Alpha's Rejected becomes the Lycan's Obsession-Chapter 114: The only reason

The old basement was a world forgotten by time, its air thick with dust and decay. Crumbling stone walls, once sturdy, were now veined with dark streaks of moisture, and patches of green mold crept silently across the surface like a slow infestation. A single bare bulb hung from a frayed wire in the ceiling, flickering weakly, casting shadows that twitched and danced with every sway.

Cobwebs clung to the low beams like ghostly curtains, and the floor was nothing more than cracked concrete littered with dirt, old rags, and bits of broken furniture.

In the far corner, where the walls met at a sharp, unforgiving angle, a man lay sprawled on a thin mat set on the cold, grimy floor. He looked broken, his limbs awkwardly splayed as if he had collapsed mid-struggle.

His chest rose in shallow, ragged breaths, each one a wheezing effort. His clothes were torn and caked with filth, blending into the grimy floor beneath him, as if he were being slowly swallowed by the basement itself.

He turned his eyes towards the approaching footsteps, and the pair widened slightly when he saw who it was. His skin was sallow, stretched taut over sharp bones; eyes sunken into sockets shadowed with purple bruises of fatigue and impending death. The fire that had once lived in them was nothing more than dying embers now.

"Williams... is that you?" he asked in a voice that suggested he was already close to the land of the dead. The words came out cracked and brittle, like dry leaves breaking beneath a boot. He let out a long, croaky cough after his question, his thin chest shuddering from the force.

Williams didn’t flinch. His face remained as unreadable as stone.

"You still recognize me. Good to know you have not lost all of your senses," Williams commented half-heartedly as he approached the man, Roman trailing close behind him, his expression unreadable yet dangerous.

Williams reached into the inside pocket of his coat, the leather creaking softly as he did. From the folds, he pulled out a paper map, and a small dagger that gleamed dully under the faint light.

"I—I’m so sorry," the man stammered, his voice raw and quivering. "I have done a lot of foolish and stupid things in my lifetime."

His eyes dropped to the items in Williams’s hand, confusion painting his worn-out features. There was something fragile about him now. But regret didn’t cleanse sin.

"I don’t need your apology, Mr. Samuel. I only need you to cooperate with me," Williams uttered with cool finality as he dropped into a squatting position beside the mat Samuel was lying on, his knees cracking slightly from the motion. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Roman, now only a few steps away, paused. He folded his arms over his chest, his imposing frame blocking a good portion of the light. His eyes, cold and brimming with contempt, regarded Samuel with barely restrained disgust, but he said nothing. This was Williams’ fight. He would only interfere if absolutely needed.

"I truly meant it when I said I don’t know where Dera is," Samuel croaked, his hands trembling with weakness and panic. His body convulsed slightly as another cough tore through him, the sound pitiful and rattling.

"I don’t need you to tell me where she is. I already know what you did to her." Williams’s voice dropped lower, colder. He unfolded the map and laid it carefully on the dusty floor, smoothing it with long, practiced fingers that moved like a ritual.

"What do you mean?" The man’s voice was barely above a whisper, but panic curled around his words like a venomous snake. His heart, feeble as it was, began to thud faster, louder, echoing in his ears.

"Stay quiet and allow me to do my work," Williams said in an authoritative tone, not looking at him. His hands moved with precision, the blade glinting as he gripped it and made a deliberate cut across his left palm. The skin split open with ease, and blood welled up instantly, sliding over his skin and dripping onto his right palm.

Samuel flinched, his eyes wide as saucers.

Then Williams reached for him.

"No—wait, what are you doing?" the man asked in panic, trying in vain to pull his feeble hand back, but Williams’s grip was ironclad.

"Quiet, Mr. Samuel, else I will rough handle you just the way you rough handled her," Williams warned him, his eyes flashing with a fury that simmered just beneath his composed exterior.

That shut Samuel up immediately. His mouth clamped shut, trembling lips pressed tightly together. His face turned ashen, and he stopped struggling, accepting what was coming.

Williams made a cut on the man’s palm, quick, clean, with no room for mercy. Samuel let out a gasp, more from shock than pain, and Williams moved the wounded hand over his own right palm, letting the blood from both cuts mingle.

"Tell me, Mr. Samuel," Williams said, eyes locked on the mixture of blood. "How much did she beg you not to treat her like she was some worthless piece of trash?"

The words landed like knives. Each syllable laced with venom. Samuel’s eyes filled with tears. They brimmed at the edges, clinging stubbornly before finally rolling down his pale cheeks.

"I swear I didn’t mean to do it," he whispered. "But my wife—she needed the money and that was the only option we had."

His voice bore regret, but to Williams it was nothing more than an insult and a pitiful excuse for a monstrous act.

"Stop shifting the blame of your irresponsibility to your wife," Williams said through gritted teeth. "Who gave her out? You or your wife?"

Samuel couldn’t answer. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His shoulders sagged, and his eyes reflected the hollowness of a man who knew the weight of his sins could never be lifted.

"Pathetic," Williams spat. "You sold your daughter out for money, and now the money cannot even save your dying ass."

"I’m sorry. I regret all of my actions. I wish I could undo everything I have done to Dera," Mr. Samuel spoke, his voice cracked and broken, as if saying the words stripped what was left of his soul.

"Wishes don’t work that way, stupid. Now shut up. I need to work," Williams snapped. And Samuel obeyed.

Silence fell again, a thick, suffocating one. The only sounds were the quiet breaths of men locked in a moment charged with magic and guilt.

Williams began to chant in a low and foreign language that sounded ancient and otherworldly. As he whispered the incantations, the blood on his palm began to bubble and boil unnaturally. It hissed as if it were alive, as if it knew the truth it was about to reveal.

Eyes shut, Williams hovered his palm over the map. His breathing deepened. A faint glow, unearthly and dim, began to radiate from the map’s surface.

Inside his mind, visions began to take shape. Roads and paths twisted and turned, trees rose like walls, mountains cast shadows in his consciousness. A path began to unfold, winding, elusive, but real. His mind locked onto it, following every bend, memorizing every detail.

Minutes passed like hours. Roman didn’t move.

Finally, Williams opened his eyes.

A glint of black flickered across his irises, a flash of something dark, powerful, and then it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Found it," he said, his voice hoarse as he lifted his head to Roman. His breath came out in sharp pants, like he’d just run a marathon through the underworld.

He felt off. Felt like something had been stirred inside him. Something cold. Something wrong. But he shoved it down, deep into a compartment he’d learned long ago to keep locked. The mission came first.

"Are you okay or do I need to start the beating right here?" Roman asked, one brow raised. There was an edge in his voice, not of concern, but of readiness to drag his friend out of madness if it came to it.

"I’m fine, Rome," Williams replied, trying to normalize his breathing. He gave a brief nod.

"You sure?" Roman asked again, watching him closely. But Williams didn’t respond. He turned toward the exit without another word.

"Let’s go," he said to Roman, not looking back.

Just as Roman turned to follow, Mr. Samuel’s voice, weak but desperate, clawed its way to their ears.

"Williams, please, if you do find Dera, extend my sincere apologies to her," he said, his eyes shining with tears, his voice choked with longing and shame.

A deadly frown contorted Williams’s face. He turned slowly, as if the very act of acknowledging Samuel again was repulsive.

"Who the fuck do you think you are to send me a message?" Williams asked, his voice filled with venom. His eyes were two pits of fire, locked on the withering man.

"The only reason you are still alive is because Dera might still feel something for you. Pray she does, because if she doesn’t, then it would be better if you died before I return."

With that, Williams turned his back on him again and walked out, the door slamming behind him with a finality that seemed to shake the very foundation of the broken house.

And inside, Samuel was left alone with his regret and with the echoes of his daughter’s name ringing like judgment in the silence.