Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 44: To Stitch Her Purple in Crimson. (BUTTERFLY Effect )

Chapter 44: To Stitch Her Purple in Crimson. (BUTTERFLY Effect )

"I have made a petition to the Emperor to make you a Red-Stitched Sister."

Those words fell like a bomb.

Even before the echo of the Grandmother's voice faded, an eerie silence swept across the dock.

All who understood the weight of such a declaration turned—almost in slow motion—toward the 'aura' towering figure in white church robes and the dark-haired noblewoman standing across from her.

Oliver was among them. But unlike the others, he was the most surprised.

This... hadn't happened in his previous life.

He knew because he had been here. And Grandmother, this Pope of the Church of Light, had not come to the docks on the day of his arrival. He remembered that clearly.

Again—This woman's presence was a near myth, a person said to never leave the cathedral except for the rarest of ceremonies.

Yet here she was.

Oliver’s gaze slipped upward to the dangling corpse still hanging from the mast of the ship. Martin Vontell.

He’d made a tiny request to Accra, for a small trinket. But it had ended in Martin’s death. And that death... had brought Grandmother here.

The thought chilled him.

In his previous life, Sir Fen Bolton had not died, and so Garron never made it as a slave to the Somara Empire.

Now Grandmother had shown up far earlier than she ever should have. His actions—tiny as they seemed—were changing things.

Of course, this was expected. But the changes. They were becoming too much, and growing too fast.

Oliver could only imagine how the wheels of history would change when he made bigger changes.

Oliver had heard of this once, reading to one of his former masters while serving as a slave. A theory from the old tome of an old Magician.

The Butterfly Effect.

A phenomenon where even the softest flap of a butterfly’s wings could set off a chain reaction that ends in a hurricane.

It simply meant that small actions—unnoticed, even unimportant—could alter the course of destiny.

This gave him a weird mix of feelings internally. Annoyance, frustration, urgency, and even anticipation.

He looked down at his trembling hands.

He had wanted to control the future. That was the point of his return—having a grip on what would come was one of the advantages of going back in time.

But at this rate, he wasn’t just affecting the events. He was disturbing the players. The Titans. And he wasn’t ready.

He was not strong enough, and the world was already moving fast.

He needed to slow things down.

Or get stronger.

Oliver turned toward Seraphina and Grandmother. Neither woman was ordinary. And both had far more influence and secrets than they let on.

Seraphina’s eyes twitched, betraying her fury at the Grandmother’s words. But what followed was unexpected.

A dry chuckle escaped her lips.

"Making a petition to name me a Red-Stitched Sister," she repeated, loudly now, theatrically. "All because I punished a thief masquerading as a noble? Is that what the Church of Light now stands for? Shielding criminals? Will you abandon the innocent people of this empire so easily—just because these so-called nobles might, by a whisper of blood, be descendants of King Solomon the Wise?"

Her voice rose. Every soldier, commoner, servant, and noble nearby could hear her.

"Are you saying the children of the Empire do not deserve peace and security?"

Oliver blinked.

He didn’t like Seraphina. Never had. But even he had to admit—that was impressive.

She had twisted the entire narrative on its head, placing herself as the hero, the defender of justice, and painting the Church as the protector of privilege and rot.

'Formidable', Grandmother thought, her crow's eyes emphasising her smile.

Those who did not know her would think this was a kind old woman, a true 'Grandmother', in every sense of the word.

But she wasn’t done.

"You’re right," the old woman said, stepping slowly in a circle, her voice rich with venomous calm. "The children of the Empire should be safe. But tell me—who gave you the right to judge them?"

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The air shifted.

Grandmother looked like she was pondering on her words.

"As far as I know, only the Emperor—or perhaps a member of the royal family—can sentence a noble to death. That’s the law. Or is it not?"

Then she stopped walking. Her eyes narrowed.

"Tell me, Seraphina Damaris VONTELL!" she emphasized the last name with venom, "you may bear three names like royalty... but are you royalty?"

The words sliced deep.

And Seraphina’s eye twitched again. This time with more than anger. It was pain. A wound hidden under layers of pride.

The others did not, But a person that knew the ins of the Somara empire, like Oliver did, knew certain things

There had always been very 'hided' rumors. Whispered secrets in noble circles. That Seraphina’s mother, wife to a Duke and granddaughter of a Grand Duke, had once shared a scandalous affair with the Emperor himself.

And Seraphina was the result.

Some speculated that it was the reason the Emperor favored her so much that he gifted her a middle name at birth.

If true, it was a catastrophe. Proof that the Emperor—a man revered as Solomon’s reincarnation—had seduced the wife of a loyal subordinate. It would tarnish his image, and bring shame to the throne itself.

The people believed themselves to be descendants of King Solomon, and their king, his incarnation, even though the church of light never confirmed it—it was there.

King Solomon had many wives and concubines, but never did the history books say that he went low and took his subordinates wife.

Then again, that would be saying even worse for Seraphina. It would mean that her 'possible father' did not deem her worthy enough to be claimed because of reputation.

Oliver tensed.

He could see it. The way Seraphina’s hands curled at her side. The way her breath shortened. She was about to—

He dove to the side.

Aether—purple like her eyes— exploded from her body.

Like a dam finally cracking, her power surged with a soundless scream, curling through the air like wildfire. It roared outward, bending the light, distorting the very air. Noblewomen screamed. Soldiers backed away.

And Oliver, heart pounding, reached out to call the Carcass Mail into existence.

Because what was coming... would not be pretty. Every advantage at protecting himself would be best utilised.

Oliver wasn’t the only one who had anticipated Seraphina’s eruption.

Before her Aether could fully lash out, Cassian had already stepped forward, wand in hand. His movements were measured, calm—almost like this was routine.

But the wand itself was anything but ordinary.

It wasn’t sleek or elegant like the ones his children used. No, it was heavier—more ancient-looking. Blood-red and thicker than a man's forearm, it shimmered with something that felt… off.

A glinting ruby sat embedded at the hilt like an ever-watching eye.

Oliver’s breath caught.

That was not a regular gemstone. That was a dungeon shard, true!

But the Aether it gave off wasn’t the clean, spiritual energy the Church loved to boast about. This one was darker—colder. Tainted.

Demonic.

Cassian raised the wand slightly, and a transparent crimson shield expanded outward, forming a protective dome around the slaves.

This much was his responsibility as trainer, else there would be nothing left to train.

The timing couldn’t have been better.

Because the docks… started to peel.

Not just split or crack—but peel, like overripe fruit. Boards curled upward, stone slithered like wet paper, and the very earth rippled in agony beneath Seraphina’s rage.

This was her magic. Oliver remembered it now. They called it:

“Unraveling.”

It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t explode or dazzle with lightning.

It simply... came apart. The world came apart.

And so did the unlucky.

One soldier—late in his retreat—stumbled. The purple Aether met him like a loving hand, pulling him open from the chest down. No scream came from his lips, just the wet squelch of a man being unwrapped.

Skin peeled, flesh unfurled. Muscle slipped from bone like fabric soaked in blood.

He fell in pieces, like a crumbling sculpture.

The other nobles had long stepped back, gripping their own shard-stones or whatever dungeon treasure they had, and hurrying for distance. A few bodyguards yanked their noble masters out of danger just in time.

But through it all—through the chaos and unraveling earth—Grandmother didn’t move.

Not a blink. Not a twitch. Her gown barely fluttered in the Aether winds as if the storm itself knew not to test her.

But she wasn’t unguarded.

Two of the Red-Stitched Sisters had already stepped forward. The ruby on their heads pulsed with power to repel Seraphina’s.

The Red-Stitched Sisters were not weak. In fact, they were terrifying in a quiet way. You didn’t shout their names to scare children. You whispered their stories at night to remind kids why it was better to obey without asking.

It was said, that the weakest of the Red-Stitched was worth a thousand blood-ranked warriors, at rank 3.

But Oliver knew better. They were as strong as Blood knights.

Then again, Seraphina was worse.

“Out of my way!” she roared.

Her power exploded, slamming into the sisters’ ruby barrier. It cracked. And then it broke.

A wall of chaotic, unraveling force surged forward—headed straight for Grandmother.

And then—

“Lady Seraphina!”

The voice was clear, firm, and somehow… gentle.

Cassian.

He had stepped between them—between Grandmother and the storm—without even raising his wand. No defense. No shield. Just himself.

And miraculously, the magic stopped. It paused, as if it recognized him.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

Seraphina exhaled, the tension draining from her shoulders. Her Aether faded, vanishing like a storm retreating after a scream.

“…Forgive me, Cassian. Grandmother,” she said coolly. “I’m just… a bit cranky from my travels.”

With a turn of her heels, she walked off toward the waiting chariots, her heels clacking like punctuation marks.

'Cranky?' Oliver blinked. He glanced at the soldier's corpse still slumped against the shattered dock, one eye missing, half a ribcage gleaming in the sun. That’s what she calls this?

Even the nobles were visibly shaken.

The whole exchange had been fast, within seconds, maybe. But Oliver felt like he hadn’t taken a breath in minutes.

Cassian, though… Oliver’s eyes lingered on him.

He wasn’t the strongest—not compared to Seraphina or the stitched horrors of the Church. But he’d stood there, calm, bare-faced, and unflinching. No trick. No flair.

Just presence.

And that, Oliver thought, is true strength.

Cassian was so respected a man for his achievements that he could put his face before an attack by a mad woman like Seraphina and she would be forced to back off.

That was incredible.

Even Roderick and Thalia stood a little straighter behind him. They had a kind of pride in their eyes. This was especially so for Roderick.

Just as things seemed to settle, the sound of soft footsteps on polished heels echoed from the chariot beside Grandmother.

A woman stepped out.

Red hair braided tightly behind her head, her presence didn’t radiate magic or power, but something quieter. Older. Careful.

She looked about fifty—aged gracefully, but not without signs of a life lived with purpose.

She leaned close to Grandmother and whispered something into her ear.

Oliver's heart jumped.

He knew her.

He remembered her.

She was the Caretaker. That was what everyone called her. Like many mysterious figures in this place, she was not called by her name, just a title.

But more than that…

In his previous life, it had been her that had told him the truth of his origins.

It was her that told him that he had Solomon’s blood in his veins.

How she knew, he still didn’t understand. And now she was here, far earlier than he remembered to have ever seen her.

The butterfly effect, he thought again. One tiny change, and now a series of events were unfolding.

Nevertheless, he did not have the time to dwell on this much, as a command had been sent through the Slave Interface.

[—Crawl To The Outer Wall—]