"Hehehe… so you've finally realized it, my dear Duke."
The third consort's timid façade vanished completely, replaced by a look of smug triumph. Like a hunter savoring her kill, she stared down at the Duke with wicked delight, making no effort to hide her true intentions.
"Your eldest son is gone. The fourth has been driven away. The first and second consorts? I killed them myself. As for the fifth, I've already poisoned his meals."
She twirled a dagger in her fingers, smiling slyly. Her beauty was still intact—mature and well-kept—but to the Duke, her expression looked monstrous.
"Now only that slut, the second consort, remains—a woman foolish enough to think she can have her child contend with mine for the title. But she'll marry off soon enough. Sooner or later, my son will inherit everything."
Her grin widened, revealing pearly teeth.
"So, my dear Duke… to ensure you don't sire another bastard with some whore to compete with my son, you'll have to die first."
She took slow, deliberate steps toward him, dagger gleaming coldly in her hand.
"There's no point in struggling," she said sweetly. "That poison you drank—ah, it was meant for your eldest son. It has no cure. Even a fifth-tier powerhouse will die from it. In fact, your fighting aura only helps it spread faster. Someone like me, with no aura at all, can last much longer."
By the time she reached him, the Duke's mind was already foggy, his strength fading fast. His fingers clenched stubbornly around his longsword—but even lifting it now was an ordeal.
Meanwhile, the third consort, though pale and trembling, still moved with determination.
Crouching beside him, she raised the dagger high, both hands gripping it tight.
Then she drove it down—straight toward the Duke's chest.
But in that instant, when death seemed certain, the Duke's eyes snapped open—clear and burning with fury.
With a final surge of will, like a dying flame flaring one last time, he thrust his longsword forward, straight through her chest.
A fifth-tier warrior's counterattack was beyond anything an ordinary woman could withstand.
The blade pierced her heart in an instant. Then, the Duke released the hilt, raised his trembling hand, and slammed his palm against the pommel—driving the sword even deeper.
A burst of raw force exploded through the weapon, hurling her body across the chamber.
She crashed into the far wall, bounced off, and crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
With a sword through her chest and such force behind it, no normal body could possibly survive.
"Heh… in the end, I still win," the Duke rasped, laughing through the pain as he gazed at her fallen form.
But the woman stirred—barely.
Lifting her head with agonizing effort, she glared at him, her lips curling into a twisted, mocking smile.
"Do you… really? But… my poison… has no… cure…"
Her voice faded. She went still—eyes open, smile frozen in place.
The Duke's laughter died instantly. A chill ran from his feet to the crown of his head.
Frantically, he circulated his battle aura, probing his body. Moments later, despair twisted his face.
"How… how could this be?" he muttered. "Why… why is this happening?"
He coughed violently, spewing a mouthful of pitch-black blood.
Staring blankly at the corpse of his favorite consort, he couldn't comprehend why she'd gone so far.
Why choose mutual destruction? Why kill him when her own son could have still inherited after his death?
The eldest was disgraced and stripped of succession rights—her son, the third, could have taken his place in due time.
Why the impatience? Why this madness?
But he would never know.
The Duke glared one last time at her body as the poison consumed him from within.
Moments later, his eyes bulged, breath stilled—and Duke Mandrake was no more.
Even in death, confusion lingered in his glassy stare.
Meanwhile, inside the room of the fifth son of House Mandrake—
The boy knelt on the floor, clutching a wooden rod, striking again and again at the figure beneath him.
The young maid beneath his blows was unrecognizable—her face swollen, her body bloodied and broken, barely breathing.
But the boy didn't stop. His eyes were wild.
"Brenda… why did you have to be my sister?!" he screamed, voice cracking with rage. "Why are you so perfect? Everyone calls you the flower of Mandrake, the pride of our family! And me? I'm nothing!"
He raised the stick again and brought it down hard.
"Why couldn't you have been useless like Third Brother? Why did you force me to train before dawn every day? To study, to swing a sword until my arms went numb? You knew I had no talent—so why torture me?!"
Each accusation came with another blow. Each strike heavier than the last.
To him, the maid had long ceased to be herself—she had become his sister, his tormentor, his obsession.
But the poor girl had merely come to deliver his meal.
She had barely entered the room when the young lord struck her from behind—then dragged her inside to unleash his bottled hatred.
Only when her head lolled lifelessly to the side did his arm finally stop.
Ironically, that spilled tray of food—the one laced with poison—lay scattered across the floor.
By sheer chance, he had escaped the same fate that had killed his father.
But fate had other cruelties in store.
For outside, chaos reigned. The mob had broken through the gates of Mandrake Fortress.
With a deafening crash, his door burst open. Several townsfolk—faces smeared with soot and blood—stormed into the room, weapons in hand.
Seeing the young noble kneeling over a corpse, they exchanged looks of savage glee.
"Well, well, what do we have here? A little Mandrake bastard."
"Hang him! Those damned nobles made us die fighting the Beastmen—let's see how they like dying for once!"
"No! Hanging's too easy! Take him to the guillotine—let all those greedy nobles see what becomes of tyrants!"
And so, amid the laughter and curses of the vengeful mob, the last son of Duke Mandrake was dragged screaming from his chamber—
—marking the final, bloody end of the once-proud House of Mandrake.