Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!

"Guys... I-I'm not the only one feeling this, right?" Freya stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Unfortunately not, Freya. I'm sensing it too," Art replied, attempting a casual tone. "And let me tell you—it's not exactly sunshine and rainbows over here."

But even as the words left his mouth, his voice cracked, betraying the forced bravado.

Art scoffed inwardly. 'And here I was, all cocky, thinking I'd just scoot off the moment things got dicey… He clenched his jaw. Idiot. Fucking idiot.'

At once something clicked in his brain, a thought which had barely left his mind. He turned on instinct, eyes searching through the thick, colorless dark. He wasn't even sure which direction he faced anymore, but his mind was clear in its intent.

He was looking for Zyon.

And as if summoned by that silent desperation, Zyon's voice rang out—calm, indifferent. "Yes. I'm immune to it. I already couldn't harness mana, remember? This... doesn't feel that different. I'll carry you all out. One by one."

Art's eyes lit up.

He snapped his fingers, a spark of genuine hope flickering for the first time. "Then what the hell are you waiting for?! Start with me!"

He didn't even have to finish.

Zyon was already in motion.

A blur.

An impact.

A sharp whoosh followed by a brief sensation of weightlessness—then Art was hurled upward, out of the suffocating dark. His back slammed into the ceiling—or rather, what had become the ceiling—and he grunted, wind knocked from his lungs.

But something clicked. He felt mana again. It was working.

Without hesitating, he raised his hands and chained his limbs to the new ground—an anchor to prevent the darkness from swallowing him again.

And just like that, others began shooting up one by one—Freya, Celeste, Lilith, and even Zyon. Each time, Art reacted quickly, binding them to the surface with chains made with raw mana.

When Zyon finally hit the ground, Art bound him too.

But as their numbers gathered and safety felt within reach—something else stirred.

The shadows below didn't retreat.

They grew.

Lilith's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "No. No. No! Why the hell is that thing still increasing? It's moving like a goddamn snail, but I swear—it's spreading!"

Art watched with parted lips, eyes wide as he realized she was right. "Yeah... I can see it too."

Celeste wasn't going to let the opportunity slide.

"Oh, now you see? Must be something tied to this place's history. Maybe a reason it's sealed in legends. But no—you just had to act like a smug little brat. And now you're dragging all of us into your personal grave."

He had no comeback.

Not because he couldn't think of one.

But because she was right.

Every word, a jab to the gut.

He acted like he could control everything, like danger wouldn't dare touch him. And now—here they were. Because of his arrogance.

His hands trembled slightly as he looked around at his friends—people who trusted him, followed him, believed in him. And he had dragged them into hell.

He exhaled, the sound hollow in the still air.

Then, without a word, he raised his right hand and began creating a portal.

Celeste's eyes widened. She immediately understood what he was trying to do.

"No. Don't. Don't do this, Art. What the fuck do you think you're doing?! We're not leaving you here!"

He met her gaze—his was calm, resolute, and hollow.

"You don't have a choice."

Before she could stop him, before anyone could argue, he flung them—Celeste, Lilith, Freya, Zyon, everyone—into the portal. Flinging them with everything he had left.

Their screams tore through the air in unison.

"ART!!!"

But they never made it through.

A crackling snap echoed.

A ripple of mana—erratic and volatile—burst out from the castle's very walls. The portal twisted and then collapsed entirely. Just like that—gone.

And then—a voice.

Chilling, regal and cold, echoed through the walls. Reverberating the air and most importantly… Art.

"You have far more within you than I expected... My dear son."

Everyone froze.

The shadows pulsed.

"I hope... you are fully aware of what you've done. And the price you would have to pay for it."

Art felt the air thicken, as if his own blood was turning to dust.

"Because now—I will not take 'No' for an answer. There are things one shouldn't do. Searching for history is one such matter."

The castle trembled.

Then, without warning, the reflection collapsed in on itself. The barrier shimmered back into existence. With a quiet hum, the castle began to reconstruct itself, returning to its original, pristine form.

The darkness receded like a tide. The oppressive weight it carried was gone—but the room remained heavy.

No one moved.

Especially not Art.

He stood still at the center, with restraint. White-hot hatred swirled within him like a storm, but none of it surfaced. He couldn't let it out.

His head hung low, hair shadowing his eyes, lips pressed into a tight line. He was the picture of calm, but only to those who didn't know him.

His friends exchanged glances from the side, eyes narrowed in quiet unease. It was the first time they had seen Art like this—silent, composed… but hollow.

Their gaze slowly shifted to the man in front of him.

Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a white mantle with golden trim—his presence alone commanded reverence. Long blonde hair fell like a mane behind him, and those piercing sapphire eyes seemed to strip away all pretense with a glance.

Fyudor Alaris.

The King of Alaris.

And Art's father.

Fyudor's gaze was fixed solely on his son. Eyes sharp, unreadable, as if seeing through him. He stepped forward, not with the grace of a king, but the certainty of someone who had long since stopped being questioned.

He placed a firm hand on Art's shoulder.

"Boy," he said, voice deep and steady, "why do you insist on doing this? You were prohibited, weren't you? What sort of twisted pleasure do you derive from this defiance?"

Art didn't flinch.

He lifted his head slowly, and met his father's gaze head-on. His voice was flat—measured.

"I need to talk to you," he said. "Alone. Get them out of here."

Fyudor raised a brow.

His head turned slightly, eyes shifting toward the group huddled behind. Under his gaze, they stiffened like prey caught in a predator's stare. Even the air felt colder.

Then he snapped his fingers.

An oval portal bloomed into existence. And in the next instant, before any protest could be raised, the group was flung into it, like leaves caught in a gale.

They had no choice. The portal swallowed them whole, and then disappeared without a trace.

Only father and son remained.

Fyudor moved to the grand sofa behind him. He sat down, one leg crossed over the other, his expression unreadable. With a wave of his hand, he gestured at Art. "Speak."

Art didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, head high, eyes burning—not with rage, but purpose.

"Fyudor Alaris," he began, voice firm, "I want the truth of the past. And if you refuse that, then at least tell me how to kill those… things. Those incomprehensible beings."

He paused, then added, voice darker now, "I know you know more than you're letting on."

Fyudor studied him in silence for a moment. Then he smiled.

A calm, slow smile.

"You've grown guts," he said, as if it were a novelty. "At the very least, that's commendable."

He leaned back, fingers steepled. "Now… as for your request."

Fyudor's tone shifted—colder now. "I cannot tell you the truth of the past. Anyone below Rank ★★★★★★ simply cannot bear it. The knowledge alone… would break you."

Art's hands tightened into fists, but he remained quiet.

"The incomprehensible beings you speak of," Fyudor continued, "they've always been here. Lurking in the cracks of reality. Our world's history is stained with their presence. Their influence runs deeper than you can imagine."

Art nodded slowly, accepting the answer, but didn't back down. "Then do you at least have a way of defeating them?"

Fyudor raised a finger, silencing him. "I wasn't finished."

Art swallowed, his throat dry. "...I'm sorry."

Fyudor turned his gaze upward, toward the high, gilded ceiling. "As I said, those beneath Rank ★★★★★★ cannot withstand the truth. But… since my dear son has reached that rank, perhaps it's time you learned a fragment of the puzzle we call history."

Art's eyes widened. He parted his lips—whether to object or ask, even he didn't know. But under the weight of his father's gaze, he fell silent again.

Fyudor nodded in approval. "Good."

He tapped a finger on the armrest. "Now listen well. Those entities you seek to fight—the eldritch ones—can only be killed by others of their kind. Humans, no matter how strong, cannot kill them. They do not exist on the same plane of reality as us."

Art's stomach dropped. The words felt like a chain wrapped around his hope.

He needed a way to destroy the Red Sea. To reach the merfolk kingdom. To find Cassius. There had to be a way.

"There is no reason to despair," Fyudor said, almost casually. "Those sad emotions you're bottling up? They'll only feed one of them. Let them linger, and you'll summon something far worse."

He leaned further into the sofa, one hand on his chin, the other draped across the backrest. "You know, our universe is created by three Great Old Ones. Creatures—eldritch and beyond understanding. Our entire existence is but the aftermath of their games."

Art's breath caught.

He had expected something—anything—but not that.