10x God-Tier Stealing System: Pumping S-Rank SuperHeroines Daily!-Chapter 168 - And the title of Best Waifu goes to Darithi!

Chapter 168: Chapter 168 - And the title of Best Waifu goes to Darithi!

Darithi finally stopped walking.

She turned around very slowly. There was something noticeably different in her stoic expression now—a faint, dangerous flicker of annoyance breaking through her mask of absolute calm.

"In the last half hour," Darithi stated in a soft, chilling voice, "you have asked me that exact same question... seven times."

Seleyena blinked, her expression tightening defensively.

Darithi’s golden eyes narrowed into sharp slits. "If you ask it again, I will ensure you never get to meet him."

For a split second, the air in the hallway turned suffocatingly heavy.

Seleyena’s plush lips parted slightly in shock. She blinked once, then slowly, deliberately tilted her head to the side. Her voice dropped into a much lower, serious register.

"What did you just say to me?"

Her jaw visibly twitched as she stared the younger girl down. The soft, vulnerable edge of her mature beauty suddenly turned razor-sharp. She was no longer the elegant, composed, or broken woman from before—she was someone fully ready to snap.

Her slender fingers curled tightly into white-knuckled fists at her sides.

Darithi didn’t bother repeating herself.

She simply turned away and reached for the tarnished brass knob of an old, heavy wooden door. With a slow twist, she pushed it open.

A thick gust of stale, dusty air burst out into the hallway immediately, making Seleyena cough harshly as she instinctively raised a hand to cover her nose and mouth.

She took a cautious step back, blinking fast against the dust motes dancing in the light. "What... is this place?"

Darithi didn’t answer.

She glided gracefully into the dark room, flicking a heavy wall switch with a soft, mechanical click. She spoke with an eerie, reverent softness.

"Let’s see if you truly love him more than I do."

A series of dim, yellowed bulbs flickered to life across the ceiling. The true nature of the hidden room revealed itself in slow, horrifying layers.

Seleyena took a hesitant step inside—making it only a few feet past the threshold—and stopped dead cold.

The breath was forcefully punched from her lungs without warning.

The room was absolutely suffocating.

Not just because of the thick dust or the stale air, but because of the sheer, overwhelming presence. His presence.

Cruxius’s face was quite literally everywhere.

Hundreds of portraits, candid photos, and grainy, blown-up surveillance snapshots plastered the walls. Some were folded neatly and pinned up, some were heavily crumpled and smeared with messy, dried lipstick kisses, while others were torn at the edges, as if they had been handled and kissed far too many times by desperate hands.

The entire left wall was dedicated to nothing but pictures of his sleeping face.

They were captured from dozens of different, invasive angles. In different clothes. Some were taken while he was completely shirtless, the blankets kicked low on his waist.

Another section of the wall featured obsessive close-ups of just his hands. Writing with a pen, casually pushing open a door, holding a simple coffee spoon.

Seleyena’s fingers tightened painfully by her sides. Her throat suddenly felt like it was stuffed with dry cotton. Her mind violently stuttered, desperately trying to grasp the terrifying scale of what she was looking at.

Darithi walked deeper into the room, her movements graceful and utterly silent, as if she were giving a VIP tour of a private, sacred museum.

She stopped in front of a narrow, velvet-lined shelf and gently picked up a small, mundane plastic item. It was carefully sealed inside a pristine, transparent acrylic cube.

"This," Darithi announced, holding the cube up reverently with both hands, "is Master’s very first razor. The exact one he used when he first started growing his facial hair. He threw it in the trash after it accidentally nicked his jaw. I retrieved it. I kept it safe. It still has a tiny, dried trace of his blood right on the corner."

’!’

Seleyena’s delicate brows furrowed together. She couldn’t find the words to speak.

Darithi simply continued the tour.

"This was his sock. He wore it on a chilly night when he had caught a mild cold. Just the left one. I kept it unwashed to preserve his scent. The right one disappeared in the laundry—I strongly suspect a new maid accidentally threw it away, so I broke her wrist as punishment."

Darithi smiled warmly at the cube, acting as if she were sharing a fond, innocent childhood memory.

Seleyena took a wobbly step backward. Her trembling hand lightly grasped the fabric of her dress as a wave of nausea and overwhelming realization hit her.

"You’re... you’re joking, right?"

There was something fundamentally, deeply wrong here.

The peeling walls were literally screaming the dark, twisted story of a profound, psychopathic obsession. It was the shrine of someone whose entire reality was tethered to one man.

And the most terrifying part was how utterly casual the woman who brought her here was acting within this shrine of madness.

Darithi didn’t even blink at the question.

She turned her attention to a small, custom-built open drawer. Inside lay several crumpled, yellowing tissues.

"He used these," Darithi explained softly, "to wipe his nose while working late at his desk. But once," her voice suddenly dropped a full octave, her golden eyes gleaming with dark fervor, "I secretly watched him use one to clean up after masturbating when he was perhaps fifteen. I don’t know exactly which one in the pile it is, but I kept them all. Just in case."

Seleyena’s lips parted in sheer horror. The stale air in the room felt ten times heavier now.

She desperately wanted to look away. To run.

But her morbidly fascinated eyes kept being violently pulled toward the horrifying, meticulous details covering the room.

There were small glass vials with meticulously labeled dates and times. Long strands of raven-black hair carefully sealed in airtight ziplock bags. There was even a chewed-up pen cap superglued to the center of a frantic, obsessive love letter written in a shaky, child-like scrawl.

And then—Darithi moved gracefully toward the center of the room. She approached a large, heavy glass display case standing in the far corner.

With a dramatic flourish, she dragged off the thick red velvet cloth covering it.

Seleyena violently flinched at the sight.

Dozens—no, easily more than fifty—used, dried condoms were carefully sealed inside the glass.

Each one rested in its own custom slot, pinned like a rare butterfly. They were meticulously labeled with exact dates, times, and short, explicit handwritten notes in Darithi’s looping, elegant cursive.

Seleyena’s heart skipped a painful beat. Her stomach violently churned.

"This collection," Darithi said, her voice dropping to a soft, reverent whisper, "is entirely from the first night Master finally claimed me. He took me one after another, relentlessly, for a whole week. We barely left the room to eat or drink before he continued using me. The entire massive bed smelled strictly like him, like our sweat, and my fresh blood. I bled heavily the first time. I kept that, too."

She moved her hand, pointing to a smaller, framed display mounted right beside the glass case. It held a square of an old, ruined bedsheet, meticulously cut and stitched into the shape of a large heart.

"The dark stain right here," Darithi pointed a pale finger at the rusted brown center, "is not just my virgin blood. It’s perfectly mixed with Master’s hot seed. Mine and his, permanently bound together. This fabric is sacred to me."

’Wh-what the hell—!?’