The Greystone guard captain and sixteen trade employees, now hostages of House Valerius. On their return journey, Alden had ordered the ambush squad to don their official Valerius uniforms again. The tattered bandit garb they had worn was repurposed—thrown onto the prisoners, who were also gagged and bound for good measure.
When they reached the estate, Duke Cedric and Lady Elera had been waiting, their expressions a mix of paternal concern and suspicion.
"What's the meaning of this my son?", the Duke asked, eyeing the prisoners.
Alden, barely winded from the journey, offered a smooth, almost bored reply. "We were in our way to explore a dungeon near the Grand Mountain flank of the Beast Glades when this bandit crew ambushed us. Fortunately, they lacked both brains and discipline. We captured them without losses."
Duke Cedric and Lady Elera exchanged a glance, their breaths catching at the thought of their son in peril. Pride warred with unease—his stoic resolve and rapid hardening unnerved them, a child growing too fast into a blade. Yet they were powerless: Alden had committed no overt crime they could prove, and the rift from their argument three months prior left their bond too fragile to challenge. Reluctantly, they accepted him as he was—a strange boy since birth—granting him leeway so long as he stayed within lawful bounds.
Alden had the contents of the dimension rings offloaded. Crates of food, arms, coin, and equipment were passed into storage under the label of "bandit spoils." But he kept one ring untouched—inside were the pristine Greystone banners, uniforms, armor, and insignias, which he had plans for their use in future.
The prisoners were put to work. Alden ordered them to teach his soldiers and blacksmiths how to break down and reassemble Greystone-style carriages. Alterations were then made—changing wheel frames, adding Valerius livery, minor structural tweaks—to mask their origin. No one outside the walls needed to know the truth.
Alden took the rest of the dimension rings and unloaded all loots inside them, one by one and ordered his soldiers to transport them into the storage house, stating that these were the loots from the captured bandits' carriage.
The prisoners were put to work. Alden ordered them to teach his soldiers and blacksmiths how to break down and reassemble Greystone carriages. Alterations were then made by Alden's blacksmiths—changing wheel frames, color paintings, adding Valerius livery, minor structural tweaks—to mask their origin. No one outside the walls needed to know the truth.
The captain of Greystone guards on the other hand, inside his cell cage, did not show cooperation at all, instead he was strongly resisting against Alden's interrogation about Greystone's army information.
Alden came up with the next plan. He himself had decent skills in torturing prisoners to get information out of them in the past life, but now he was a very busy man and his time was precious to spend , so he wanted to "employ" someone else with the capability to do for him instead.
_____________________
Accompanied by 8 guards, Alden entered a cell housing a man with shaggy, filth-matted brown hair obscuring a gaunt, unremarkable face. Scars crisscrossed his hands, palms, and fingers—souvenirs of "beginner's mistakes" from his grotesque hobby of flaying humans.
This was Frandel, 26 years old, a water augmenter with a solid orange core, a former C-rank adventurer. Before switching to adventurering, he was once a mercenary, a smuggler, and even worked for slave traders in some occasions. In a nutshell, the man did any dirty job to earn him money.
One fateful day, the Xyrus Adventurer Guild took note of a troubling absence—a group of adventurers had vanished without a trace. Whispers among people pointed to their last sighting: entering a C-ranked dungeon alongside Frandel. Alarmed, the Guild dispatched a search party, who descended into the shadowed depths of the dungeon, only to uncover a scene of unspeakable horror. The missing adventurers' bodies hung crucified on the dungeon walls, their skins meticulously flayed away, exposing raw, blood-drenched flesh and sinew in a grotesque tableau that haunted the rescuers' nightmares.
The evidence was damning—no mana beast could replicate such deliberate cruelty. With Frandel, the only person whose body wasn't found in the crime scene, the Guild swiftly concluded he was the perpetrator. A bounty was placed on his head, branding him the nickname Frandel the Flayer for his heinous crime.
Fleeing from Xyrus Guild's pursuit, Frandel darted to distant cities—Valden, Ekshire, and Matburn—evading relentless law enforcement troops and search parties. For months, he cloaked himself in disguises and fake identities, slipping through their grasps and blended himself into public.
Frandel's personality on the surface was a calm, polite and friendly man which was his mask to trick a lot of victims into his trap until a raid on his Matburn hideout revealed a basement brimming with the flayed remains of innocent victims, kidnapped and stripped of their skin in his twisted obsession.
Desperation drove him to Blackbend, where rumors stated that city had weak law enforcement. For five months, he enjoyed a fragile peace, until fate turned against him. Alden, deploying House Valerius's personal army to supplant Blackbend's guard, launched a meticulous investigation, tracking Frandel to his lair and capturing him.
Exhausted—or perhaps bored—Frandel ceased his struggle, surrendering without resistance. Upon capture, he confessed with chilling candor, recounting his past, the litany of his crimes, and the gruesome fates of his victims. His readiness to embrace death was palpable, as if the weight of his deeds had finally worn him down.
Back to present day, 2 guards of Alden opened the cell's door and dragged Frandel between them.
"Easy, lads," Frandel said mildly. "My legs are weak, not broken."
He sat across from Alden and folded his shackled hands on the table, his tone polite and mocking all at once. "What would be the manner of this meeting, young Duke Valerius? Surely not a pardon?"
Alden didn't look up from his papers. "Frandel the Flayer," he said, almost as if reading the name aloud to himself. "You confessed to your crimes the moment we caught you so I'll spare us both the preamble. I'm interested in your special talents."
Frandel tilted his head, lips twitching into a snobby grin: "Either I am halluciating or you are giving a pretty bad sense of humor, noble boy."
"Dead serious, Flayer, few can take an eight-year-old seriously. But perhaps you can't simply ignore the one who put you into shackles." Alden countered, his voice dry.
" You've jumped from city to city, dodging Xyrus Guild's hunting dogs, and even killed a guard when fleeing Mayburn. A solid reputation. Yet you surrendered like a lamb when we caught you. What stop your will?"
Frandel chuckled, a low, rasping sound. "Boredom, lad. Endless running and hiding leaves little room for pleasure. A creature like me? Society's got no use for my… tastes. The longer I indulge, the tighter the noose."
"And your only way to satisfy your pleasure is flaying people alive?", Alden asked.
Frandel nodded, unashamed. "Aye, but not just mere people, boy. They all become screaming, sobbing masterpieces in my hands. Each with its own texture and tone. Like carving violins from rotten wood. I call it an art, while you and your noble laws call it a crime. And now I assume that it's time for me to pay for my "artistic creativity"?"
Frandel finished with a hint of sarcasm.
"Suppose I offered you a position for legal flaying, free of pursuit but still in certain limits under my commands. Would you trade death for life, or still embrace the executioner's axe?" Alden asked, his tone a calculated lure.
Frandel's eyes narrowed, though his smirk held. "An offer too sweet to not be a bait. Why would a noble—correction, the noble child who caught me—want someone like me alive, let alone employed?"
Alden replied:"Because I need efficient tools. And today, I'm giving you a chance to prove yourself."
He nodded to the guards. "Bring in the Greystone captain and prepare necessary equipments as this man demands."
After the Greystone captain was dragged in, stripped to the waist, bruised and bound. He spat onto the floor and glared at Alden with hate.
"Go to hell you fucking piece of shit—MMmhm!", the captain's mouth was gagged by Alden's soldier then he got tied into an X shaped wooden cross structure, spreading his limbs out entirely.
Tools were laid out on a table—knives, hooks, and a flensing blade—at Frandel's request.
Frandel looked him over like a butcher appraising livestock. "You'll want him alive for the talking bit, I assume?"
Alden nodded.
"Then I'll go slow.", Frandel's face lit with a hungry gleam—three months of deprivation fueling his excitement.
Frandel set to work with a craftsman's focus, augmenting his blades with a shimmering sheen of water mana.
"You heat up your water augmention ?", Alden noticed.
"Boiled water kill off bacterias on the blades. I don't want my "artworks" to get ruined by infection.", Frandel explained.
The flaying began at the fingertips—tiny cuts beneath the nails, pried up like flower petals.
"MMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!", The captain screamed into his gag, legs kicking.
Frandel hummed as he worked.
The next cut sliced along the captain's forearm, the water-edged blade peeling skin back with a wet rip, blood welling in thick, arterial gushes that mingled with the purified stream.
"You see," Frandel murmured, not to the captain but to Alden, "Pain… is an orchestra. Each nerve is a string. You just need the right touch."
The captain's muffled screams vibrated through the gag as Frandel tugged a strip of skin free, the sound like tearing wet cloth, blood pooling in a sticky, crimson puddle on the floor. Tendons snapped audibly as he flayed the thighs, the water augmentation keeping the blade pristine, its flow rinsing the open wounds to prolong the agony.
The smell of blood, iron and sweat mixed with urine filled the room. Alden did not flinch and used wind magic ventilate the stench.
After half of an hour, the Greystone's captain broke. Tears and blood ran down his face as he sobbed into the floor. Frandel took off the gag out of his mouth for him to speak.
"I'll talk," he cried "Please… I fucking beg you just make it stop!"
"Alright, stop your work for the moment , Flayer." Alden said as stepped forward, pen and notes ready to write down information.
"Let's begin with troop numbers and deployment routes.", he said to the partially flayed captain.
For an hour, Alden interrogated while Frandel intermittently cleansing wounds and staunching blood with his boiled water augmentation to keep the captain conscious. Alden noted Frandel's unexpected skillset—beyond a mad flayer, he wielded knowledge of human anatomy, biology and medical treatment, likely honed to perfect his craft, alongside his veteran combat capabilities against mana beasts and humans. His abilities surpassed Alden's expectations.
Leading Frandel outside, Alden closed the door after a successful interrogation.
"What? I'm not finished with my artwork yet.", Frandel with an unsatisfied expression as his joy was stopped mid way.
"You'll return to your hobby soon," Alden replied without slowing his stride. "After you clean yourself and my servants give you a proper appearance . I prefer to conduct business with civilized people, not rats from sewer."
"Hold on, lad. Are you saying that--"
"You are hired. Welcome to house Valerius.", He signaled eight orange-core infantrymen—the strongest from their platoons—ordering them to escort Frandel to the servants for a thorough bathing, a proper haircut, a fresh outfit, and a hearty meal. Alden's caution was deliberate; he wouldn't underestimate Frandel's lethality.
Three hours later, Frandel was ushered into Alden's office, transformed. The female servants had tamed his shaggy mane into a tidy crop and shaved his beard, revealing a surprisingly chiseled jawline that lent him an unexpected, rugged charm. They flanked him, awaiting Alden's comment on their works.
"Thank you, ladies. You have done very well, you're dismissed.", Alden spoke.
The servants curtsied to their young duke, but as they departed, they cast shy, admiring smiles at Frandel—the notorious Flayer, now polished into a handsome figure by their care.
"Thanks, dears." Frandel with a slight, courtly bow, his voice smooth as velvet.
The servants had no idea that he was the notorious Flayer who murdered so many innocents as they chuckled happily.
".....", Alden was speechless for moment, but however he snapped back at the main point:
"Your employment comes with standard terms. You'll receive money for your services, a private room in the barracks, meals, clothing, and an additional soldier's payment if you want to enlist into my army, as long as you are under a false identity."
"You had me at legal flaying earlier," Frandel said, reclining like a man enjoying wine. " But also a warm bed, coins in my pocket, enjoying my time with pretty servants and I get to express myself artistically without being hunted down? This must be a heavenly dream."
"Your dream ends the moment you step out of bounds," Alden with a cold voice. "You will only flay the people I tell you to. You'll maintain the false identity as a soldier in my army. You do not leave this place unless ordered. I haven't sent words to Xyrus Guild about your captivity at here. You are under my protection as well as under my supervision. Disobedience, betrayal or harm to anyone under my roof and I will personally send your head to Xyrus Guild."
Fred gave a slow, theatrical clap. "Ah, there it is—the catch. But you make a compelling offer with such simple and straight forward terms. I'd be an incredibly half-witted donkey to decline."
"You would be a corpse to decline," Alden replied dryly. "Give me your new name for the records."
"Hmm. Let's go with 'Fred.' Still has a certain poetic resonance with 'Flayer,' don't you think?"
"That will work. And Fred, when you tell me about enjoying your time with the lady servants, I expect you mean conversation. Not flaying them.", Alden with a serious tone.
"Hahaha, I might get fired in first day at my new job.", Fred(Frandel) chuckled with a joke.
"Worry not, I have a soft spot for ladies so I won't be thinking about turning them into my artworks." Fred said before he stopped to look at Alden.
Alden was giving a dead glare to Frandel, he knew the absurd lie here.
"Well I gotta be honest with my new boss then. I have flayed women before, 2 girls. They were all failed works. Female skin is too soft, too thin, too frail. I lost control, sliced too deep into their meat and tendon every time, ruining my canvas right away. A clumsy artist, I am.", Fred explained.
"I will temporarily take that specific reasoning of yours as "an expert" into account then. ", Alden said.
"Ah, and a question, if I may," Fred interjected, his tone laced with curiosity. "Do you have a conjurer with ice deviant at your disposal, perchance?"
*A grueling, excruciating hour later (for the Greystone Captain)*
The Greystone guard captain's ordeal had reached a grotesque crescendo. Fred, with meticulous sadism, had stripped every inch of his skin, laying bare a nauseating spectacle of raw flesh.
The captain's face was a horror unto itself—his flayed visage revealed a skull-like mask of muscle and tendon, the eye sockets hollowed into dark, weeping pits where skin once framed his gaze, his lips reduced to a grimacing slit of red sinew, teeth bared through a ghastly grin of exposed flesh.
His body was a quivering mass of exposed muscle, tendons glistening like oily ropes, and meat sagging in bloody folds—veins pulsed faintly beneath the surface, weeping crimson as the air kissed the open wounds. His ribcage, now a ghastly cage of red sinew, heaved with shallow, ragged breaths, while the tendons of his arms and legs hung like shredded ligaments, their fibrous ends frayed and dripping. Below, his genital was a mangled ruin—flayed to expose the delicate tissues, the scrotum and shaft reduced to a bloody, pulpy mass, veins and nerves dangling like shredded threads, the air catching the raw, exposed nerves with every shuddering breath.
The flayed skin, split into ragged sheets, was splayed open and pinned with cruel metal hooks to the wooden X-cross, a macabre tapestry fluttering in the dungeon's stale breeze.
Despite the captain's desperate pleas for mercy—his voice a broken wail, insisting he'd spilled everything he knew—Alden remained unmoved, granting Fred free will to complete his craft.
The sole ice conjurer from the army, summoned by Alden at Fred's behest, stepped forward with a grimace. Channeling his deviant mana, he encased the fully flayed captain in a block of ice, the frost creeping over the raw flesh with a hiss, preserving the tortured form in a crystalline tomb.
Fred clapped his hands, his voice brimming with genuine delight: "Yes, yes! Thank you, my friend. Now my artwork can endure for long time!"
The conjurer, visibly revolted by the flayer's glee, kept his silence, his loyalty to Alden outweighing his disgust.
"No," Alden cut in, his voice a steel edge. "This stops here. More flaying and icing will lead to people finding out about you easily."
Fred tilted his head, a sly grin forming. "From what I see, you've total control of this house's military—no offenses to your father the Duke by the way. Can't you just ban people from stepping into the dungeon?"
"It's my house's prison for captives, not your personal basement for deadman sculptures,"
Alden retorted, his tone unyielding: "Wait until I've amassed enough money and resources to bolster the barracks and castle. I'll have men build you a personal storage for your… trophies. Until then, every time you done flaying, you have to burn your work and clean your mess as soon as possible. Do I have your trust?"
Fred nodded slowly: "Aye, lad. Fair enough."
____________
*2 months later*
Alden had continue to harness remarkable progress. His army's platoons had completed an intensive regimen of real-combat dungeon dives, each soldier honing their skills, amassing experience, and elevating their mana core levels. Every soldier had successfully cleared and scoured at least two dungeons in teamwork with their comrades, their prowess sharpened to a keen edge.
The ambushes on the trading caravans of the five rival houses—Greystone, Trell, Windmere, Blackthorn, and Ferrem—unfolded with surgical precision. Alden timed each strike with calculated cunning, staggering the assaults to evade suspicion, reaping a vast fortune and seizing their carriages as well. Now the total number of Valerius army's carriages reached from 7 to 48.
The profits from mana beast hunts in these initial two months surpassed all expenditures—weapon forging, blacksmith wages, training costs, and even the interest on investments from Blackbend's merchants and alchemists, whom Alden had shrewdly courted during his three-month preparatory phase.
The excess money was funneled into upgrading the army's structures(castle and barrack) and arming the Valerius forces, with Alden setting a deadline: all 15000 soldiers must be equipped with top-tier weapons and armor within the next month. Recruitment and training of fresh recruits further stretched his ambitions.
Moreover, information leaked from his spies and Fred's brutal flaying interrogations of captured prisoners unveiled a treasure trove of enemy secrets, sharpening Alden's strategic edge.
In a span of 5 months, Alden had achieved feats comparable to those of high military generals.
News and rumors about the young heir of House Valerius spiraled into a story sounds like a legend from fantasy literatures of Sapin. Alden Valerius , a once-in-a-century prodigy of humanity and heir of house Valerius, awakened at four, he now led platoons through dungeons with a speed rivaling a sonic hawk, clearing them daily with awe-inspiring efficiency. Adulation among noble houses surged—admiration, shock, amusement, and envy intertwined—casting Alden's shadow over his father, Duke Cedric Valerius, whose own renown dimmed in comparison.
Seizing this wave of fame, Alden had been thinking about forging alliances with noble houses enamored of him, particularly the powerhouses of the capital Etistin such as Wykes, Aurae, Flamesworth, Maxwell, or Bladeheart. With the Royal family and such titans as supporting the back, House Valerius, or more precisely Alden himself, would become nigh untouchable.
Yet, mindful of the negative result from his argument with his parents 5 months prior, Alden chose restraint. Masking his ambitions behind a fake act of obedience, he deferred to his parents' demands, stepping back from political discourse among the nobility. He played the dutiful son, biding his time until he came of age to claim Cedric's mantle, his silence a calculated veil over his true designs.
But then, a golden opportunity glimmered on the horizon for Alden.
King Glayer had announced a celebration of rare scale—the 1371st Anniversary of the Founding of the Sapin Kingdom, a grand occasion to honor the ancient unification of Sapin's feudal territories into one nation under one crown. The royal invitation called upon all great houses to attend in person, not simply as a show of loyalty, but as a gesture of shared history.
Seizing this chance, Alden accompanied his parents, donning his carefully crafted guise of the dutiful son.
Inside the Valerius Carriage, on the Road to capital Etistin.
The carriage rolled smoothly over paved roads, cushioned by enchantments. House Valerius's personal crest gleamed on the lacquered wood, flanked by a modest escort of knights. Inside, beneath burgundy velvet drapery, Alden sat across from his parents.
He was dressed in crimson red and silver-his house sigil's colors. His combed slickback hair was immaculate, his posture perfect. The boy was quiet, but not in his usual, brooding manner—there was something contemplative about his gaze, something expectant.
Lady Elera was the first to speak:
"You've been oddly excited these past few days, Alden. I was more than startled to learn you had the servants to prepare your appearance for this grand party—without my prompting."
Alden's eyes lifted to meet hers. "You noticed."
Cedric smirked: "Of course we've noticed, dear boy. What I'd like to know is why. You've never shown interest in grand parties...nor any form of noble entertainment ever since you was a child. And now, you sit there like a groom awaiting his wedding."
Alden held his father's gaze without deflection: "I want to make friends."
The words landed like a stone in still water. Elera blinked. Cedric sat back, watching him like a man examining a strange fruit.
"First time for everything, my son?" the Duke was shocked.
Alden's voice softened, yet carried a resolute clarity. "I've had time to reflect, father. Three years of royal tutelage—studying magic, tactics, and training—followed by five months reforming the army, enforcing law, and diving dungeons. My childhood has been a relentless march of hardworks and duty, shaped by a difference I can't deny.
I'm... not like other children. I never have been. You know that, and I know that. But that doesn't mean I wish to isolate myself forever from my peers. I want to know children my age, to share their time, understand them, and forge true friendships."
Elera gave her husband a look of astonishment. "Cedric, the boy's being honest."
The Duke studied his son, but whatever suspicion he held, Alden's performance—or perhaps sincerity—was too convincing. There was no snideness in his tone. No smile too sly. Just the clean, careful truth.
"You'll behave?" Cedric asked finally. "No interruptions. No unsolicited opinions. No provocations."
"I'll bow, I'll smile, I'll dance if I must. I'll even laugh at unfunny jokes," Alden said with a perfectly straight face.
"Hahahaha,then may the deities save us all," Cedric chuckled at Alden's unintentionally humourous response his expression had softened and smiled:
"Very well, Alden. But remember—respect and kindness, even when met with arrogance or ignorance. Always aim for the path that doesn't need to be offensive. Understood?"
"Understood, father.", Alden replied.
Elera reached over and squeezed his hands:"You're growing up too fast."