downstairs, the household was stirring with the unease that follows a violent storm. The main topic of conversation was the broken window at the Logan cottage and the disappearance of its temporary occupant. Elizabeth was pale, her hands fluttering nervously. She cornered James in the hall.
"James… the cottage… Thomas… he's gone. And the window is shattered from the inside." Her voice was thin with a fear that went beyond a missing groundskeeper.
James adopted a concerned expression. "Perhaps the storm frightened him, Mother. Or he left in a drunken rage. He was… not well." He placed a gentle hand on her arm, a gesture of reassurance that felt like a brand. "You mustn't worry. Father will see to it. It's over now."
The words were a balm and a poison. It's over now. To her, it meant the threat of exposure was gone. To him, it meant a successful operation was concluded. She looked into his eyes, so calm and clear, and some of the tension left her shoulders. She saw her protective son. She had no idea she was looking at the architect of her lover's demise.
John Howlett's reaction was more pragmatic. He inspected the cottage, his mouth a grim line.
"Good riddance," he muttered to James later in his study, pouring a morning whiskey. "The fool probably drank himself into a stupor and wandered off into the woods to die. Or he's on a train to somewhere else to become someone else's problem." He took a sip. "Saves me the cost and trouble of having him dealt with legally."
James nodded. "The world is a better place without such chaos in it, Father."
John grunted in agreement, completely unaware that the chaos had not been removed by chance, but by the design of the boy standing before him. He saw a clean resolution. James saw a validated hypothesis.
In the days that followed, James observed Victor closely. His brother was quieter, his feral energy banked to a low, simmering ember. The killing had changed him. The constant, challenging glare was gone, replaced by a watchful, almost wary obedience. He followed James without question, his loyalty now cemented not just by the promise of purpose, but by the shared burden of a terrible secret. He was James's hound, now and forever.
James spent his evenings in the library, but his reading had shifted. The historical texts and folklore were set aside. Now, he studied ledgers, books on corporate law, and political treatises. The patricide was not an end; it was a stepping stone. With Victor firmly under control and the last disruptive element of his personal life erased, he could focus entirely on the larger board.
His monologue that night, alone in his room, was one of cold satisfaction and forward-looking strategy.
The individual is the smallest unit of chaos. Thomas was a singular, noisy variable. His elimination was necessary, not for revenge, but for clarity. Victor's transformation is the true prize. He is no longer a potential threat; he is a dedicated asset. His rage, once diffuse, is now a focused energy source, waiting for my direction.
John Howlett continues to be the perfect vessel. His ambition is a fire, and I merely have to feed it the right fuel. The Howlett industrial empire will be my fortress, my source of legitimate influence and resources. In this world, money is a weapon, and legitimacy is a suit of armor.
But these are the tools of the mundane world. The System reminds me that there is a higher game being played. The 500-point bonus for "altering the causal strand"… it implies that my actions have weight in a larger, cosmic sense. The Architect is watching. I am not merely building an empire on Earth; I am accruing capital in a multiversal economy.
The next phase is clear. I must accelerate John's ambitions. I must identify the next target for Victor's sanctioned fury, perhaps a business rival who needs to be… discouraged. And I must continue to grow my own power. The Metallic Resonance Shield is versatile, but the Shop holds the key to transcendence. I need more points. I need capabilities that go beyond simple force manipulation.
This world has vampires in the shadows and gods in the myths. I have a feral brother as my enforcer and a fortune as my foundation. The pieces are aligning. The monster is no longer just hiding. He is building his throne. And when it is complete, he will not just rule this world from the shadows; he will understand its every secret, and then he will see what lies beyond.
He closed his eyes, the System' points a glowing promise in his mind. The death of Thomas Logan was not a tragedy. It was logistics. The house was now in order. The real work could begin.
------///---------////------------///
[i am useing some word like transcended, when i read any other novels use this word readers say that some kind of chinese fic or etc, did any of u saw things like this]
[If u like this than give me Power Stone 😅😅]