CHAPTER 58: THROWN WITH PURPOSE

The atmosphere was already strained, every eye fixed on the strange boy who had dared to challenge a prince's wrath. But just then, slicing through the charged air like a divine interruption, a clear, resonant sound echoed above the murmurs and held breaths:

"Clink!"

The word rang with such precision and power that it wasn't just heard—it was seen. Many eyes turned skyward, others whipped around, and a few swore they saw the sound itself shimmer in the air like a ripple across water.

But the source wasn't human—it was the collision that followed.

The stone, flung moments ago by John in an impulsive, baffling act, had not been reckless after all. It had found its mark—but not the girl.

Instead, it had collided mid-air with an arrow—a sleek, dark shaft that had materialized out of nowhere, coming from just behind the girl's back. The sound had come from that impact, the perfect, violent meeting of rock and arrow.

Both projectiles, their momentum instantly arrested, dropped to the earth in a silent surrender. The arrow's shaft splintered as it landed, its once-straight fletching now torn and ruffled. The stone, however, landed with a quiet finality—and then, to everyone's astonishment, it kept going. It didn't bounce, didn't roll—it sank.

Buried itself into the ground, silently, almost deliberately.

And then something extraordinary happened.

The stone, as if drawn by some magnetic force or ancient code, sank even deeper—piercing straight into John's Neuro Core.

Unseen by all but deeply felt by one, a transformation began. That stone had never been ordinary. It was no mere piece of earth. It was none other than the fatty insect, a creature wrapped in secrets, now vanishing into the depths of John's being.

John's expression remained unreadable. His eyes still locked on the girl. There was an intensity in his gaze, sharp and unwavering, that to any onlooker might have looked like obsession or infatuation. But something else churned beneath the surface.

Beneath that apparent fascination, a deeper awareness was at play.

John had noticed him. The man in the shadows. A figure cloaked in secrecy, lurking just behind the girl. Bow in hand. Arrow nocked. Intent to kill.

No one else had seen it. Not the brothers. Not the crowd. Only John.

He had acted on instinct—a moment of clarity carved out of chaos. In his old world, he'd been a poor shot. Couldn't hit a tin can from five feet away. He knew that. He accepted it.

But this time was different.

Thanks to the fatty insect, now fused within him, something had changed. Something primal had awakened. The aim, the throw, the hit—it had all come together. Almost magically. And it had worked. The arrow had been stopped. The girl was safe.

Or so he thought.

A sudden, piercing scream tore through the air.

The same girl who had narrowly escaped death now clutched at her face, crying out in agony. Her body convulsed, her hands clawing at her eyes.

"No! What just happened? Poison has entered the princess's eyes!"

The words sparked confusion. Chaos. Fear.

Murmurs rose from the crowd like smoke from a fire. They hadn't seen it happen. No one had. But the explanation came swiftly. When the arrow had collided with the stone, the force of their impact had caused a spray—poison, coated on the arrow's deadly tip, had splashed into the princess's eyes.

Pain consumed her.

"She's in intense pain—quickly!"

At once, a rush of bodies surged toward her. Movement blurred. People pushed, elbowed, fought to reach her. But they weren't rushing out of concern.

In truth, their intentions were far from noble.

They weren't coming to help her.

They just wanted to touch the princess. To graze her skin. To snatch a strand of her hair. To seize even a fleeting moment of contact with royalty—a sacred taboo and yet a coveted dream.

But dreams like that come with a price.

Prince Wylder, brother to the princess, stepped forward. A man of formidable build, his presence was enough to silence a room. His eyes scanned the crowd—not with fear, not with worry, but with ice-cold judgment.

Without hesitation. Without remorse.

He raised his weapon.

And instantly—beheaded them all.

Those who had dared reach out to his sister now lay sprawled at his feet. The ground turned red. The market square fell into a suffocating silence.

No one dared move. No one even breathed.

John, still frozen in his place, stood like a statue among the living and the dead. His mind struggled to keep up with the reality unfolding before him.

"He just... he killed them like sheep... but isn't this wrong?"

The thought echoed in his skull like a cracked bell, ringing again and again. In his world—killing someone was a serious crime. A thing whispered about in fear. An act committed by mafia dons, or broadcast in grainy news reports from some distant underworld.

But here?

A prince—a noble, a leader, a protector—had done it, right in front of everyone.

And no one questioned it.