10x God-Tier Stealing System: Pumping S-Rank SuperHeroines Daily!-Chapter 151- Ermond’s Death

And yet—he had simply let them go.

No dark threats whispered in her ear. No ransom demands. He just returned them to this gilded cage as if they were VIP guests getting dropped off from a joyride.

It made zero sense.

Unless...

Her plump bottom lip trembled just a fraction, though she forced her delicate features to stay frozen. The suited guards by the door hadn’t twitched a single muscle.

That blind obedience made the blood boil hot beneath her skin, bringing a faint, angry flush to her chest.

She couldn’t get her hands on him. Not yet.

But she desperately needed to understand his game.

Her gaze dropped, long lashes casting shadows over her cheeks as her thoughts darkened.

"Why... her?" she wondered, the unspoken thought turning bitter on her tongue. "Why Neauril? What does he want with a little girl? Does he..."

She swallowed hard, the slender column of her throat bobbing.

"...Does he remember everything too?"

A cold shiver traced its way down her spine, making the soft hairs on her nape stand up.

"It’s nice seeing you adjusting so well to my mansion, Lira."

The moment Cruxius stepped through the grand archway, the very atmosphere in the room shifted.

The air grew thick, almost suffocating. The elite guards at the door visibly stiffened, their spines snapping straight, but they didn’t dare move an inch.

Lira’s head snapped up from the velvet sofa.

Her posture went rigid, the sudden movement thrusting her chest forward against the snug fabric of her top. Her eyes locked onto him.

That infuriatingly handsome face—those dark, calculating eyes, that casual, arrogant smirk. He walked with a lazy, predatory grace, moving as if he owned not just the opulent room, but the very oxygen she was trying to breathe.

Her simmering anger flared into a wildfire.

She stood abruptly, her breasts bouncing slightly with the forceful motion before settling. Her voice rang out, sharp and thunderous.

"You kidnapper! You finally decided to show yourself!?"

Neauril, seated just a few feet away at the long dining table, physically flinched at the loud outburst.

The young woman turned her head, a slight frown marring her soft features. She narrowed her eyes coldly at her older sibling.

"Don’t disturb me, sister," Neauril scolded.

Her tone was oddly distant and composed, delivering a chilling glare that didn’t suit her soft face. She was deeply absorbed in every whispered word the elegant woman beside her was saying, and Lira’s emotional interruptions were becoming a nuisance.

Lira froze in her tracks.

Just for a fleeting second.

She noticed how the "auntie" also shifted her gaze toward her. The older woman’s eyes were icy and calculating, sweeping over Lira’s tense, flushed figure just once. It was a brief look, but it was enough to make Lira’s stomach drop, a primal instinct warning her not to attract this predator’s attention.

Lira’s blazing eyes snapped back to Cruxius.

He was still smiling.

Thoroughly amused.

Watching her chest heave with every angry breath.

Silently mocking her helplessness.

Her rage bubbled over the edge. Without another word, she marched straight toward him. Reaching out, her manicured fingers grabbed his thick wrist, her nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises.

His dark brows lifted a fraction, but he didn’t put up a fight.

She yanked him.

Her sharp heels clicked furiously against the gleaming tiles as she dragged his larger frame across the floor. They passed the rigid guards and cut through the stunned silence of the room, heading straight for the far, secluded corner of the hall.

Stopping beneath a tall stone pillar bathed in heavy shadows, she spun around.

She shoved her palms hard against his broad chest, pinning him roughly against the stone.

His wide back hit the marble with a soft thud. He didn’t even blink.

Still wearing that infuriating smirk.

Still entirely silent.

Lira’s breath hitched, the soft peaks of her chest brushing agonizingly close to his shirt as she trapped him there.

Her voice, now dropped to a low, trembling whisper, cut through the intimate space between them.

"What do you want from my sister?"

There was zero hesitation in her gaze. Only raw fury. A deep-seated fear. And the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of holding her fragile world together when everything inside her was screaming to break down.

Cruxius slowly tilted his head.

His lips parted just a fraction, his dark eyes glittering with a dangerous, hungry light in the dim shadows.

He leaned in close, his warm breath fanning over the sensitive skin of her neck as he offered a hushed, devastating whisper.

"Not her. I want you... become my personal maid, Lira. And accompany me on a honeymoon."

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The grand, cavernous hall of the Blac Corporation’s main estate reeked of copper blood and bitter ash.

Thick smoke curled lazily through the shattered crystal of broken chandeliers and chunks of splintered marble. The luxurious gleam of the once-pristine floor tiles was entirely drowned beneath thick, slick pools of crimson and dark soot.

The deafening roar of gunfire had stopped long ago.

Only the phantom echoes remained. Sharp, haunting, and ringing in the ears of the few poor souls still managing to draw breath.

Mangled bodies—some clad in tactical uniforms, others draped in the flashy capes of the Association—lay scattered around the room like broken, discarded dolls.

Elite heroes with shattered visors.

Private guards with wide, scorched holes in their chests.

A child’s plush toy lay half-burnt near a ruined pillar, the soft fuzz matted and soaked in fresh red.

And standing right in the dead center of the slaughter was a man.

No—calling him human would be a mistake. He was something else entirely.

As pale as the moon and thoroughly drenched in other people’s blood, the vampire’s figure loomed tall and chillingly regal. A dark, crimson energy writhed around his broad shoulders like a living, breathing mist.

His long black coat flowed out behind him, moving as if the drafts in the room bowed to his dark presence alone.

Clasped firmly in his pale, long-fingered hand was a raw, wet lump of flesh. A human heart, still giving a weak, pathetic twitch.

His eyes—glowing a fierce, demonic red like molten rubies—pierced straight through the smoky haze, locking onto the utterly broken man kneeling at his leather boots.

The aging head of the Blac family, a man once universally feared, proud and unshakable, now knelt pathetically in a puddle of his own guards’ blood.

His expensive, tailored coat was torn at the collar. He was gasping for air like a dying fish pulled from the water. Thick veins bulged dangerously at his sweaty temples.

His breath came in ragged, desperate, wet gulps—each one a harder struggle than the last.

Just a few feet beside him, the most trusted, loyal servant of the Blac household lay crumpled in a heap.

Ermond, the head butler.

His pristine uniform was ruined, his chest cavity brutally torn wide open.

His glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling. Wide and terribly hollow.

His mouth hung slightly agape, frozen forever as if his final, fleeting breath had been a blood-curdling scream.

The warm heart in the vampire’s palm gave one final, weak pulse.

Then, with a sickening squelch, he crushed the organ like a ripe, bruised fruit beneath his pale fingers.

A wet, meaty snap echoed through the silence. A heavy splash of thick blood hit the marble.

The patriarch violently flinched. He instinctively twitched his hand, trying to reach out toward Ermond’s corpse, but his heavy, trembling arms barely moved an inch.

"No... Ermond—!"