Reborn In A Perverse Monster World! My System Adapts To Everything! Chapter 50: Fracture?

Jason lay on the floor of the small room, staring at the cracked ceiling. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths. Beside him, Ylva was already pulling her clothes back on, her movents efficient and unhurried.

He had emptied his balls into her. Twice. And this was exactly the distraction he needed.

For a few monts—maybe longer—he hadn’t thought about Thalion. Or Tauriel, the system, the forty percent adaptation, the shadow figure in his dream. Just Ylva. Her warmth. Her scent. The way her claws traced lightly down his back without breaking skin.

Now it was over, and his mind was clear.

"You’re thinking again," Ylva said, not looking at him. Her voice was flat, but not cold.

"Always," Jason replied.

She finished lacing her tunic and stood up. "Good thinking or bad thinking?"

"Neutral thinking." He sat up slowly, his body sore in ways that had nothing to do with fighting. "Thalion’s been gone a while."

Ylva’s ears twitched. "So?"

"So nothing. Just noticing."

But Jason’s gut was churning. Thalion had left to gather intel about other guilds. That was the excuse. Fresh air and information. But hours had passed. The sun was higher now, the morning creeping toward noon.

Thalion wasn’t back.

-

Thalion walked through the adventurer’s district alone, his silver hair pulled back, his pale eyes scanning every sign, every face, every guild emblem painted on walls and doorways.

He had found nothing.

No trace of the Velveteen Watch. No whispers of old mbers. No hidden ssages carved into tavern tables.

"Where the hell is everyone?"

Thalion wondered where the rest of his mbers were. But why was he so sure they would still be alive despite his age? Did that an they were elves like him? Or creatures with long lifespans? Dwarves could live centuries. So races even longer.

Either way, Thalion was confident. To an extent. Or he could be lying. To himself, to Jason, to the voice in his head that never stopped whispering.

He stopped in front of a boarded-up building. The paint was faded, but he could still make out the symbol—a crossed sword and staff, the sa one on the poster.

The Velveteen Watch or rather, an inscription of it but it was faded.

However, the fact that it was still here was proof that another mber other than him was still alive.

Thalion pressed his palm against the cold wood. The mory surfaced unbidden: laughter, clinking mugs, a hand on his shoulder congratulating him after his first successful dungeon crawl.

But there was sothing wrong with his mory. Faces were blurry. Nas slipped away like water through his fingers. He knew he had friends—comrades—but he couldn’t picture them. Couldn’t hear their voices.

"Sothing is off."

Thalion’s brow furrowed. He knew this—this confusion, this fog—must be the reason why Tauriel let him go. She knew he was broken. Not just his body but his mind.

He had used his magic to heal himself. The gashes on his chest were closing with the burns on his arms fading. But it couldn’t heal the ntal damage caused by years of torture. The isolation, the pain, the endless torture.

Most elves would have gone mad. Lost themselves completely. Beco hollow shells wling in the dark.

But Thalion remained sane. Which was impressive but proof of his ntal fortitude. He wasn’t sure anymore of what was real or not as he could no longer rely on his own mory.

"Why can’t I rember?" he questioned himself, pulling his hand away from the boarded wall.

His eyes began to see fragnts of things that weren’t there.

A flash of blood on the cobblestones. A shadow moving in the corner of his vision. A whisper that sounded like his own voice but wasn’t.

"You’re weak. You’re nothing. They left you to rot."

Thalion clutched his head in pain, his fingers digging into his silver hair. His skull felt like it was splitting open. The whispers grew louder.

"They left you. They left you. They left you."

"Leave alone," Thalion muttered under his breath, his voice shaking.

He took a step back from the building. Then another. His breath ca in short, ragged gasps.

An orc—tall, broad, wearing a leather apron—was walking past him. The creature glanced at Thalion’s pale face, his trembling hands, and reached out to grab his arm.

"Hey, friend. You don’t look so good. You need a—"

Thalion’s head snapped toward the orc. His eyes were wild. Unfocused.

"DO NOT TOUCH !" Thalion scread.

The orc’s hand imploded.

Not broke. Not crushed. Imploded. Flesh collapsed inward. Bones crunched. Blood sprayed across the cobblestones in a wet, violent burst.

The orc stumbled back, staring at the mangled stump where his hand used to be. Then he opened his mouth and shrieked—a high, piercing sound that echoed off the buildings.

"H-Hey..." Thalion stamred, his eyes wide with horror. "What are you doing? S-shut up!"

The orc kept screaming. Blood poured from his wrist. Passersby were turning their heads, their eyes widening, their hands reaching for weapons.

Thalion panicked. He had no idea what was happening. The magic had erupted without his command—a reflex, a spasm, a crack in his fractured mind.

And worse: this creature’s screams would draw attention. Guards, Guild enforcers.

"You aren’t real!" Thalion shouted, pointing at the orc. "I said shut up!"

The orc’s head imploded.

Sa as the hand. Sa wet, violent collapse. The scream cut off mid-note, replaced by the sickening crunch of a skull caving in on itself. The body dropped to the ground like a sack of stones.

Blood pooled around the corpse. The street went silent.

Thalion stared at the body. His hands were shaking. His chest was heaving.

"No. No, no, no!" he muttered under his breath, backing away.

He could hear chatter now—voices rising from the buildings around him. Windows opening. Doors creaking. Soone shouted, "What happened?!"

Thalion bailed.

He turned and ran, his bare feet slapping against the cobblestones. His silver hair stread behind him. His heart pounded in his ears. He ducked into an alley, then another, weaving through the district like a hunted animal.

Behind him, the damage was already done. A dead orc but were there witnesses? Questions would lead to answers.

"I didn’t an to," Thalion thought, his mind racing. "I didn’t an to. It wasn’t my fault."

But the whispers returned, softer this ti.

"You liar."

"You enjoyed it."