Level 1 to Infinity: My Bloodline Is the Ultimate Cheat!

The crew spent the entire morning clearing out the mud. By the time they were ready to cook lunch, the sky, which had been clear all morning, suddenly darkened.

In less than three minutes, thick storm clouds rolled in, and an even heavier downpour than the day before came crashing down.

The squad leader cursed under his breath. If this kept up, all their morning's work would be for nothing.

Without hesitation, he assigned a few men to build a waterproof barrier around the well to keep more mud and rainwater from spilling in. They also threw up a plastic tarp over the opening as a makeshift shelter.

Once everything was secured, everyone returned to the courtyard—everyone except Old Man Carter and his kids.

The three of them remained huddled in the donkey stable, chewing on stale rations.

The rain didn't let up. It poured through the night and well into the next morning. This wasn't even the rainy season. A storm like this shouldn't have lasted this long.

At dawn, the squad leader ordered the men back down into the well to resume clearing it out.

Luckily, their previous efforts had paid off. Thanks to the waterproofing, the well hadn't filled up as much as before.

This time, four men climbed down to work.

And then—it happened again.

Within minutes, all four started screaming at the top of their lungs. Unlike the day before, it didn't stop after a few seconds.

Their howls went on for a full minute, echoing from the depths of the well.

At first, the others thought they were just messing around, playing the same prank as yesterday.

But Old Man Carter's expression darkened. "Pull them up! Now!"

The rope crew scrambled to haul them back up.

Strangely enough, the moment their heads emerged from the well, the screaming stopped.

As if nothing had happened.

Everyone gathered around, demanding answers. But the four men looked dazed and confused.

They couldn't remember a thing.

The squad leader's brows furrowed. These were trained soldiers, disciplined men, not the type to crack under pressure. But something about this whole situation felt off.

A wave of unease spread through the group.

Old Man Carter finally spoke. "This is too damn weird. I'm telling you, fill that well back up and drill somewhere else."

The squad leader's expression hardened. Three days. That's how long his unit had been stuck in this village.

Not a single well completed.

If his superiors found out, it would be a black mark on his record. There was no way he was letting some old man's superstitions delay them further.

His voice was firm. "No. We keep going."

He handpicked four new men and sent them down. This time, nothing happened.

Relieved, the squad leader decided to push forward. They'd wasted too much time already. By noon, he gave orders to skip the hot meal—just eat dry rations and keep working.

Bucket after bucket of dirt was hauled up. The deeper they dug, the closer they got to hitting the underground water source.

Then, a voice came from below.

"Why the hell is Mark's uniform down here?"

One of the men at the bottom of the well yanked something out of the mud—a military jacket. It was the same uniform they all wore, complete with the standard-issue name patch over the chest.

It read: Third Battalion, Fourth Squad – Mark Dawson

That was strange enough. But what sent a chill through everyone was where they'd found it.

Buried in the mud.

The squad leader dismissed it at first. "He must've dropped it earlier, and no one noticed."

It made sense. The heat had been unbearable, and plenty of men had taken off their jackets and tossed them aside while working.

Just as he was about to call for Mark Dawson, a terrified shout erupted from the well.

"PULL US UP! NOW!"

The men topside didn't ask questions. They rushed to haul them back up. As soon as the workers emerged, their faces were pale, bodies trembling.

They were scared.

Really scared.

The squad leader's patience snapped. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

One of the men stammered, "C-Captain… t-the clothes… t-there's more…"

The squad leader scowled. "More what?"

"The uniforms," the man whispered, voice shaking. "The whole bottom of the well… it's full of them. We—we dug them out of the dirt. Not dropped… buried."

The squad leader froze.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring. Then, without a word, he grabbed a rope, tied it around his waist, and swung one leg over the edge of the well.

"Lower me down. I need to see this for myself."

Just as he was about to descend, a young soldier came sprinting from the village, stumbling so hard he nearly fell flat on his face.

"Captain—Captain! Something's happened!"

The squad leader groaned in frustration. "What now?"

The soldier gasped for breath, pointing toward the courtyard. His voice cracked as he stammered, "D-Dead… there are dead men!"

Everything stopped.

The squad leader paled. Without another word, he leapt off the well's edge and bolted toward the courtyard.

A death on his watch? If this got out, his career was over.

The others followed, abandoning their work at the well. When they reached the house, they skidded to a stop just outside the door.

No one stepped inside. Some even took a few steps back.

Every single soldier stood frozen in place, eyes wide with horror.

Hanging from the main support beam were eight bodies.

Eight men.

Shirts stripped off, their bare torsos exposed.

Their tongues lolled out grotesquely, lips curled unnaturally outward. Their bulging eyes strained from their sockets, faces twisted into terrifying grimaces.

The sight was unnatural, wrong in a way that made the stomach twist.

Old Man Carter, standing in the crowd, sucked in a sharp breath. His voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Eight at once…? How?"

The squad leader's hands were slick with sweat. He forced himself to take a deep breath before barking out an order.

"Cut them down! Everyone, arm yourselves. Lock down the village—no one leaves."

The moment those words left his mouth, a cold realization set in. He had to find a culprit. If he didn't, he was done.

His rank, his career—everything would be gone.

As the soldiers moved into action, Old Man Carter took a slow drag from his pipe, his eyes fixed on the wooden beams above.

He stepped into the house, gaze sweeping across the room, scanning the rafters.

Then—he stopped.

His eyes narrowed at a faint, almost invisible mark near the far end of the beam. It was an old cut, much older than the seven deep slashes they had seen before.

Unlike those, this one was barely noticeable. It had been carved long ago, likely before the beam had even been stripped of its bark.

To an untrained eye, it would look like a natural imperfection in the wood.

But Old Man Carter wasn't just anyone.

Before the war, before everything, he had been a man who knew blades, who used blades. He had cut down his fair share of Serpent Isle invaders.

And this? This was a blade mark.

A very old one.

Meanwhile, outside, the villagers had been rounded up.

From the eldest elders to mothers clutching infants, every single one was gathered at the village entrance.

A murmur of uneasy voices spread through the crowd.

"What are you doing?"

"You have no right to hold us here!"

"This is no different from banditry! Is there no law anymore?"

Despite their complaints, no one dared step forward to resist. The sight of armed soldiers kept them in check.

The squad leader scanned the crowd, his expression dark. If he didn't find a culprit soon, he knew what would happen to him the moment he reported back.

Best case? A demotion. Worst case? A dishonorable discharge. Years of service, all gone.

His voice was cold. "Someone in this village is responsible. Turn them over now, or you all take the fall."

A tense silence settled. Then, the village chief spoke up.

"I warned you," he said, his voice steady. "I told you that house wasn't clean. You refused to listen. And now that something happened, you're blaming us?"

His words stoked the tension. Several villagers muttered in agreement, their earlier fear turning into resentment.

The squad leader's jaw tightened. Without thinking, he pulled his pistol and pressed it to the chief's forehead.

"Say that again," he growled.

The villagers gasped, a few taking a step back.

The chief, however, didn't flinch. He simply looked the younger man in the eye and said, "Pull the trigger if you want. But don't act like this isn't on you."

Before the squad leader could respond, Old Man Carter stepped out of the house. His gaze was distant, but his words were clear.

"They killed themselves."