The Villainous Son Loves His Mother - Chapter 93

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I was currently reading a deeply disturbing book.
Titled The Circle of Love and Hate, its premise could be summarized as the story of a son’s romantic obsession with his mother.
But that alone wouldn’t have made me this nauseated.
The problem lay in its ending.
The son’s feelings went unrequited, and the mother was seduced by his best friend.
What vile taste.
What blasphemy.
With trembling hands, I turned the pages.

—The scene where the son confesses, “Mother, I love you.”

—The mother’s rejection: “I’m sorry, but we’re family.”

—And then the best friend appears, and the process of him growing intimate with the mother is described in lurid detail.

Among the books Feri had collected, this one was particularly vile.
The author’s name had been scratched out, but if I knew it, I would have set fire to that degenerate’s house by now.

But—

I continued reading this unpleasant story.
Why?
Because imagination is crucial for a mage.
The more skilled a mage becomes, the more vividly they can recall imagined scenarios as if they were real.
But what about me?
There’s no doubt I’m a skilled mage.
After all, I’m Mother’s son.
With my exceptional imagination, I conjured up a scene:
Mother is being seduced by my fictional best friend.

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His name… let’s call him Ragneim.
A refreshing young man with blond hair and blue eyes.
He attends the same academy as me and is supposed to be my close friend.

—”Hain, let’s have lunch together again today,” Ragneim says to me in my imagination.

Kill him.
I want to kill him right now, but not yet.

—”Lady Helga, you look beautiful as always,” Ragneim greets Mother.

Mother replied with a gentle smile.

“Oh, Ragneim. You’ve been taking such good care of Hain, haven’t you?”

No, no, no!
Mother would never smile at another man like that!
But my imagination wouldn’t stop.
One evening at dusk.
While I was out on business, Ragneim visited the Duke’s mansion.

“Hain isn’t here… but it’s still a pleasure to see you, Lady Helga.”

“Oh, Ragneim. Since you’ve come all this way, why don’t you stay for tea?”

The two of them were alone in the reception room.
The setting sun streamed through the window, bathing Mother’s hair in golden light.
Ragneim was mesmerized by her beauty.

“Lady Helga… there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time.”

Ragneim stood up and moved closer to Mother.

“What is it, Ragneim?”

Mother tilted her head.
That unguarded gesture shattered Ragneim’s rationality.

I love you, Lady Helga!

Ragneim grabbed Mother’s shoulder.

Huh? Wait, what are you—

Mother looked bewildered.
But Ragneim didn’t stop.
He pushed her down—

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“Uwaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

I screamed.
I slammed the book against the wall.
Pages were scattered, spreading across the floor.

(I’ll kill you, Ragneim. I’ll fucking kill you.)

Even though he was a fictional character, my hatred for him surged uncontrollably.
The image of him stealing Mother’s soft lips.
The sight of his hands crawling over her pale skin.
The sound of her calling his name.

Ragneim…

Her voice, sweet and breathy.
Mother lovingly calling someone else’s name—not mine.
A tear slipped down my cheek.
Tears?
Was I crying?
Ridiculous.
Me, crying?
But they wouldn’t stop.
Tears kept overflowing, one after another.
In my imagination, Ragneim was embracing Mother.

“Lady Helga, I love you. Keep it a secret from Hain.”

“Yes… I can’t tell him… but I… I feel the same…”

Mother buried her face in Ragneim’s chest.
Her expression was raw, unmistakably that of a woman, not a mother, but a woman.
The fact that Ragneim, not I, had drawn out this side of her crushed my heart.

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“I want to die…”

I murmured.
There was no point in living in a world like this anymore.
If Mother was going to belong to another man, I’d rather—
With that thought, I plunged my hand into my chest.
Squish.
The sensation of skin tearing and flesh being gouged.
No pain.
Physical damage meant nothing to me.
I cracked through bone, pushed aside organs, and pulled out my heart.

Thump, thump.

It pulsed rhythmically in my hand.
A normal human would have died at this point.
But I’m different.

Why?

It’s simple.
My Magic Power isn’t concentrated in my heart—the center of my body—but distributed evenly throughout my entire being.
The inferior ones die when their hearts stop pumping bl00d, but in my case, Magic Power serves as a substitute for bl00d.
No, to be more precise, my bl00d itself is a highly concentrated form of Liquid Magic Power.
The heart? It’s merely a pump to circulate bl00d.
Even without a pump, Magic Power flows freely through my body.

That’s because Magic Power possesses its own will.
It circulates perfectly according to my will.
Moreover, each of my cells functions like an independent living organism.
If my heart were to vanish, other organs would simply think, “Ah, no heart? Let’s make one,” and spontaneously begin regeneration.
My Mother must be the same.
If I, who inherited her bl00d, am like this, she must be even more extraordinary.

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That’s why I don’t die even when my heart is ripped out.
A new one regenerates almost instantly.
Right now, in the cavity in my chest, a new heart is already forming.
Flesh is swelling, bl00d vessels are stretching, and soon it will become a complete heart.

Well, such reasoning hardly matters.

I held the heart I had retrieved up to the moonlight.
The pale blue light streaming through the window illuminated the bl00d-soaked organ.
In the next instant, the heart began to transform.
The crimson flesh gradually lost its color.
No, it wasn’t losing its color.

It was changing.

Into a deep, profound black.
Simultaneously, its texture shifted.
The soft, fleshy feel morphed into something hard and crystalline.
Soon, the entire heart glowed with an iridescent light.
For a fleeting moment.
Just for a fleeting moment, it emitted a light of otherworldly beauty.

And then—

What remained in my hand was no longer a heart.
A black gem.
No, the word “gem” couldn’t fully capture what it was.
It certainly resembled the Night’s Dew.
But there was a crucial difference.
If the Night’s Dew of the Undead was a distorted crystal born from their obsession with death and their thirst for life, then this—
This was a crystal of pure love.
The essence of my feelings for Mother, condensed to their absolute limit.
My love—encompassing jealousy, possessiveness, madness—had manifested as a tangible form.
Gazing at it, I murmured,

“Ah, Mama, I love you.”