CH: 24: A New Cuckold Story?
{Chapter: 24: A New Cuckold Story?}
The next day, early morning, in the royal capital.
In a dilapidated wooden house deep in a narrow, forgotten alley, Zana stirred from his thin straw mattress. The morning was supposed to bring the usual dreary routines—finding work, scraping together a few coppers for food, and trying not to attract the wrong kind of attention. But today felt different.
After a simple breakfast of stale bread and watered-down broth, he stretched his stiff limbs and rubbed his tired eyes, preparing to step outside and begin another thankless day. However, as soon as he cracked open the creaking wooden door, something wet splashed against the back of his hand. It wasn't the crisp, clean sensation of morning dew nor the greasy filth of a leaking roof. It was something else—something heavier.
He furrowed his brow and looked down at his hand. His breath caught in his throat.
The liquid was thick, unnaturally so, and it gleamed under the dim light filtering through the doorway. Deep crimson.
Blood.
A cold shiver crawled up his spine, setting his nerves on edge. His first instinct was to rub it away, but his trembling fingers hesitated as a terrifying thought rooted itself in his mind.
'Did someone die nearby?'
In a place like this, it wasn't uncommon for blood to be spilled. The alley housed desperate men and low-ranking gangs, the kind who would slit a throat for a handful of gold coins. Maybe last night, during the heavy rain, someone had been murdered, and the storm had merely masked their screams.
But something didn't feel right.
Zana hesitated for a long moment before he finally forced himself to push the door open a little wider. He peered outside, scanning the narrow, twisting alleyway. At first, his sleep-addled mind refused to comprehend what he was seeing.
The entire alley was drenched in red.
The cobblestone path, uneven and cracked, had become a slick river of blood. Puddles of thick, crimson liquid had gathered in the potholes, reflecting the dim morning light with an eerie gleam. The wooden walls of the nearby shacks were streaked in red, as though someone had taken a massive brush and painted everything in gore. Even the air carried the unmistakable stench of iron, heavy and suffocating.
His stomach twisted violently.
'No…this can't be just one person's blood.'
His mind raced to make sense of the impossible scene before him. The sheer volume was staggering—far more than any street fight or gang killing could account for. Even if every person in the alley had been slaughtered overnight, there still wouldn't be enough blood to paint the city like this.
The houses around him remained eerily silent, their doors shut tight, their windows dark. But he could feel it—hidden eyes peeking through cracks, shadows shifting just behind the wooden slats. The people inside were awake. They were watching.
But they weren't coming outside.
A chill ran through Zana's bones. Something was deeply, deeply wrong.
His pulse pounded in his ears as he took a cautious step forward, his boots sinking slightly into the wetness beneath him. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He wanted to run—to shut the door and pretend he had seen nothing—but a gnawing curiosity held him back.
He needed to know what had happened.
His gaze darted toward the end of the alley, where the narrow passage opened into the main street. If the rest of the capital looked like this…
A fresh wave of dread tightened around his throat.
'Could it be that the Principality of Marton has been destroyed?'
The thought sent ice through his veins. If someone had attacked the city under the cover of the storm, if invaders had broken through the walls and carried out a massacre, then he was standing in the middle of a death zone.
Panic clawed at the edges of his mind. His only chance was to escape—before whoever had done this returned to finish the job.
He pressed himself against the damp wooden walls, creeping forward inch by inch. The alley seemed longer than usual, stretched by his own paranoia. Every shadow, every doorway felt like it held a hidden threat.
And then he noticed them.
The gang members.
Perched on the rooftops, crouched behind crates, pressed against the walls just like him. They weren't moving. They weren't talking. They were watching. Him.
His skin prickled as he locked eyes with a bald brute, one of the more infamous cutthroats in the district. The man's expression wasn't hostile, nor was it fearful. It was amused. As if he were enjoying Zana's reaction.
"Boy, you have a bright future," the man's lips barely moved as he whispered. "You're very brave."
Zana wasn't sure if that was a compliment or a death sentence.
His heartbeat pounded louder, each step toward the mouth of the alley taking every ounce of courage he possessed. His fingers twitched, aching to reach for the knife he kept hidden under his tunic, but he knew better than to show fear in front of men like these.
Finally, he reached the edge of the alley.
He hesitated, inhaling sharply. Beyond this point, there was no turning back.
He peered out onto the main street—and felt his knees nearly give out beneath him.
The capital was unrecognizable.
The streets, once bustling with merchants, travelers, and townsfolk, were empty. Not a single soul moved among the blood-streaked roads. The marketplace stalls were abandoned, some overturned, their goods left to rot. The buildings bore the same horrifying crimson stains as the alley, as if the heavens themselves had rained blood upon the city.
And in the center of the street, standing amidst the eerily rippling pools of red, was a single figure.
An old man, hunched with age, methodically sweeping the ground with a straw broom. The bristles dragged sluggishly through the thick liquid, pushing the blood aside as though it were nothing more than dust on a lazy afternoon.
The silence was deafening.
Zana's breath hitched in his throat. His mind screamed at him to turn back, to run, to pretend he had never seen any of this. But his body refused to obey. He was rooted to the spot, trapped between fear and morbid curiosity.
The old man continued to sweep, unbothered by the grotesque scene around him. The rhythmic scraping of the broom against the stones was the only sound in the unnatural stillness.
Zana swallowed hard, his throat dry as he forced himself to speak. His voice, usually sharp and quick-witted, came out as a whisper.
"O-old man… what happened here? Why is the capital so quiet?"
The old man paused, mid-sweep. For the first time, he lifted his head, and his hollow eyes met Zana's own.
A slow, knowing smile stretched across the old man's face, revealing yellowed teeth.
"Oh, boy…" he chuckled, voice hoarse like rusted metal. "You ain't seen nothin' yet."
Zana's blood ran cold.
And somewhere, deep within the capital, the echoes of distant laughter rumbled through the crimson-drenched streets.
Hearing the sound, the old man abruptly stopped sweeping, his frail back hunched as he slowly turned toward Zana. The motion was unnatural, as if his bones were creaking like a long-abandoned wooden gate being forced open. His sunken eyes, dark as an black, met Zana's with an eerie stillness.
"Nothing much, just a little joke! I mean, who knew rain could have a fashion statement?
I mean the color of the rain was red it appears somewhat unusual." he said, his voice dragging out every syllable, rasping like wind over dry bones.
Each word slithered into the air, sending an uncomfortable chill down Zana's spine. The crimson-stained ground, the overwhelming scent of iron in the air, and the old man's withered face—together, they created an unsettling atmosphere that made the young man's hair stand on end.
Zana forced a stiff smile, swallowing down his discomfort. "I see. So this blood is just rain..."
The words felt hollow even as he spoke them. His instincts screamed at him to walk away, to remove himself from this sinister scene. Just as he turned to leave, the old man's wrinkled eyelids lifted slightly, revealing a spark of recollection.
"Oh, yes!" he added, his voice taking on an almost amused lilt. "This bloody rain is said to be linked to a tragic love story. I heard it's a gift from the gods. If you go to the end of the street, you'll see. A group of little girls are crying their hearts out over it... Quite touching, really."
?????
Zana blinked. His mind reeled with confusion.
'Gift from the gods? A tragic love story?'
How could this grotesque downpour, this macabre display of blood-streaked walls and crimson puddles, be considered divine? Shouldn't such an omen be one of doom, of divine wrath, rather than some sorrowful romance?
Still, curiosity gnawed at him. With lingering doubt clouding his thoughts, he made his way toward the location the old man mentioned.
---
The further he walked, the more people he encountered—scattered figures, whispering cautiously amongst themselves. Many faces bore the same expressions: confusion, unease, and even traces of fear. Nobody seemed to have an answer, only questions. The air felt thick, oppressive, as if the very city was holding its breath.
Then, at the street's end, he saw it—a large gathering, a shifting sea of people, all murmuring in hushed tones.
In the center, just as the old man had said, was a group of young women sobbing openly. Their wails were not the hysterical cries of fresh grief, but deep, aching sobs, as if mourning something both beautiful and terrible.
Zana edged closer, straining to catch their words over the steady patter of blood-like rain.
"He loved her so much..." one girl choked out between sniffles.
"And she... she sacrificed everything for him!" another sobbed, clutching a damp handkerchief to her face.
"Even in death, they couldn't be together... Why is fate so cruel?" a third wailed, her shoulders trembling.
Zana frowned. 'What on earth are they talking about?'
---
The answer came in waves, whispered by the surrounding crowd.
Apparently, the Duke had summoned dozens of poets, orators, and storytellers to craft a tale—a heart-wrenching masterpiece designed to stir even the most hardened souls. Using exquisite prose, clever foreshadowing, and a deeply tragic arc, these masters of narrative had woven an epic of love and despair.
The story followed three figures:
Mark, a poor but kind-hearted commoner from the Principality of Marton.
Eve Luo, a noblewoman whose once-prosperous family had fallen into ruin, desperate for salvation.
Edwin, a nobleman from the Principality of Ar, Eve Luo's fiancé—wealthy, powerful, and, ultimately, the man responsible for tragedy.
Their fates intertwined in a tale of forbidden love, desperate hope, and cruel betrayal.
The Principality of Marton: The poor male protagonist No. 1, the Principality of Marton; The rich female protagonist No. 1, whose family has fallen into poverty and needs help from a noble person, the Principality of Ar: The noble male protagonist No. 2, who gets engaged to the female protagonist after helping her family a lot and is mainly responsible for playing supporting roles and being cuckolded.
With the hard work of dozens of people, the three formed a complete story chain!
Not only does it describe in detail the complex emotions between the male and female protagonists that arise from their unexpected acquaintance, it also describes in an extremely obscure way the intricate troubles of their respective families, as well as the various injustices and contradictions in the world.
For example, the male No. 2 who was cuckolded but still chose "Of course I forgive her!"
In the end, the male protagonist is dies on the spot after being attacked by the second male lead, which makes the blood rain from the sky caused by the female protagonist's suicide. It is not unprecedented, but at least it is among the top three in the industry.
It was said that the gods themselves wept for their tragic love, their sorrow made manifest in the form of the blood-red rain that now drenched the capital.
Living in this era of lack of entertainment, Zana, who really has no knowledge, was immediately hooked!
The sheer spectacle of the tale fascinated him. In a world with little in the way of entertainment, a tragedy of this caliber was an event. A grand, sorrowful performance played out in reality itself.
Drinking in the details, he couldn't help but glance at the weeping maids nearby, their shoulders shaking as they discussed the story's finer points. The sheer emotional investment of the people around him struck him as almost surreal.
Zana exhaled, shaking his head.
---
'The love story between the common boy Mark and the rich girl Eve Luo?'
"The love-hate entanglement between several families?"
"And there's a noble fiancé from the Principality of Ar who's always trying to stir up hatred?"
"More importantly, the male and female protagonists are both dead. Could this be a magical version of Titanic mixed with Romeo and Juliet?"
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