Young Master's PoV: Woke Up As A Villain In A Game One Day

Chapter 388: How To Pick A New Arm! Step 1: Pick Everything!

“Auntie! Please!”

“Sam, no! And let go of my leg! Let go, I said!”

“Don’t you love me?! Don’t you feel even a twinge of guilt for leaving me alone in that godforsaken jungle?!”

“Wh—What?! I begged you to come along—”

“Excuses, excuses! If you really loved me, you would’ve done something! Just like right now, you would do what I’m asking you to do!”

“Samael Kaizer Theosbane, even if I could, I’d refuse to turn you into some multi-armed freak!”

Master Urvil was furiously rubbing his eyebrows, looking both irritated and exhausted.

And why wouldn’t he be?

He was a busy man. He could have been conducting some sort of important research.

Instead, here he was… watching me on my knees as I clung to my aunt’s thigh and pleaded with her to let me take every single arm on the table.

…Yeah, you heard me.

I was asking her to attach the whole set.

There must’ve been at least twenty limbs laid out there. It was understandable why my aunt was so thoroughly done with me.

“No,” she said flatly, trying and failing to pry me off her leg. I was holding onto her like a dog to a bone. “Absolutely not! I am not explaining to your father why his son came back looking like a deranged deity from an unholy mural.”

“That’s unfair,” I shot back, tightening my grip around her thigh even as she smacked me. “I’d be a magnificent deity. Terrifying, yes, but also—”

“Unemployable,” she cut in.

“—Memorable!” I corrected, scandalized. “You lack vision, Aunt M! Imagine my battlefield presence! Imagine the sheer intimidation factor! My enemies would surrender on sight!”

“Your enemies would die of confusion,” she replied dryly. “Our own soldiers might follow.”

Behind the table, Master Urvil let out a long sigh. It was the sigh of a man who was in the midst of reevaluating every life decision that had led him to this room.

“Young Master,” he said, his voice thin with waning restraint, “the human spine is not designed to accommodate… twenty additional limbs.”

“That sounds like a limitation, not a rule,” I argued immediately.

“It is both,” he replied.

I waved him off. “Details, schmetails! We can innovate!”

“We will not innovate on your skeletal structure,” Aunt Morgan snapped. “Stand up. Now.”

“No!”

“Sam.”

“No!”

“…Samael.”

There was a heavy pause.

I let out a frustrated grunt, sounding exactly like a child who was refused his new favorite toy. “Argh! I hate you!”

“I hate you too!” she spat back. “Now get up!”

I did.

I let go of her, rose to my feet, dusted myself off, and let out a languid sigh like I was a tragic male lead of a sad movie who was bearing all of the world’s misfortunes.

Then, I began inspecting the macabre buffet of severed right arms laid out before me once again.

Have I ever mentioned that I am, among many other things, painfully indecisive?

In my second year at the Academy, I remember Juliana once asked me to pick a restaurant. It was a simple and harmless question, right?

A question that should not, by any stretch of the imagination, lead to psychological warfare, right?

But it did.

After dressing up, we had to cluelessly stand there in the drawing room for fifty minutes because I couldn’t commit to a single option.

Fifty. Minutes.

She suggested something light. I said maybe.

She suggested something spicy. I said possibly.

She suggested something expensive. I said we could consider it.

After a few failed tries, she stopped talking altogether and just gave me one of her homicidal stares that suggested she was contemplating murder.

Meanwhile, I still kept scrolling through reviews. Because I still! Couldn’t! Pick! Even when my life depended on it!

That was how indecisive I was about dinner.

Now, imagine how much that indecision multiplied when the choice wasn’t a menu, but my future right arm.

If your guess was anything below three hours, I’m sorry but you have too much trust in me.

Yes. It took me three whole hours to sort through the bizarre options until I was left with the final two samples.

At long last, after a lot of questions and a lot of doubt, it all came down to a choice between two equally enticing and equally horrific possibilities.

The first was a dark limb, covered in hardened black patches like thick petals of charcoal layered over rippling muscle.

When I touched it for a closer inspection, I found the texture to be neither metallic nor organic, but something in between — as if the entire arm were made of malleable stone.

Dim crimson lines pulsed beneath a network of cracks on its surface like veins of magma. Its nails were sharp like obsidian and just as dark, all elongating into predatory claws.

This was the Malicious Vampiric Arm, extracted and perfected from a Night Sovereign Spirit Beast variant.

From what I was told, its claws could grow and shrink at will, turning sharper than any knife and more durable than enhanced steel.

But fancy nails wasn’t the reason why I was considering it. You see, the arm possessed a far more practical property.

“If its claws pierce flesh,” Master Urvil began, “the graft initiates absorption. It drains the blood of the victim and converts it into usable Essence for the host.”

It basically meant that in prolonged combat, I could theoretically receive a near-constant replenishment of Essence and, by extension, stamina.

Exhaustion would become difficult to achieve.

If worst came to worst, I could even let it drain my own blood to ensure I wouldn’t run out of fuel in a crisis.

It sounded like a clear winner.

…Until I analyzed the second prospect.

The other arm was broader and a bit brutish in comparison. Veins of cold blue traced over its skin that was as smooth and pale as porcelain.

Small spikes of bone protruded along the forearm and knuckles, but other than that, it had no notable aesthetic.

Its true value was in its ability to drink my own Essence and, in return, emit a surge of energy that flowed back into my body to heal reasonable injuries.

It wouldn’t regrow lost limbs, but it would close puncture wounds, mend fractured bones, stitch torn muscle, and revert internal damage in seconds and stuff like that.

It was known as the Pale Arm, named after the creature called the Pale Thing it was harvested from.

So, those were my choices — a walking battery or a walking insurance policy.

I stared at both in silence… then started sobbing. “This is evil!”

My aunt, who had long since lost any hope of me behaving like a rational human being, was lying on her bed flipping through a magazine. “It’s called making a choice, Sam. Try not to cry.”

I pulled at my hair. “Why can’t I have both? Can’t you just cut my other arm off so I can have both?!”

Aunt Morgan simply rubbed her temples and ignored me, choosing instead to stay engrossed in her magazine like I wasn’t even in the room.

Master Urvil cleared his throat. The man had excellent patience, despite how vexed he’d seemed at the start.

“You could attempt it, Young Lord,” he said slowly, “but the strain on your nervous system would be catastrophic. Your soul would be stretched too thin. There is a reason even the most competent healers refrain from suddenly growing back lost limbs and take their time instead. That’s because the process takes a heavy toll on the patient’s soul.”

I gave him a doubtful look. “My mother did it. She brought people back from certain death all the time.”

A gloomy shadow suddenly stole over the old man’s face.

“Your mother was the exception, sire, not the rule.” He gave a weary shrug. “Furthermore, you have already bound two divine weapons to yourself. Your soul is at its current limit. We should not place any more strain on you than absolutely necessary, neither physically nor spiritually.”

Well, I had no retort for that.

I pouted in defeat, then turned to my aunt. “Wait, while we are on the topic— where is my sword? I called for it earlier and felt it nearby, but it still hasn’t come to me.”

“All your weapons are in a secure vault. It’s standard procedure. They’ll be returned to you once they’ve cleared inspection,” Aunt Morgan replied, turning a page.

Ah, that made sense.

The Spirit Realm was teeming with strange illnesses and even stranger curses. After a long exploration, it was mandatory for everyone and everything to be placed in quarantine to ensure they could safely go back into society.

Scratching my cheek, I turned my full attention back to the objective at hand (pun intended).

After a few more minutes of deliberation, I reached a decision.

I didn’t think the Pale Arm was a necessity for me right now.

If I were going to war, I could simply requisition a high-grade healing Card or an item from my family’s treasury.

But I doubted I would find anything like the Vampiric Arm, something that could constantly replenish my Essence mid-combat and keep me in near-peak condition as long as I kept taking down my enemies.

So, I chose that.

•••

The grafting process was painful.

I was given potent anesthesia, only this alchemic drug was specifically made to work on an Awakened body.

And yet, that did nothing to tone down the burning agony I felt after I was laid down on the operating chair.

Led by Master Urvil, a team of healers and surgeons began the procedure.

The room fell into a focused silence, broken only by the infrequent hiss of alchemical reagents and the continuous clink of surgical tools being picked up from a metal tray.

Despite the numbing drugs being in full effect, a searing pressure started building up against my shoulder where the graft would merge.

Then, without any warning, a white-hot pain shot through my right socket like something was being drilled into my bone.

My view was blocked by a partition, so I couldn’t see the butchery they were performing on me, but I did feel the full brunt of it.

I wished that was the end of it. But it wasn’t.

The organ-rending torture only intensified tenfold when my aunt began working her magic.

My teeth clenched so hard I thought they might shatter, and I gripped the armrest with my left hand until my knuckles turned white.

The new arm wasn’t just being attached. It was merging and rewriting my network of nerves and sinew to make itself mine.

At one point, the pain just stopped being physical.

Instead, it now felt like the very core of my being was under assault, like my soul itself was being forced to accept the alien limb.

I tried to stifle my grunts, but they broke out into whimpers — whimpers that eventually dissolved into full-on screams… until my eyes rolled back and I passed out.

•••

A couple of hours later, when I finally drifted back to consciousness…

I had a very cool right arm.