The Dark Mage Of The Magus World-Chapter 79 - 80: A Family

The realization struck like a blade to the gut.

Hutson’s mind reeled as he recalled the severed arm resting on the dining table downstairs. That arm—it looked just like Robert’s.

Robert had spent years wielding daggers. The calloused marks on his hands were unmistakable. No wonder the hand had seemed so familiar.

His stomach churned. If that arm belonged to Robert... then how was he still outside, seemingly whole?

Hutson set the eerie, faceless photograph down and turned away from the severed leg by the window, making his way out of the bedroom.

The arm remained on the dining table, its pallid fingers eerily still. He barely spared it a glance as he moved past.

Pushing forward, he checked the remaining two rooms on the second floor.

In one, he found a severed hand.

In the other, a mangled leg.

And in both rooms, more photographs.

Family portraits. Individual portraits. All faceless.

There was a pattern here—a grotesque, intentional pattern.

Hutson finished his sweep of the second floor, finding nothing else of value. There was only one place left to check.

The third floor.

He recalled how the house had appeared from the outside. If he was right, the third floor should be an attic.

Ascending the stairs, he noticed the ceiling sloped lower, forcing him to hunch slightly as he moved.

Then he stopped.

At his feet, a thick, dark trail of blood stretched across the wooden floor.

His eyes followed the crimson path to its final destination—

A severed head.

It sat beneath the attic window, motionless, its lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

Hutson stepped closer. His breath slowed. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

The face was mutilated beyond recognition. Gashes and deep wounds crisscrossed the features, flesh torn away in jagged chunks.

But even beneath the carnage, the identity was unmistakable.

Robert.

Hutson studied the wounds carefully. "These cuts... they were made by an axe."

Deep. Brutal. The force of each strike had nearly cleaved through bone. The skin around the wounds curled outward, peeled away like rotten fruit.

"You died this horribly?"

A strange mix of guilt and unease settled in Hutson’s chest. He had been the one who convinced Robert to lead the way. And now...

Now he was standing over what was left of him.

And worse still—he couldn’t even take the body out of this cursed house.

Hutson shook his head. Dwelling on it wouldn’t help. He had to get out of here.

Because if Robert—**a knight, a warrior—**had been silently butchered in this house, that meant...

His own death was not far behind.

Hutson scanned the attic, searching for something—anything—that might explain what had happened.

A murder weapon. A clue. The axe.

But there was nothing. Only old, dust-covered crates and scattered relics of forgotten lives.

Frustration burned in his gut. There had to be a way out.

His search revealed nothing new. He had scoured every floor of this house.

But then a chilling thought crept into his mind.

"If Robert is dead... where’s the rest of him?"

There were parts missing. The severed limbs—**a hand, an arm, a leg—**they were scattered through the house.

But the torso?

The rest of the body? Gone.

That realization sent a sharp unease creeping up Hutson’s spine.

Something was still inside this house.

Lost in thought, he descended the stairs.

As he reached the first floor, he approached the window, hoping—praying—to see the Robert outside vanish like an illusion, revealing the trick for what it was.

But as he neared the glass, his breath caught in his throat.

A face pressed against the window from the outside.

Robert’s face.

Pale. Blank-eyed. Staring.

Searching.

His breath fogged up the glass as he leaned in closer, peering inside with frantic intensity.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The silence shattered.

A violent, relentless pounding echoed from upstairs.

The sound of something heavy—**something massive—slamming against a door.

Hutson’s pulse quickened.

A foreboding chill crawled through the air, wrapping around him like invisible chains.

The pounding suddenly stopped.

The house fell silent once more.

And yet, Hutson felt the shift.

The air grew colder.

He turned slowly—and froze.

At the top of the staircase, a girl stood motionless.

She was young. Clutching a worn ragdoll in her arms. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

Her dress—a red plaid pattern—was eerily neat, pristine, as if she had just been dressed for a family gathering.

Her face was smooth. Completely featureless.

But Hutson knew she was watching him.

And then, a thought whispered in his mind—a terrible, undeniable certainty.

She’s smiling.

There was no mouth. No eyes. No expression.

And yet, she was smiling at him.

Then, something changed.

A mouth ripped open where there had been nothing.

Her lips stretched too wide, revealing rows of perfect white teeth.

Teeth that gleamed.

Teeth that shouldn’t have been there.

And caught between them—thin, red strands of flesh.

Hutson felt the weight of a predator’s gaze.

His instincts screamed at him.

Move. Attack. Run.

He gathered fire magic in his palm. A fireball spell, forming instantly.

But the girl...

She did not flinch.

Her terrifying smile only widened as she descended the stairs.

Slow. Measured.

Coming straight toward him.

Then—

Hutson’s eyes flickered toward the doll in her arms.

Something about it felt wrong.

An aura of malice clung to it, ancient and hateful.

His heart skipped a beat.

A Cursed Doll.

A weapon of dark sorcery—one of the most powerful cursed artifacts in existence.

And it looked... so familiar.

"The Cursed Doll in my storage ring..."

Realization hit him like ice water.

Could it have come from here?

Had the sorcerer who originally found it perished outside this very town?

But there was no time to ponder.

The little girl was still coming.

Her steps unwavering.

Then—

The door creaked.

A sound echoed from behind him.

Keys.

Turning in the lock.

And for the first time—

The little girl stopped.

The key slid into the lock with an unsettling ease.

A slow, deliberate turn.

Then—

Click.

The door creaked open.

A hulking man stepped inside.

And embedded deep into his skull... was an axe.

The broad, brutal blade cleaved straight through his forehead, buried so deep that only the handle jutted outward, like some grotesque ornament. Blood had long since dried around the wound, crusted dark against his weathered skin.

Yet—

The man seemed completely unfazed.

His gray, lifeless eyes swept the room before locking onto Hutson.

Then, to Hutson’s astonishment—

He grinned.

"Oh! It’s you!" he boomed, his voice warm, almost cheerful. "Thanks for buying me that butterbeer!"

Hutson froze.

The blacksmith.

The man from the tavern.

The same broad-shouldered, thick-bearded figure he had shared a drink with earlier that night.

But now...

Now he wasn’t the same.

The axe in his skull was one thing.

His gray, corpse-like eyes were another.

And his skin—sickly greenish-blue, pallid, unnatural— looked more like something that had drowned days ago.

Yet still, he smiled.

A crude, stiff grin, like a mask stretched over decaying flesh.

Hutson felt his fingers twitch toward his sword, but the blacksmith merely turned, frowning at the little girl.

His voice dropped into a scolding growl.

"Back upstairs. Now. No rudeness toward our guests!"

The girl flinched.

She clutched her doll tighter, her small frame trembling.

Without another word, she turned and scurried up the stairs, vanishing into the darkness above.

And just like that—

The chill vanished.

The suffocating, paralyzing sense of dread lifted from Hutson’s shoulders.

He could breathe again.

The blacksmith sighed.

"You need to leave."

His voice was quieter now. More solemn.

"You shouldn’t have come here."

Hutson hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Understood. And... thank you."

If the blacksmith hadn’t intervened, there was no telling what that monstrous child would have done.

Hutson had fought horrors before, but this? He wasn’t confident he could win.

The blacksmith exhaled heavily, rubbing a massive hand over his face.

"Not many of us in town are still... aware."****"

He let out a bitter chuckle.

"Though... I suppose I can’t even say ’us’ anymore, can I?"

He looked up, his expression darkening.

"Go. Now.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep my mind. And when I lose it..."

His gray eyes flickered with something—fear? Resignation?

"I don’t want you here when that happens.

So get out. Before it’s too late."