When Beauty Destroys The BL World

Chapter 88~Confrontation~

Irene's terrified eyes locked onto Libby's defiant struggle.

Seeing the flicker of fear ignite in Irene's eyes, Lard's lips curled into a cold, satisfied smile. He knew.. without a doubt...that she understood their cruel intentions. The hesitation, the sudden tightening of her chest, the way her gaze darted nervously towards her maid, none of it escaped him.

That fear was exactly what he wanted. A cruel triumph that sank deep into his twisted satisfaction. It wasn't just about physical control, it was about breaking her spirit!

He leaned in close, voice dripping with cruel satisfaction.

"Now, all you can do is watch... as we take our turn with your precious maid." He whispered.

The words sliced through the air like a blade, leaving a chilling silence in their wake—an unspoken horror that froze them both in place.

Irene's panic surged instantly...her throat burning with the desperate urge to scream. But the rough fabric shoved deep inside her mouth muffled any sound, choking off her voice before it could escape.

"Two of you, hold into her!" Lard ordered.

One of the men finally released Libby as he moved to take his place holding Irene.

Lard moved toward Libby, his eyes dark with intent. Before she could react, he seized her firmly, pulling her into his grasp. At that moment, the other man released his hold on Libby and doubled down on restraining Irene.

Irene thrashed desperately, muffled screams tearing through the cloth gag in her mouth as the two men forced her upright. They twisted her head, making her face forward—forcing her to witness the nightmare unfolding before her.

"Let go of me!" Libby realised what was about to happened.

Her body convulsed as she struggled in Lard's grasp, every desperate kick and shove met with cold, unyielding force. His hands pressed against her with possessive cruelty, sending waves of revulsion coursing through her veins.

Her voice broke as she screamed, "Let go of me!" Raw with panic and fury.

Lard then slammed Libby against the wall with brutal force, tearing at her clothes as she gasped in shock and fear.

"Ahhh!! No!" Libby's scream echoed through the room, raw and filled with terror.

But Lard paid no attention to her cries. Filled with building lust, he started to licked her exposed back.

Adrenaline surged through Irene's body as her eyes locked onto Libby—terrified, vulnerable, and barely covered. Rage boiled over fear. Without thinking, Irene struck. She stomped hard on the foot of the man restraining her, earning a howl of pain as his grip slipped.

In that brief window, her eyes caught the glint of a dagger strapped to the other man's belt.

With a cry, she reached out and tore the dagger free, driving it into his shoulder with all her might. The man screamed, stumbling back, blood staining his tunic. Chaos erupted.

Irene yanked the gag from her mouth and turned with wild desperation. With one clean motion, she plunged the blade into Lard's shoulder. His roar of agony filled the chamber.

But the moment of victory was short.

The first man recovered and tackled her, wrenching her arm so violently that the dagger clattered from her grip. He gripped her wrist in fury, dragging her back as Lard, seething with rage, turned on her.

"You little—!" he spat before slapping her across the face. The force of the blow stole the air from her lungs.

"Your highness!" Libby cried, clutching at her torn clothes, trying to rise—but another man held her back.

Lard's fist drove into Irene's stomach. She gasped, folding in on herself before hitting the ground. In seconds, he was on top of her again, raining slaps down as her head lolled from side to side, blood dripping from her nose. Her vision blurred. The edges of the world began to fade.

Through the haze, she heard Lard's cruel laughter.
"This is payback for you, your highness..." he sneered. He grabbed her face, forcing her to watch as the man approached Libby again.

"No..." Irene whispered, voice broken and weak. She tried to move, to fight, to protect—but her limbs felt like lead.

Then—shouts. The sharp, panicked cries of pain.

Steel glinted. Blood sprayed.

A dagger buried in Lard's back.

"Ahhh!!!"

Then the man who was pinning Libby down, howling in pain as the dagger landed on his back too.

It was the knights.

Lucas stormed in like a force of nature, his expression dark with fury. He didn't hesitate. One brutal kick sent Lard flying off Irene.

"Irene!" Lucas dropped to his knees, gathering her battered form into his arms. She was barely conscious, her skin bruised and pale. His heart clenched in agony at the sight.

Her face was streaked with blood, her lip split, and her gown torn beyond recognition. Her once-pristine appearance—always elegant and composed—was now in tatters.

She didn't look like a noble.

No—cloaked in bruises and pain, she looked like any ordinary girl dragged through hell. Like a commoner beaten and discarded.

And that broke something inside him.

Irene didn't respond to his voice—her eyes were only for Libby, watching as the knights wrapped her in a cloak, shielding her. Only then, as she saw Libby was safe, did Irene's body finally give in.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

"Irene!" Lucas called her name again, but she didn't respond.

Clutching her tightly, he rose and barked to the knights, "Take care of the rest. I'm getting her out of here."

He carried her out of that prison—out of the nightmare—while the guards and knights secured the attackers.

Behind him, silence settled, broken only by the labored breaths of those still standing.

On the boundary line.

Swissh!

Nickolai's blade sliced through the air with deadly precision, cutting down the last of the enemy soldiers. Around him, the clash of steel faded into silence as his men finished off the remaining attackers.

"Useless pests," he muttered coldly.

Blood spattered across his armor, but he moved with practiced ease, wiping the crimson from his blade with a cloth. The battlefield stilled, now littered with lifeless bodies—enemy and ally alike.

Behind him, the knights worked in grim silence, gathering the fallen comrades who would be honored and buried. The scent of smoke and blood lingered in the air.

Nickolai stepped toward his horse and mounted in one swift motion. His gaze lifted to the horizon, dark and unblinking.

His pupils narrowed, eyes shadowed with barely restrained fury. A storm brewed behind them—anger, frustration, and the sharp sting of something unspoken. The muscles around his eyes tightened, and his jaw clenched, as if he were forcing himself to remain composed. His stare held the weight of a man not only hardened by war—but driven by something deeper.

Minutes passed before Sir Lawrence rode up beside him.

"All is clear, Your Highness," the knight reported solemnly.

Nickolai gave a curt nod and tugged on the reins. "Let's go," he said, his voice low and steady.

Without another word, he led the column of knights. The sound of hooves thundered behind him as they rode back—toward the palace, and whatever storm awaited them there.