Angel Fall's-Chapter 10 A unexpected visitor.

Lying in bed, Marino had already slipped into a deep sleep, his body utterly drained from the night's physical and mental torment. His muscles ached, his skin was bruised, and the lingering pain throbbed in waves across his body.Yet, despite it all, he wore a devilish grin. His face was peaceful—almost joyful—as if he hadn't just slaughtered a household over a few chickens and some stolen eggs.

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In his dream...

He was no longer a battered, blood-soaked teen—but a young, god-like version of himself. Ripped muscles, chiseled jaw, and a golden crown perched atop his head. He sat high in the clouds, inside a colossal sky-castle made entirely of gold. The world below looked up in awe and envy.

At the center of the throne room stood his seat of power: a diamond-studded throne. Underneath his royal ass was a world map, carved into the seat itself. Along the backrest, sculpted figures of voluptuous, naked women massaged him with their shapely forms—pure luxury.

Two gorgeous women served as his footrests, their supple bodies lying submissively under his bare feet. Another woman stood by his side—stunning, blushing, and disproportionately endowed. Her breasts were impossibly massive, easily triple the size of her own head, straining against her silk dress.

With a sultry smile, she lowered the top half of her dress, revealing a pair of plump, leaking breasts with soft, pink nipples. She pulled out a crystal goblet and slowly began milking herself into the cup, letting out gentle moans that echoed through the golden hall.

Marino practically drooled. His eyes gleamed.

"God damn, that's hot... Please, Mama... give it to me. Give me that milk."

He reached out, ready to drink from the divine chalice and maybe take even more—

BANG.

The golden doors slammed open, flying off their hinges as a terrifying voice boomed into the throne room.

"MARINO! WAKE UP AND COME DOWN HERE! NOW!"

It was his mother.

Her voice tore through the dream like a storm. Windows shattered. Chandeliers fell. The entire palace trembled.

"No! Mother, please! Not now—I'm in the middle of something important!"

He begged, but it was already too late.

The footrest girls barked and turned into fluffy dogs. The busty milk-maiden vanished into the arms of another man. The golden ceiling cracked, the skies above ripped open—and then, blackness.

He woke up.

The room was pitch black, thunder cracking outside, rain still battering the world in rhythmic waves. Marino rubbed his glowing yellow eyes and sighed, devastated.

"Damn it... I didn't even get to taste the milk."

From downstairs, his mother's voice rang out again:

"Marino! Where are you? Come down already!"

He groaned and sat up, dragging himself to the edge of the bed. As he reached for his pants, a sudden chill ran down his spine.

"Wait... Did they find out?"

His heart thudded.

"No... no, it's too soon. It's barely been an hour. There's no way they know."

Still, he hesitated, eyes narrowed.

Then, with a low breath, he started getting dressed—ready for whatever was waiting downstairs.

With these thoughts racing through his mind, Marino rushed downstairs, wearing only his pants. In this era, underwear wasn't exactly a priority—most people wore simple loincloths at best, and Marino, being a modern man, had long since decided to go commando. The undergarments here were uncomfortable, scratchy, and plain sad. He had plans to change that one day—to be the first man to introduce comfortable and sexy underwear to the medieval world.

But for now, he had bigger problems.

As he descended the wooden stairs, his footsteps slowed. He froze mid-step, staring wide-eyed into the kitchen.

There, beside the warm glow of the fireplace, were his parents—tending to a girl... and her dog.

"No way... It can't be," he thought, dread crawling through his stomach.

The girl was wrapped in a blanket, pale and silent, staring into the flames. Her small dog lay beside her, unmoving except for its fearful eyes.

Before Marino could react, his father turned to him and smiled with relief.

"Good, you're here, my son," said Jesus. "Come quickly. Help look after the girl. I must go to town and inform the authorities of what's happened."

Jesus stood up and gently pushed Marino forward, guiding him closer to the girl.

Marino's entire body stiffened. A chill ran down his spine. For a second, his face twitched with panic—but he quickly masked it behind a look of innocent confusion.

"What do you mean, Father? What's going on? Why is this girl here?" he asked, feigning concern.

"She hasn't said much—trauma, probably. But the bruises on her neck, her torn clothes... something terrible's happened. We found her outside in the rain, clutching her dog, shaking like a leaf."

Jesus placed a steady hand on Marino's shoulder. "I need you to be the man of the house while I'm gone. Protect the girls. Can you do that?"

Marino nodded slowly, a breath of relief escaping his chest. It's fine. She hasn't talked. I still have time.

But then, their eyes met.

Jesus's expression changed. He frowned, confused. Without warning, he crouched down and cupped Marino's face in his hands, studying him like a puzzle.

"What... What happened to you, my son?" he murmured. "Your eyes... they're yellow. And this scar—on your face? What's going on?"

Marino blinked. His mind scrambled. Then he laughed awkwardly and scratched the back of his head.

"Oh, that? Yeah, uh... I was doing pushups yesterday, you know, training... and this rat came flying out of the bushes and attacked me. Bastard scratched me right in the face."

Jesus raised an eyebrow. "A rat?"

"Yeah, vicious thing."

Then something clicked. Marino touched his face. "Wait... are my eyes really yellow? Do they look cool?"

Before Jesus could answer, his mother appeared and grabbed Marino's face, turning it toward the light.

"Oh, my poor baby," she cooed. "Look at your eyes—they're like bright gold! It must be a side effect of that rat bite!"

Marino breathed a little easier. Thank God these people are medieval.

Jesus stroked his beard, deep in thought. "Strange... I've never seen such a thing in all my life. But as long as you're safe, that's all that matters. We'll have the priest take a look at you later."

He turned toward the door, already pulling on his cloak.

"I must go now. Stay inside. Lock the doors. Protect the girl."

With that, Jesus disappeared into the storm, heading for the lord's castle through the wind and rain.

When Marino turned his attention to the girl, he froze.

She was looking straight at him. Her eyes scanned him slowly, from head to toe. He held his breath. Every nerve in his body screamed. She knows. She has to know. I'm dead.

For a long second, they stared at each other—his glowing yellow eyes meeting her pale blue ones.

Then something strange happened.

The girl's breath hitched. Her body tensed—not in fear, but as if she'd just witnessed something divine. Then, suddenly, she blushed. Her face turned bright red and she looked away, eyes fixed to the ground as she fidgeted with her hair nervously.

Marino blinked. Stunned.

Mary blinked too—but for entirely different reasons. She lit up with a radiant smile, her hands pressed to her heart.

"This must be what they call love at first sight!" she thought, giddy.

Meanwhile, in Marino's mind:

"Holy shit. She doesn't recognize me. Did I just get away with murder?!"

Trying not to let his excitement show, he cleared his throat and took a step closer.

"So... what's your name?" he asked casually.

Mary's heart practically exploded. "Oh my god, my son just made the first move! You go, son!"

The girl peeked up at him, still blushing hard. Her voice came out soft and shaky.

"I-I'm Lara."

Marino gave her a charming smile. "Nice to meet you, Lara. I'm Marino. You're from that farm near ours, right? I don't think we've ever met before—but I'm glad we did now."

Lara didn't answer. She just sat there in silence, hands clenched, lost in thought.

Marino pressed on, pretending to be curious. "So... what happened? Those marks on your neck—how did you get them?"

At that, her body tensed. Her shoulders trembled.

To Marino's surprise, tears began to stream down her cheeks. Her lips moved, trying to form words, but nothing came out.

Mary stepped in immediately. She pulled the girl into a warm bear hug, pressing Lara's face into her chest as she stroked her back.

"It's okay," she whispered. "You're safe now. Nobody's going to hurt you. My son's strong—he'll protect you."

Then Mary turned her head and looked right at Marino. Her eyes sparkled with motherly pride and something... else.

"Isn't that right, Marino?" she asked with a wink.

Marino stared blankly at her.

Another wink. More aggressive.

Still confused, he squinted at her. Then suddenly—click. The memory of a similar scene in his past life came back to him. A friend, a girl, a mom trying to be clever...

Oh. OH.

Finally understanding the hint, Marino put on his most heroic face, stepped forward, and said with conviction:

"Just leave it to me. I won't let anyone hurt you ever again. I'll protect you. For sure."

After a while, through pitiful sobs and shaky breaths, the girl finally managed to mumble a few words.

"It was... a black, red-eyed demon."

As soon as the words left her lips, she broke down again—crying even harder now, her whole body trembling as if she had just remembered something out of a nightmare.

Marino nodded solemnly, wearing a mask of sympathy. But inside, he was grinning.

"Mission accomplished. Daiam, this is just too easy. Maybe I should become a full-time criminal instead of an explorer. Crime in this era is laughably easy."

Mary, meanwhile, saw the perfect opportunity. Her son had clearly won the girl's trust. He had comforted her, protected her—and now, in her mind, there was no better place for Lara to be than under Marino's care. So, she made the executive decision.

She let Lara sleep in Marino's bed—with Marino.

At first, Marino didn't know how to react. He sat stiffly beside her, awkwardly keeping watch as the rain continued outside. But the girl had other plans. Still sniffling, she pulled him down beside her—then wrapped herself around him like a child clutching a stuffed toy.

Now, Marino lay in bed with a traumatized girl curled tightly against him, her breathing soft and warm against his chest.

He watched her in silence, yellow eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.

Then, they flashed red.

His fingers slowly crept up her back and slid toward her neck—hovering, hesitant, curling gently around her throat.

So delicate. So easy.

A hundred thoughts stormed through his mind. No witnesses. She saw my eyes. What if she remembers more? One quick squeeze...

But his grip loosened.

The warmth of her breath, the gentle clutch of her arms, the faint whimper as she dreamed—something about it all dulled the edge of his thoughts. Eventually, sleep pulled him under.

His hands still rested lightly around her neck.

Soft footsteps padded down the hallway. The door creaked open ever so slightly.

From the gap, two curious green eyes peeked into the room.

Mary smiled at the sight. Her son, curled up with a girl in his arms, both sleeping peacefully.

Her heart melted.

"Kyaa. So cute." she whispered to herself before slowly closing the door and leaving them be.

By now, Jesus had already reached the town and alerted the guards.

Together with three armored men, he now stood at the entrance to the blood-soaked farmstead. The rain had begun to slow, but the storm's fury still echoed in the distant skies. Thunder rumbled like the voice of judgment.

What greeted them was a scene straight from a nightmare.

The first thing they noticed was the sheer brutality. Blood was everywhere—smeared on the walls, soaked into the soil, trailing off into the mud. The barn door hung open, its hinges broken. Inside the chicken coop, two lifeless men lay on the floor, bodies mutilated beyond recognition, surrounded by feathers and torn flesh. Some of the chickens had clearly been eaten.

The guards exchanged uneasy glances.

One of them muttered, "What in God's name happened here...?"

Jesus remained silent, gripping the cross around his neck.

From the looks of it, the men had fought—fought hard—but they had lost. Perhaps they had come to investigate a disturbance in the coop, only to meet their end there. But what kind of beast could do this? One strong enough to kill two grown men—and then disappear without a trace?

They moved toward the main house.

Inside, the answer only grew more disturbing.

Another man lay dead, slumped against the wall. An axe was embedded deep in his chest. Whoever—or whatever—had done this wasn't just a beast. It had used tools. It had wielded a weapon.

Cut marks and deep wounds littered each corpse. Some thin and sharp like a blade, others jagged like claws. The guards were left speechless. It made no sense. No valuables were missing. No signs of robbery. And this family had no known enemies.

"Why would a thief come just to butcher chickens?" one guard asked, shaking his head. "This wasn't about gold."

Jesus knelt next to the man with the axe, eyes wide with disbelief. "This... this was not the work of man. This was something else. Some creature from the depths of hell. No soul of God's creation could be this cruel."

The guards looked to one another. There was little else to be done.

No tracks.

No suspect.

No explanation.

Only one truth remained—the brutality of the act defied human reason.

Whatever had done this... was not human.

The decision would now fall to the lord. What steps to take, what message to spread, what fears to sow or suppress. But for now, all they could do was stand in that crimson-stained dawn, wondering what new evil had been unleashed upon their land.

Weeks passed, and the investigation into the farmhouse murders stalled. No leads, no witnesses, no justice—only mystery. The only thing the guards ever found was a pile of torn clothes washed up on the beach, salt-stiffened and half-buried in the sand. They led nowhere.

Warrior priests and nuns came next, dispatched from nearby churches to scour the farm for signs of demons or other unholy creatures. They performed blessings, waved incense, and muttered prayers, but the truly gifted—those who could sense real darkness—never came. The ones who did were little more than pious tourists. After a few weeks of holy theatrics and good wine, they left empty-handed. The town, satisfied by their presence alone, declared the land clean. The bodies buried, the rumors cooled, and soon the farm was listed for sale again.

Lara, the lone survivor, was no help. Her mind was shattered, her memories fragmented. She spoke only of a red-eyed demon, always in whispers, always trembling. The townsfolk chalked it up to trauma. With no evidence, no suspects, and no divine insight, the case faded like smoke in the wind—just another unsolved horror in a brutal world.

When new tenants finally took over the farm, Lara stayed behind—taken in by the Colombo family. Marino, in a twisted sense of honor, had decided to uphold the old man's dying wish: to protect Lara. Not out of love or guilt—but because, as he put it to himself, "the poor bastard begged me with his last breath, and it'd feel rude to strangle the girl after that."

Lara clung to him like a shadow. Her fear of the dark, of silence, of being alone, had rooted itself deep. She followed Marino everywhere: to the fields, to the workshops, even to the outhouse. When he trained, she trained. When he read, she stared blankly at pages beside him. At night, they shared a bed, with Lara wrapped around him like a child clutching a doll.

Jesus disapproved. The old man had drawn the line when he caught the two of them squatting side by side in the outhouse. "There are boundaries, son!" he shouted.

But Mary defended them. To her, it was young love—awkward, clingy, innocent. She saw no wrong. "They're just close," she insisted, "Let them be."

During one of Marino's daily workouts, he noticed his mother struggling to do push-ups. Her breasts were so large they hit the ground before her arms bent halfway, and when she tried to run, she had to hold them to keep from crying out in pain.

It gave Marino an idea.

If even his mother—a full-grown woman—couldn't move comfortably, then what about everyone else? Women wore practically nothing beneath their clothes, and what little they did wear was scratchy, poorly made, and about as supportive as wet paper.

He would change that.

With Lara's help, Marino began his next project: inventing underwear. Not just functional—but elegant, alluring, and revolutionary. Lara became his model, his test subject, and his quiet assistant. Together, they worked through countless designs, from the modest to the scandalous, while Marino watched each fitting with a hungry, calculating grin.

Though his hands were clumsy with thread, Lara's weren't. Her fingers danced with a needle, stitching each of his ideas into fabric. Marino, ever the dreamer, took it further: he would reinvent spinning itself. He began sketching plans for a spindle and distaff—primitive, yes, but a stepping stone to the spinning wheel.

With these inventions, he would build something far greater than just clothing. A brand. A legacy. A symbol.

Colombo.

A name for food, for fabric, for fashion—and, in time, for power. Marino didn't just want to survive in this world. He wanted to conquer it.

And no one—not the priests, not the guards, not even the girl who clung to him so dearly—would stop him.