A wagon stood ahead, loaded to the brim with plunder.
Several men moved around it—one look was enough to tell they came from the Wildlands. They were loudly arguing, gesturing wildly, already shoving each other.
Until the ground trembled.
They tensed at once, listening, turning toward the direction of the sound.
The rumble grew. Something was coming. And it didn't keep them waiting—soon a rider appeared on the horizon, and more followed behind him, horses advancing and raising a cloud of dust.
Their silhouettes sharpened as they approached the wagon.
"Form up!" the largest of the men shouted, gripping his sword hilt.
They drew their weapons almost simultaneously and turned toward the road, where the front line of riders was already emerging.
Aura surged within each of them, strengthening their bodies and sharpening their senses. Muscles filled with power, reactions quickened, and their eyes locked on the approaching riders.
There were three of them—Philip noted.
Three against twenty. What could they do? They must have fallen behind the main unit.
But something clung to Philip's thoughts, refusing to let go.
The trio's positioning looked wrong. Why stand like that? Why not abandon the loot and escape into the forest? Were they afraid to lose their haul? Then why stare straight at them, as if expecting a clash?
Philip's eyes widened. He was already turning toward his unit to shout a warning.
"It's a tra—"
BOOM!
The words were cut short.
A crossbow bolt shot from the top of the right slope, striking the ground beneath his horse's hooves.
The air collapsed inward, and an icy explosion tore the earth apart along with the horse's legs. The horse screamed, lost balance, and crashed forward, sliding across the road. A smear of black blood and shredded flesh trailed behind it.
Boom! Crack!
More blasts erupted behind him.
Horses reared in terror, throwing riders, and those riding in the back couldn't stop in time—they slammed into the first rows.
"Hold your horse!"
"Up!"
Voices clashed across the road, everyone shouting something different, trying to be heard over the shrieks of horses and the roar of explosions.
All fell silent under a thunderous bellow.
"Eat them! Down, now!"
Serek stood there, drawing his sword. He stepped forward, and his small unit moved with him, descending the slope in a sweeping charge.
Philip crawled out from under the fallen horse, intending to reach the slope.
Clang!
The three men from the wagon intercepted him. They lunged at once, giving him no chance to rise fully.
Philip blocked the first strike, dodged the second, and caught the third, feeling the pressure growing by the second.
Somewhere behind him, metal clashed violently.
Philip couldn't look back. He deflected another strike, the vibration stinging his wrist.
_Flow._—A Water School technique that diverts the attack line and redirects it aside.
Philip turned his blade so the first attacker's strike curved away—and straight into the second. That one barely managed to raise his sword, but it was enough for Philip.
A slash.
His blade drew a clean line across the attacker's throat, stopping just short of the spine.
A wet gasp. The man's eyes darted in confusion. His hand rose to his neck just as his head began to tilt back and a torrent of blood poured down like a waterfall, covering his chest.
A heartbeat of disbelief.
He fell.
"Bastard!" one of the two remaining roared.
Clang! Cling!
Philip parried one strike, then another—the steel clashed so rapidly the air itself trembled.
They pressed him together, but the momentum was shifting. Pain throbbed in his knee where the horse had crushed him, the crunch still vivid in his memory. But the pain didn't slow him.
Cling!
He caught one blade and shoved it aside, throwing the attacker off balance. The second swung from above, but Philip raised his sword and knocked the strike away so forcefully the man nearly stumbled.
Clang.
Now Philip was the one pressuring them.
_Shower of Blades._—Water School. Strikes so fast and relentless that the opponent's guard collapses after the first movement. Block one, and two more come instantly.
Philip unleashed the technique, and the enemy began to retreat at once.
Cling. Clang. Cling.
One strike sliced off his nose, leaving a gory pit. He screamed, but the torrent didn't stop. The next blow severed one ear, then the other—blood splattered across his shoulders.
Philip struck again, and the blade carved so deep into the man's cheek that it exposed his teeth. Strips of skin peeled away, revealing twitching muscle. The man staggered back, but Philip's blade caught him again, cutting across his temple in a broad arc.
The skull cracked. His face sagged into a shredded mass of skin and blood. He tried to inhale, but the air escaped through a torn hole beneath his eye.
Only then did he fall.
"You piece of shit!"
The last attacker charged from the side with a desperate scream. Philip didn't step aside. He didn't even fully raise his sword, as if the attack wasn't worth acknowledging.
The enemy blade sliced the air and nearly reached his neck. A moment before impact, something flashed.
_Explosion!_
Yellow light spread across the runes on Philip's armor, a thin honeycomb barrier flaring so brightly it blinded the attacker. The rune shuddered, cracked, and burst like glass, hurling the strike backward with far more force than he expected.
_Artifact!_—the last thought he managed.
Philip's next movement took his head clean off. It rolled across the ground, trailing a thin arc of blood.
Thud.
The headless body toppled, and a heavy boot the size of a log slammed onto the skull. Crunch! Bone splintered, flesh burst, and shards of skull scattered.
"Hahaha! Not bad! Not bad at all, little Boreas pup! You're truly your bitch of a father's son!"
Serek stood right before him.
One hand—drenched in blood up to the elbow—held the mangled corpse of one of Philip's knights.
Behind him the battle was growing. Serek's men formed a wall, pushing the knights back, giving them no ground.
Philip took a step, his knee cracking again. Pain flared through him, stabbing into his skull, but he didn't waver. His aura rose, drowning the pain.
He stood before Serek in the stance of the Water School.
***
At that same time, in the Boreas estate.
Sauros sat in his office, hunched over a desk that looked more like a battlefield of maps, reports, and ink stains. He held a dispatch in his hand, and each line made his scowl deepen.
"Fort Foss retaken. Casualties… The Foss family is dead… Serek was not found…"
He clenched the sheet so hard it nearly tore between his fingers. He reread the lines, as if hoping to see something else—but the words didn't change.
"Damn you…" he muttered, voice trembling with anger.
He tossed the report onto the table, knocking a goblet aside; it rolled to the edge. Sauros twitched, caught it at the last moment—but that only irritated him more.
"Again," he said louder. "Again it repeats."
He paced along the table.
"The fort taken, people slaughtered, and that bastard is nowhere…" Sauros stopped, braced his palms against the desk, and lowered his head.
He slammed his fist into the map. The inkwell bounced, scattering droplets. His fury didn't subside. He could feel that old, half‑forgotten agitation flaring in his chest—like in the years when every day brought bad news and every night ended in blood.
"The Ravager…" he spat. "I'll tear you apart myself."
Serek…
Sauros stared into nothing, and the memory surfaced.
Once, years ago, that bastard had been one of the King's Seven Swords. Seven of the strongest swordsmen in Asura. Seven monsters in human form, kept close so that their very title could frighten neighboring nations.
And that bastard was one of them.
A gutter rat who'd clawed his way out of poverty—who survived where half the royal guard wouldn't have lasted a week. Somehow he'd been noticed, dragged up, given rank, given a blade.
But the higher you climb, the harder you fall.
Sauros remembered the incident. A time when war raged with a neighboring kingdom, when everyone was at their limit, when a single mistake cost dozens of lives. And it was then that the bastard tried to abduct the king's daughter.
Good thing he failed. Good thing someone stopped him. The girl who stopped him… what was her name?
Sauros frowned. It was on the tip of his tongue but wouldn't come.
"Damn old age…"
Knock, knock…
Someone tapped timidly. A maid, he could tell by her steps—one of the new ones.
"Enter!" Sauros barked.
The door cracked open. Beastfolk ears peeked in first—and Sauros's mood rose slightly.
Whatever people said, he'd never hidden his tastes.
Yes, he purchased beastfolk sold into slavery and kept them in his household. "Low," "vulgar," "unworthy of the family"—he'd heard those words from nobles so many times he could recite them in his sleep.
"Powdered-ass cocksuckers," Sauros thought irritably.
But he did what he wanted. He had never pretended to need anyone's approval.
"M-Master… Sauros…" the maid said timidly, clutching a tray with wine.
Sauros softened and waved her closer.
"Come," he muttered, voice no longer as harsh.
She approached in small cautious steps. The tray trembled. Sauros took the goblet, and for a moment his expression eased further.
He smiled at her.
"All right, all right. It's fine, girl. Breathe…"
He swirled the wine, watching the dark liquid run down the sides.
He nodded thanks and tried to give her as gentle a smile as he could. But even his softest smile still looked like the snarl of an old lion—hardly comforting.
He turned to the window and lifted the goblet to take his first sip. He brought it to his lips and—
Bang!
His arm moved faster than thought.
The goblet flew from his fingers and shattered on the floor, and Sauros's hand slammed into the maid's throat, pinning her to the wall so sharply she choked, losing her breath.
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!"
His voice, empowered by battle aura, struck the room so loudly the walls quivered. Any normal person would've gone deaf for a moment, but he didn't notice.
The girl grasped desperately at his hand squeezing her throat. Her eyes widened, pupils trembling—her face a mask of pure fear and total confusion.
Sauros didn't loosen his grip.
He stared directly into her face, trying to catch anything—anything that explained the sudden spike of danger in his gut.
She jerked her head, trying to force out words. Air wouldn't come; only rasping breaths escaped.
"I… don't… understand… please… master…" she whispered hoarsely.
Sauros glanced at the shattered goblet on the floor. The spilled wine spread in a thin pool, and a faint purple vapor rose from it.
"You…" he growled.
He was ready to squeeze harder—his arm tensed—when something sliced his forearm.
Slash!
A thin line cut across his arm and stopped dangerously close to his throat. He jerked back and rolled across the office before the attack could follow.
The girl collapsed onto the floor, gulping air in broken gasps.
"Oh my, oh my… Who would've thought? The old lion still remembers how to bite!"
The mocking voice came from the maid—yet it no longer sounded like hers. A smooth playfulness ran through it, shifting toward a masculine tone.
"Ooh… f-forgive me, m-master… Did I do something wrong?.."
Pressing a finger to her lips and holding a bloodied dagger in her other hand, she—no, the thing wearing her skin—pouted cutely.
She swayed on her feet as if puzzled.
Sauros didn't move. His face stayed stone-like.
But his eyes.
From beneath heavy brows he looked at the disguised killer with a gleam like an animal's. Rage burned so fiercely it seemed the air trembled with the force of his aura. He held it back with effort.
"Again. Who. Are you."
The "girl" laughed brightly, throwing her head back like a child—though something venomous rang beneath it.
Then she gave a graceful bow, like an actress on stage, and flicked the blood from her dagger, scattering red droplets.
"I'm merely an actor," she said softly, shifting from a girlish tone to a smooth masculine one. "But a talented one. Many roles, many skins, many walks…"
She spun in place as if showing off a dress she wasn't wearing.
"And I admit, old man, I didn't expect you to react so fast… m-m~"
Her gaze slid to the spilled wine.
"You could've made it easy, you know~ One little sip… and you'd be sleeping now. Sweetly. Quietly… without pain."
She lifted her eyes and smiled unnaturally wide.
"But now…"
Shrrrk!
Sauros grabbed the edge of the table and hurled it at her.
The heavy furniture flew across the room, but she only laughed and flipped over it in a nimble somersault.
She slid past mid-air and in the next instant stepped right up to him.
Splat!
Her dagger nearly reached his throat, but Sauros raised his arm in time.
The blade cut into his forearm, meeting the resistance of muscle and skin.
"Oh…"
Sauros seized her shoulder with his other hand, pinned her so she couldn't even twitch, and slammed his forehead into hers.
Bang!
Her face dented inward and began to deform.
In the next moment Sauros poured his battle aura into another strike. The floor couldn't withstand it. The boards split and both of them crashed through, falling in an explosion of dust and splinters.
The crash summoned knights—the few who remained in the manor. The scuffle lasted less than three seconds, but the noise shook the whole estate.
Some knights burst into the office, freezing at the gaping hole in the floor. Others jumped down.
"Master!"
"Lord Sauros!"
"Enemy! Form up!"
Shouts flew one after another.
As the dust settled, Sauros stood upright.
Fresh cuts covered his body—many inflicted during the fall—but he stood as though unaware of them, staring only at the figure before him.
The "maid's" mask fell apart before their eyes.
A necklace on the figure's neck flickered dimly. Its final glow shattered into ash.
The body began to change.
Height stretched upward until the figure reached nearly two meters. A shocking contrast to the tiny maid from moments before. Hair fell out in clumps, replaced by pale blond strands falling forward like curtains.
Clothing tore at the shoulders and chest, unable to contain the muscle.
Moments later, a tall, wiry man stood before Sauros—smiling, utterly calm, as if everything so far had merely been the opening act.
Four knights immediately encircled him.
There were only four, but each Boreas knight wielded battle aura on the level of a small army.
And now all four stood ready to tear the stranger apart.
But the man only bowed smoothly, as if on a theater stage.
He extended one arm outward, the other behind his back, posing as he basked in invisible applause.
"Thank you, thank you… Such attentive audience. The looks on your faces… mm, priceless. Haha!"
He spoke like an actor after a final scene. He heard the guards rushing in.
"But unfortunately…" he drawled.
"SEIZE HIM!" Sauros roared.
The knights lunged simultaneously.
Boom!
A thick, acrid smoke flooded the corridor. It burned their eyes; two knights dropped to one knee, coughing violently.
"Kh… wh-what is—"
"Hold formation!"
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Bodies hit the ground somewhere within the smoke.
When the haze thinned, the scene became clear. Three knights lay motionless, their throats cut. The fourth—the one closest to the target—was wounded in the stomach and struggling to rise, leaving a trail of blood.
The man was gone.
"WHERE IS THAT FUCKING RAT?!"