Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 50: The Mountain Tree that Bleeds Skills, and A Daughter’s Summon

Chapter 50: The Mountain Tree that Bleeds Skills, and A Daughter's Summon.

As Oliver sat on the Carcass Plant, he stared into the dusky distance, wondering how he was supposed to kill the remaining scorpions.

So far, in this one-night trial, he had acquired the Carcass Mail and a pouch that acted as his inventory. There had also been a significant increase in his overall strength.

He had become strong enough that at just the age of ten, he had been capable of challenging a grown man like Garron in a fight.

Even though Garron had already Awakened his bloodline, Oliver still matched his strength.

There was no doubt that this was all a benefit of having a Deity-ranked bloodline.

Oliver was happy about this. But to say its troubles were not matched to the gift would be a lie.

No doubt, killing the remaining scorpions would further aid his quest for power.

He suddenly plucked a fruit from the tree. The moment he did, the scorpions stirred. They skittered about, shifting their positions as if to avoid getting hit.

Every time he turned toward a group of them with the fruit, they would react—repositioning themselves, kicking up dust as they moved, turning the desert into a swirling haze of grit and confusion.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Oliver cursed under his breath. “They’ve gotten smarter.”

He scanned the area, momentarily stunned. How was he supposed to attack an enemy that was evolving?

Still, he threw the fruit.

It landed with a dull thud, barely grazing one of the scorpions on its leg. Acid hissed on contact, sizzling into the hard chitin. Oliver frowned—he hadn’t made such a sloppy throw in a long time.

But then something strange happened.

The moment the injured scorpion faltered, the others swarmed it. They didn't hesitate. Dozens of stingers plunged into its body. Within seconds, it was dead. Then, as if nothing had happened, the rest scattered.

They didn’t even feed on it.

Oliver stared, mouth slightly open. There were no words—only silence, only confusion.

He slumped back on the plant, lost in thought. Then, he pulled up his stats.

---

Stats

Speed: B+

Strength: C+

Aether: B

Mental Endurance: A+ (Unranked)

Perception: B

---

He could feel it in his veins—he was close to the Blood Warrior rank. Once all his stats hit A+, he'd break through, and become a rank one Blood warrior.

But between him and that goal stood 29 Bottomless-Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpions.

And he was out of ideas.

No matter how many he had taken down, a part of him still feared them. Just because he had gotten lucky before didn’t mean he believed he was strong enough to face them head-on.

Then, a thought came to him.

His gaze shifted toward the floating, blood-red skull. “If I can farm points from this place,” he said slowly, “is there a place I can do the same… but for fighting skills?”

><The floating skull widened its grin. “But of course, there is. The Dream realm has any... and everything. Would you like to suspend the current trial?”

Oliver hesitated. The way the skull did not argue and just agreed. Also, with that smile on its face, Oliver had a feeling that something terrible was about to come.

But as of right now, he still could not face these creatures head-on.

The scorpions below still scuttled in the sand, their claws twitching in uneasy patterns.

He clenched his fists. Strength was not enough. Not if he didn’t know how to use it. Oliver still had plans to learn how to fight. But certain plans could not be in motion until after the Training period by the Vaelcrest.

The training period was in place to subject the minds of the slaves to a state of long-life servitude to the Somara empire.

Once it was over, he could act as he wanted.

Till then. Oliver sighed.

“I’ll take the risk,” Oliver muttered. “Suspend it. But I have a favour to ask. I know you can sense the waking world. Inform me, in case I am in danger.”

The skull nodded. Oliver’s request was reasonable. When he was asleep, he was unaware of the waking world.

There was such a time when he had woken up upside-down, bounded by chains. Those soldiers had been more patient with him.

Oliver doubted another enemy might be so kind. There was also the fact that he had been separated from his sister. Oliver did not trust anyone out there. Not even Garron.

People did things to favour themselves. And Pain was always a propeller of selfishness.

Fortunately, Oliver knew more about the night trial. As long as he had eight hours of sleep a day, he could spread the hours slept.

It was only compulsory if he had not slept throughout the day, and it was left eight hours to the end of the day.

Truly, the more familiar he was with his new circumstance, the better for him.

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The Skull willed and the world immediately twisted.

His vision blurred, his senses stretched and warped. The desert wind disappeared. His weight fell away. For a terrifying moment, he thought he was falling—but then he stopped. Suspended.

And then—

A tree.

A massive, divine thing that could never grow in the real world.

Its bark was crimson glass, and from its branches grew floating mountains—each one revolving slowly around the trunk like moons caught in orbit. The peaks shimmered, impossibly high. So tall, he couldn’t see the top of a single one. Some were cracked, some glowing. A few dripped blood like sap into the void.

He stood on one such branch, wide enough to be a world on its own. Before him, a red ring of flame pulsed like a heartbeat. Within it, words appeared in dripping blood glyphs:

>Welcome to the Trial of Skill.

You may ascend any Mountain.

But mastery must be earned in blood.

And then:

> Warning: Death here equals true death. Proceed with caution.

Oliver blinked. “Mountains? Skill trees? What the hell is this place?”

><“The Blood Tree of Asmodeus,”> the skull said from nowhere. <“As you already know, this is the inheritance of a demon deity. The Inheritor must suffer to earn the right to wield his legacy.”>

A second glyph appeared.

> Beginner Tier fighting Skill: One-Inch Punch: Mountain of Force Focus

A loud hum echoed, and a floating platform of red stone extended from the tree branch to a nearby mountain base. Oliver stepped onto it—tentatively—and was carried across to the first floating mountain.

It wasn’t empty.

At the base sat a monk-like figure, legs crossed in lotus position, hovering just above the stone. It was made entirely of red light, translucent and still. Its face was blank, as though carved from smoke, but its presence was overwhelming.

This was the first time Oliver was seeing a person in the night trial.

Even though this person did not feel like an actual person, it looked like one.

It was a different feeling.

Oliver took a step forward, but the moment he did, the figure moved.

Fast. Blindingly fast.

It struck Oliver’s chest with a single, effortless punch—so close it barely moved its arm.

BOOM!

Pain exploded through his ribs. Oliver flew back, skidding across the stone until his back slammed into the red wall. He coughed. Blood stained his lips, but it traced back into his body.

Still, the pain of the wound hit hard.

“What the hell—?” he wheezed.

The red monk returned to its pose as if nothing happened.

><“To learn force compression,”> the skull’s voice echoed, <“you must first withstand it.”>

Oliver gritted his teeth, forcing himself up. “That’s all? No instruction?”

<“You learn through pain. The more you endure, the more your body listens. Your blood remembers.”>

Round two.

Oliver could not fight, not in the standard sense. But it was not like he had never seen battles.

He could still throw a punch when he hand to. Maybe getting the technique was another issue, but throwing the punch was easy. And that monk—oh, he had a very punchable face.

He rushed the monk. Tried to punch first.

Bad idea.

He didn’t even see the counter—just felt it. His arm went numb. He collapsed again.

Again. Again.

Soon, Time lost meaning.

Ten strikes. Twenty. Thirty.

Each time he rose, the red monk struck in silence. There were no tells, no wasted motion. Just pure, controlled power. The kind that didn’t need speed or flourish. Just understanding.

And it was all in one move. It was the One-Inch Punch.

Oliver lay flat on the stone, breath ragged, sweat and blood soaking into the platform.

“Damn it…” he gasped. “I can’t… even touch it…”

><“Then you are learning,”> said the skull, hovering close. Its voice was no longer amused. <“But you must understand this: if your will breaks, if your soul falters, you will die. Your body will rot inside the real world. Choose wisely when to rest. But dont worry, i expected you to have fainted a couple of times by now. You are actually doing a good job.”>

Oliver was really feeling frustrated. How was he to learn when he was not even being thought the skill?

—just beaten by it

Fortunately, he had not died. Even though the skull had said that he could die from the hit, nothing had happened.

Just when he thought about this, the skull spoke up.

><"You do know that it's at the lowest hit rank... right?>

Oliver froze at those words.

......

Meanwhile...

Lady Seraphina stepped through the gilded gates of the Vontell Family Compound, her expression as impassive as porcelain. Despite the weight of the moment, her stride never broke. The sharp clack of her boots echoed like a song of returning dread.

The inner walls of the Somara Empire’s capital held only the highest echelons of nobility—the bloodlines so pure they claimed kinship with King Solomon himself. Of course, who in this empire did not claim that.

But then again, every society had its hierarchy, and this one was no different.

As per law, outer wall nobles like Viscounts Hadrian and Cedric were forbidden from entry without a formal writ. Thus, Seraphina was escorted solely by her handpicked guards and a few loyal attendants.

The moment she entered, the air thickened with Aether, denser than any place she had stepped in weeks. It clung to her skin like silk soaked in power. Each breath tingled with spiritual weight.

Then again, this was expected. Even though Aether was thin in the outside world, things operated differently here.

The Immovable Sentry—That incredible relic, did more than just protect the empire against intruders.

It gathered aether and fed it to the empire. That energy only got richer, the deeper one went to the center of the empire.

The Vontell estate sprawled before Seraphina —a palace carved of obsidian and bone-white stone, built upon sacred ground where it was said the Empire once signed blood-oaths with heaven.

Blood-red banners bearing the Vontell crest hung still despite the wind. And flanking the central walkway were soldiers—not just guards, but cultivators of such refined talent that a single one could split stone with a finger or silence a beast’s roar with a glance.

Yet… as they beheld her, some trembled.

A cold sweat formed on the brows of two younger guards. Even the slave servants, dusting the wind-carved statues or pruning violet flame-lilies, moved with robotic precision. No one wanted to be noticed. Not today. Not now.

Because Seraphina had returned.

And Seraphina’s return always meant blood in the halls.

She kept her eyes forward, her robes rustling like whispers of judgment.

After the issue with Grandmother of the Holy Church of light, she had changed clothes. Her long sleeves were lined with faint gold thread in the shapes of falcons—symbols of precision and control. Her black hair was bound tightly in an imperial knot, fixed with a single jade pin.

Of course, her attire was in her signature purple colour. freёwebnoѵel.com

As she reached the steps to her private quarters, a voice called softly:

“Lady Sera, darling. My voracious 'little girl'.”

Her spine tensed. Slowly, she turned.

Standing at the corner of the hall was a man—tall, thin, with sharp feminine features framed by powder-white makeup. His robes were high-collared and crimson, trailing along the marble floor with precision. His brows were painted in elegant curves, and his eyes held no fear.

Only calculation.

A eunuch.

And not just any eunuch—Master Yun—no second name, as he was of common birth. He was the right hand to the Duke of Vontell, her father.

The man many whispered had shared more than loyalty with her father.

Rumors claimed they were lovers. Not that it was rare for nobles to have an extra taste to their palettes. But things got dicy when it involved bloodline successions.

Many had dismissed those rumors, citing her mother’s pregnancy to birth her—which was also questionable.

Questionable enough for Grandmother to use it against her in their earlier confrontation.

Yet after her mother's mysterious death, her father never took another wife. He simply… adopted a son. A convenient son.

Seeing Yun was never a good sign.

“Master Yun,” she said, voice flat.

“Your journey from the Tyrell Kingdom was swift,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was high-pitched and silken. "Or was it the stench of your new husband's blood that gave you wings?”

She paused. Let the insult hang.

“You assume I bedded him first—you know, like you.” she replied. “However, this 'little girl' has forgotten your lessons. After all, at least you were more thorough, and killed my mother.”

Yun’s painted smile cracked, briefly, before restoring itself. “Ah. Still so sharp, like your mother’s tongue. I see you inherited more than her eyes.”

He unfurled a scroll from his sleeve and extended it with two fingers.

“The Duke requests your presence. Immediately.”

“I’ve barely arrived,” she replied, not taking it. “I will report in the morning.”

“I’m afraid the Duke… insists,” Yun said. “You know how he hates waiting. And how he rewards... DISOBEDIENCE.”

Seraphina’s eyes sharpened, certain past memories seemed to have come to life at those words. And she felt the need to itch a scar, hiding at her back.

But she fought the urge.

Her eyes lingered on the scroll. She took it without a word.

Then turned.

She did not look back.