Obtaining 10x rewards! Reincarnated into a novel as a side-character!

There was a massive gate, made out of some sort of black stone. It was shining eerily in the yellow moonlight.

Each slab gleamed like obsidian drenched in oil, the moonlight sliding across its surface in rippling waves. The carvings along the frame twisted into shapes that seemed to writhe if stared at too long. The gate itself looked less like stone and more like the petrified bones of some ancient beast, scarred by centuries yet still radiating menace. Even the air around it seemed heavier, as if weighed down by countless sins that had once passed through.

“Open up! The Knights of the Lord are entering!”

The soldiers announced to the gatekeeper who didn’t dare delay and quickly followed the instruction. There was no need for identification, just their aura alone was sufficient to prove their identity.

And since their status was obviously higher than the gate guards, they could not afford to offend them. Even the seasoned guards avoided eye contact, their throats dry, their grips on their spears slick with sweat.

Oliver took advantage of this opportunity. Moving along with a soldier, he—who was carrying Agnes on his back, swiftly entered the city premises.

The oppressive gate closed behind him with a booming thud, sealing away the night. Inside, the city stretched like a labyrinth of jagged alleys and crooked rooftops, torchlight flickering against walls stained with shadows.

He no longer followed after them but rather parted ways when he spotted a shady and narrow alleyway.

“Huff…”

He moved with swift pace, entering deep into the alleyway, making sure there were no demons nearby. Every step echoed against the walls, too loud in the silence. Even the rats seemed to have fled.

However, just as he was moving something happened.

[Ding! Target has mastered the Art of Voodoo after undergoing rigorous training. The Eight Voodoo Principles.]

[Ding! Obtaining 10x benefits. Ancestral Voodoo has been obtained!]

[Mastery will be integrated in the host…]

“Ugh—!”

A sharp pain shot through his brain as he lost balance and fell sideways into the garbage, throwing both himself and Agnes down.

The pain wasn’t physical alone—it was as if hot iron nails were being hammered directly into his soul. His vision fractured, black lines crawling across his sight as if ink spilled through his skull. The stench of rotting waste filled his nostrils as his shoulder struck the heap.

Agnes was caught off guard as Oliver suddenly fell.

“Teacher…!”

She was alarmed as Oliver suddenly lost his balance and collapsed.

Her voice cracked, hands fumbling to catch him though her strength was nothing against his collapsing weight. Her small palms pressed against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart, far too violent, like a drum of war. Panic rose sharp in her chest, drowning out every other thought.

Quickly, coming to his side, she checked his condition. He appeared fine but at the same time, his brows were heavily knitted and eyes closed, as if he was undergoing some deep pain.

She didn’t know herself what was happening either. What had happened suddenly?

Why did he fall?

However, she could sense something. The aura around him was shifting very subtly. With her sharp senses and mysterious espera talent, she was prone to even the minute changes happening around her, thus she could tell that something was happening with him at this very moment. The air warped around his body, thin tendrils of black mist coiling like snakes before vanishing again. It felt wrong—unnatural. Newest update provided by novel⦿fire.net

She was utterly confused and worried whether she should try waking him up or let this continue.

In this unknown place, filled with fear and confusion, she—a little girl—could not decide what she must do.

She did whatever her instincts let her.

She chose to attempt to wake him up back again.

No matter how smart she may have been, in the end she was just a child. Her urge to survive outweighed the other complex decisions.

She was not like Oliver with decades of experience and knowledge in a child’s body. She was just a normal person with a hardened mindset and some courage.

She neared him and shook him slightly in hopes he would wake up, but alas, Oliver was too consumed in his own world to feel the outer interruptions.

His mind was processing the massive amount of information—the dark ancient knowledge of Voodoo, something that once was considered to be a taboo in his modern world.

The flood of memory crashed into him like a thousand screaming voices, every syllable dripping with venom and curses. He felt himself drowning in a sea of knowledge, each wave heavier, blacker, more poisonous than the last.

Voodoo.

Voodoo is used when someone wants secret power over another, relying on fear and hidden pain. Its purpose is to control, taking away a person’s free will, punishing them, or turning them into a puppet.

To do this, the caster makes a doll or figure using something from the victim, then performs rituals like pinning, tying knots, or whispering chants.

Whatever is done to the effigy happens to the victim—pain, sickness, or forced obedience. The result is living torment; the victim suffers without reason, while the caster gains control but slowly loses their own soul in return.

It’s a double-edged sword, if anything.

Oliver further comprehended the core ideology behind it.

The knowledge he obtained was not mere Voodoo. It was the Voodoo used in the ancient era by the deadliest of demons.

Instead of clay dolls, this Voodoo uses living creatures; animals, or even children, turned into vessels. Hurting the vessel hurts the victim as well.

The only downside of using Ancestral Voodoo was the caster’s soul. Every time someone used this, they would be essentially signing a debt paid with soul.

The pact gets its power by marking both the target and the caster with a shared wound: whatever the victim loses, the land asks in return later from the caster’s soul.

He must also know the true name of the target every time.

The caster burns a page with the victim’s true name written in ink mixed with blood.

The effect is not immediate either—it’s a slow, torturous and agonizing process. The painful curses repeat at unpredictable times, often amplified.

And something that makes Ancestral Voodoo even more terrifying than the normal Voodoo was the Lineage Mark, which once placed on a victim also marks the victim’s descendants.

Touching the victim or their blood spreads a faint brand to the next generation.

The victims don’t die quickly. They are unmade in small ways; it all depends on the caster’s wishes. A mother’s lullaby turning into screams, a child’s laughter rotting into madness—suffering disguised as life.

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