LIGHTNOVELWORLD Chapter 2: Puppet Master
Some Seconds Earlier
"Come on, do something..." a rotund man groaned, his voice dripping with boredom as he shook a large glass jar.
Inside, two massive beetles sat utterly uninterested in his antics, their stillness a quiet rebellion against his hopes for an insect version of WWE.
The man, whose name was John, looked like someone who hadn't outgrown the emotional maturity of a toddler but had managed to stack on the physical appearance of someone in their late 30s.
He was the kind of person you'd find grumbling in the back row at a town meeting or trying to haggle over a cabbage. John was, for lack of a better term, a peasant.
A peasant working for the largest farm owner in the countryside, no less. His life was unremarkable, and truth be told, no one would really bat an eye if he dropped dead right then and there.
Except, of course, for the beetles, who might finally get some peace and quiet.
But here's the kicker: John wasn't dressed like your average dirt-covered laborer.
Nope. The clothes on his back screamed money—expensive fabric, shiny embellishments, the kind of stuff peasants could only dream of affording.
In fact, seeing him dressed like this was as jarring as walking into your younger brother's room and finding a $10,000 gaming PC on his desk when you know he doesn't have a job.
You'd probably think, Did this guy rob a bank?
And sure, maybe your brother secretly hustled his way into that PC fair and square, but in John's case, there was no such possibility.
He was absolutely the kind of guy who'd pinch fancy clothes and a beetle jar straight from someone's stash, all while convincing himself he deserved it.
The glass jar trembled again as John gave it another shake, his chubby fingers leaving smudges on the clear surface.
But the beetles? They remained steadfast in their laziness, their tiny beetle minds likely thinking, 'Why does this idiot think we care about his entertainment?'
John let out a sigh so heavy it could've flattened a wheat field. This wasn't how his day was supposed to go.
He'd pictured thrilling battles, maybe even some gore—anything to distract him from his otherwise pointless existence. But nope. The beetles weren't having it.
"Ugh, useless bugs," he muttered, setting the jar down with a thud. Little did he know, the boredom he felt was about to be obliterated in the most unimaginable way.
As John sat there, teetering on the edge of dying from sheer boredom, the door of the room in front of him creaked open.
The sudden noise made him flinch, and out stepped a burly man with shoulder-length black hair and piercing blue eyes that sparkled like he'd just won the lottery.
This was Charles, better-looking than your average farmhand and carrying an air of cocky confidence.
His clothes hung loosely on his frame, damp with sweat, making it clear he'd thrown them on in a rush. His chest still heaved slightly, as if he'd just sprinted a mile—or done something far less noble.
"Ho ho! John, we really hit the jackpot today!" Charles announced, his voice brimming with excitement. His grin was so wide it looked like it might split his face in two.
John, caught off guard, scrambled to his feet, brushing dust off his stolen fancy shirt. His beetle jar was forgotten on the ground as he looked Charles in the eye, trying to figure out what had gotten his usually smug friend so animated.
"I never would've thought we'd stumble across a corpse of a beautiful woman in the middle of the jungle," Charles exclaimed, his tone gleeful as if he were announcing the discovery of buried treasure.
"And not just that! She was carrying four hundred and sixty-nine gold coins!"
Charles's voice rose slightly in pitch, not too loud.
Gold coins? That many? For a peasant like him, it might as well have been a king's ransom. His mind raced at the possibilities: fancy meals, even fancier clothes, maybe even—
"We've got enough to live like royalty for years! Expensive clothes, the best food, everything we could want!"
Charles continued, practically vibrating with excitement. He stepped forward, not even waiting for John to reply, his focus solely on the vision of riches ahead.
But then, Charles's grin twisted into something darker, and his voice dropped to a tone that made the air in the room feel heavy.
"And on top of that," he said, turning back to John with a glint in his eye that sent shivers down his spine, "we got ourselves a free, beautiful cumdumpster."
"So what if she's dead?" Charles said with a casual shrug, his tone as cheerful as if he were discussing what to have for dinner. "We can preserve her body."
Charles didn't even give John a moment to respond before tossing a casual,
"Have your fun with her and meet me at the bar. I'm heading there now." Without so much as a glance back, Charles strode out the door, heading toward the town's dingy little bar.
John stood frozen, staring at his brother's retreating figure with a mix of confusion and resignation.
His face twisted into what could only be described as a classic idiot's expression—blank and clueless, yet somehow tinged with the faintest hint of realization.
You see, Charles was John's older brother, and their relationship wasn't exactly one of mutual respect.
To put it bluntly, Charles treated John like crap, and John, being slow-witted and a bit dim, never had the guts—or the mental sharpness—to stand up to him.
It had always been this way. Despite both of them earning the same meager wages picking cotton on the farm, Charles held the upper hand, lording over John like a self-proclaimed king of idiots.
Life had been dirt-poor and uneventful for the brothers—until this morning. Everything changed when they stumbled upon the corpse of a stunningly beautiful woman deep in the jungle while gathering wood.
Naturally, their first thought wasn't fear or respect for the dead. No, their first thought was: Loot the corpse.
"Not like the dead are gonna need their belongings anyway," Charles had said, flashing his typical smug grin as they relieved the woman of her possessions.
Among her things were 469 gold coins—a fortune to the two peasants—and enough to catapult them from the depths of poverty to a life of luxury.
But then Charles had taken things a step further. Deciding that the corpse was too beautiful to leave behind, he insisted on bringing it home.
Why? Because Charles, in his twisted logic, was convinced he'd never have another chance to be with someone so stunning, alive or not.
"Game is game,"
he had said, brushing off any semblance of morality. He proceeded to do the unthinkable.
John had stood by, helpless and silent, as his brother violated the corpse. Did he try to stop him?
No. John was no hero. In fact, he wanted his own turn. For John, it wasn't about morality—it was about the chance to lose his virginity, even if it meant stooping to such a horrifying low.
With a heavy sigh, John shuffled toward the room, muttering under his breath, "I think I'm being treated like shit."
His tone was resigned but self-aware, as if he'd finally acknowledged what the rest of the world already knew.
And yet, even with that faint glimmer of realization, John couldn't muster the courage to defy his brother.
Charles wasn't just his older sibling; in John's mind, he was like a daddy.
A twisted, abusive, and downright despicable daddy, but a daddy nonetheless.
As soon as John stepped into the room, he began fumbling with his pants, ready to unleash what he proudly considered his "weapon of mass fertilization."
He was prepared to make history—or at least, his very sad version of it—when something stopped him dead in his tracks.
What he saw made his heart feel like it skipped a beat. Not an actual heart attack, mind you, but close enough to make him reconsider every life decision that had led him to this moment.
A man. A man was emerging from the corpse that Charles had so eagerly defiled.
This wasn't some ordinary entrance either. No, this man was coming out in the most horrifyingly dramatic way possible—by tearing through the corpse's womb.
John's jaw hit the floor, his pants halfway down as his mind scrambled to process what he was witnessing. And then there was the corpse—if you could even call it that anymore.
The once full and somewhat lifelike body of the woman had now shriveled up like an old leather bag, reduced to a horrifyingly thin shell with nothing inside.
Bones? Gone.
Heart? Also gone.
Blood? All taken.
It was as if the man clawing his way out had raided the body for parts, using it as a convenient grocery store for human anatomy.
John's face paled as he locked eyes with the figure now standing before him. The man's flesh, though eerily pale and seemingly perfect, was soaked in blood. It dripped down his body, pooling at his feet in a grotesque display.
As if that wasn't bad enough, the man's back was a literal nightmare. Bones jutted out like jagged spears, shooting out and retracting into his body with sickening precision, as though rearranging themselves into their proper places.
And his face? One of his eyes was dangling from its socket, swinging gently with each subtle movement he made.
Yet, despite his nightmarish appearance, the man didn't seem fazed at all.
Instead, he looked directly at John, raised a blood-soaked hand, and waved. "Hello," he said casually, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
John froze, his pants still halfway down, his mind screaming What the fuck?! over and over again. If this was a nightmare, it was the kind you didn't wake up from.
Soon, Octavian absorbed the remnants of his mother, and as the last traces of her essence merged with him, every imperfection in his body vanished.
His form transformed, no longer bearing the monstrous traits that had once defined him. Now, he appeared like an average human—albeit a strikingly handsome one.
"DEMONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!" John's scream echoed through the air, raw and desperate. Without a moment's hesitation, he yelled, his voice tinged with the primal fear of a man facing the unknown.
In the Middle Ages, even the Pope might have cried out in terror if confronted with such a sight.
Octavian's response was not immediate rage but rather a subtle annoyance that played out through the slight furrow of his brows.
His face remained impassive, but his eyes conveyed a deep irritation. He clearly did not appreciate John's panicked reaction.
It took only a second before Octavian had had enough. He extended his hand towards John, his fingers splaying wide as he muttered a single word:
"Annoying." With a decisive clench of his fist, the air itself seemed to ripple with power.
In an instant, John's skin was ripped from his body, the gruesome act happening so swiftly that he had no time to react. He fell lifelessly to the ground, a husk of what he had been.
Do not be confused by the horror of the scene. What Octavian did was not born of simple brutality.
He used his life energy to manipulate the atoms of John's skin, shifting them apart from his body in a calculated, lethal manner. It was a precise act of molecular separation, executed with chilling efficiency.
How did he achieve this? Octavian had discovered that life energy bound the atoms together, a force as fundamental as magnetism or the strongest adhesive.
According to his calculations, life energy could either attract or bind, serving as both a magnetic force and a super-strong glue. It was both, and Octavian had harnessed it to devastating effect.
'Fascinating,' Octavian thought, marveling at his newfound power. In just thirteen seconds of existence, he had accomplished what others might not achieve even one percent of in their lifetimes.
His mind raced with possibilities, unaware of the magnitude of his actions.
Meanwhile, in Kamar-Taj…
"DESTRUCTION IS UPON US!" A female prophet sorcerer awoke with a start, her voice trembling as she recalled the vision that had ripped her from sleep.
In her mind's eye, she saw a future tangled in strings—people, places, all controlled by an unseen puppet master who loomed over the world, pulling them from the heavens.
{A/N: Hmm... How am I doing? It's my first time writing, so I'm still learning the ropes.
I know some of you might think this chapter was filled with unnecessary information, but trust me, it wasn't. Characters like Charles, John, and Octavian's late mother are crucial for understanding the future plot.
I'm aiming to create a well-thought-out and refined storyline, not something that feels like a whim from a five-year-old.
And now, let's play a little game…
How long do you think it will take the MC to create his own energy?
Take a guess! If you're correct, you'll get a spoiler. Not the best prize, I know, but it's what I've got for now. Next time, I'll offer bonus chapters as rewards.
And You can also ask me any question you have regarding the fic.
Have a great day, champs!}