"Boss, the resistance is fierce. Our brothers are already taking hits. What do we do?"
"What do you mean, what do we do? The K.G.C.C. paid us a fat deposit, didn't they? The payout after this is done will be even bigger. You think that kind of money is just for show? They gave us bombs, didn't they? Those aren't scrap—they're prime goods stripped straight out of the arena."
"But boss, the headcount inside the knights' stronghold doesn't match what we were told. There seem to be dozens more than expected."
"So what? A few extra bodies change nothing. Don't forget the Organization's orders: even if we can't wipe them all out, the stronghold must burn."
As his younger brother and fellow crewman ran off with a torch, rallying the rest to set the place ablaze, Wind Dagger Bounty Group's leader, Kramer, rubbed his chin with an easy smile.
Killing and torching wasn't new to them—it was their trade. The only difference this time was the target: knights from one of the Kazimierz's orders. But the Organization's money was enough to smooth that out. After all, their gang only preyed on the weak and kept clear of real power.
"These extra knights… Could there be a whole detachment hiding inside the Order's estate?" Kramer muttered to himself. He never fully trusted the K.G.C.C. A false lead to make them bleed more resources wouldn't surprise him.
"…No. A third party? Impossible. No one would wade into this mess."
Grabbing his communicator, Kramer was met with good news:
"Boss, these knights fight like old fossils, relying on nothing but their outdated close-combat tricks. Resistance is collapsing fast. We're about to break through."
"Good. I'm leaving it to you, Kars."
"Ja!"
Kars, grinning wickedly, clutched a dagger in one hand and a freshly looted knight's sword in the other. "Blow that gate to pieces!"
At his command, several explosive charges—gifts from the K.G.C.C.—were hurled at the heavy doors. The ground-shaking blast tore them apart, shattering even the sandbags piled behind as cover.
Seeing victory within reach, Kars rushed in first. "Burn this place to ash!"
The bounty hunters stormed in behind him, cackling as they went. Most were dregs from the gutters—thugs and cutthroats who had nothing but their fists before turning bounty hunter. With weapons in hand and power at their backs, they became nightmares in flesh.
But Kars, drunk on triumph, never realized they had walked straight into a death trap—an execution ground disguised as a fortress.
Dozens of crossbows glinted coldly in the dark, trained on the intruders' bare steel. From inside the estate, behind the ruined sandbags, from shattered windows above, the black mouths of firearms slowly emerged.
"Where the hell are those knights? Don't tell me they're cowering in there. All they've got are swords and shields. Ha! Bring up the oil barrels—we'll smoke them out."
Kars sneered. No need to rush. If the knights wanted to hole up like turtles, he'd roast them alive.
"Pour it—"
His order cut off with a scream. An arrow, loosed from the shadows, drove clean through his hand.
"Argh—Verdammt! A crossbow—!"
Before he could finish, a storm of bolts rained from every angle. From above, gunfire thundered. Art-bullets lit the night, showering death without pause.
The so-called "elite mob" Kars barely lasted a few turns. He didn't even get the chance to mount much resistance before his body was riddled with arrows, two bullets to the head finishing the job.
"Damn it! Who the hell stole my kill?!"
"Stole? Look at him—he's more pincushion than man. You still think that was your kill? Get real."
"Kill rewards are based on damage dealt. Who landed the most?"
Yanfei exhaled over the barrel of her handgun, as if smoke lingered there, then slid in fresh Arts rounds. Her squadmates, who had seen everything clearly, exchanged secret high-fives. The sniping team from Yanyu Pavilion had proven devastating in this kind of fight.
If the bounty hunters had charged in melee, maybe the close-combat players lurking on the first floor could've grabbed a few finishing blows. But since the hunters had gone full scorched-earth, trying to burn out the stronghold, the players had no reason to show mercy either.
"How's the rest of the battlefield looking?"
"Huangtuan Houtu's side is under the heaviest assault. Over in the NA zone it's ugly too… Best-case, this wave of bounty squads retreats so we can peel off and support."
"Then let's put the fires out first… damn it, why don't we have a single sisters with awakened water-type Originium Arts?"
Cursing and grumbling, the players set about cleaning up the wreckage from the first probing battle.
Outside the stronghold, Kramer stood over the corpse of Kars—his brother—being dragged back by the bounty hunters. His face twisted with barely contained rage, the corner of his eye twitching.
Half a lifetime together. His brother, the man who'd been a peerless brawler up close… shot down like a dog by arrows?
"Boss, the defenders isn't a knight order at all. Those damn bastard from the Organization fed us fake intel. The ones inside were nothing but rats with crossbows."
"…Crossbows?"
Kramer's expression darkened further. He waved his hand dismissively. "Keep watching the stronghold. Not even a fly leaves alive."
"Ja!"
His men scattered. Kramer collapsed into a chair. He wanted to cry—but more than that, he wanted blood. He wanted the heads of those bastards in the K.G.C.C. who'd set them up with this false intelligence.
In Kazimierz, only one organization was notorious for fighting with crossbows.
The damned Armorless Union.
Kramer cursed aloud. Anyone dealing in black- or grey-market work knew the Organization was cozy with the Armorless Union. So what was this? Was they baiting them, pitting the bounty crews against each other to thin their ranks?
It was more than possible.
Kramer drew in a deep breath, face ashen. He'd lie low for now—after all, his objective was already met. The stronghold was burning, the damage was done. He'd still collect some payout… though his brother lay dead.
Bloodshot eyes gleamed with murderous resolve as he clenched his fists tight. Armorless Union… this grudge is carved in stone.
As for warning the other bounty groups? Not a chance. Too many of his own men had died—why should the others skate free? Let them bleed too. Best-case, they all get wiped out, leaving the Wind Dagger Gang to reign supreme.
He wasn't wrong to think so. Over at the stronghold defended by Huangtian Houtu and the other top players, three full bounty crews had gathered, throwing everything at it. After two probing assaults, the stronghold still held. The bounty hunters had lost dozens dead, more than twice as many wounded, and they still hadn't cracked the shell.
"Why would the Armorless Union even make a move? Aren't they in bed with the Organization?"
"Doesn't matter. Their numbers are small. I say we charge in, cut those assassins' heads clean off, and dump them at the Organization's feet. Let's see them explain that!"
"Damn right!"
Numbers bred confidence. Three bounty crews, over two hundred strong, massed for a third assault. They surged at the gates again. Explosives lit the sky, rattling the ground—half their stockpiles already spent. The battlefield was pocked with craters, yet the stronghold still refused to fall.
The bounty squad captain barked orders in sequence:
"Shields up front! Casters, locate their positions!"
The formation advanced, but before they could close in, another deadly volley of arrows and Art-bullets rained down from the stronghold above.
"Verdammt! Do these bastards from the Armorless Union have endless bolts and bullets?"
"Push forward! Los! Los!"
Curses and orders mixed with hollow bravado as the mercenaries surged again. Shield-bearing brutes led the charge, their massive tower shields raised high. The storm of arrows clattered uselessly against the wall of steel. Even so, one unlucky hunter took a shaft clean through the head and collapsed instantly. His comrade silently stepped forward to take his place, shield locking into formation.
"Advance!"
Their heavy boots pounded the dirt, eyes twisted with a savage gleam. It was clear what they were thinking: loot, slaughter, fire. The K.G.C.C. had given them permission to pillage, and they were ready to indulge.
Inside the stronghold, Huangtian Houtu sat cross-legged, long blade across his knees, expression calm and steady. Around him echoed the sobs of NPC knights, some wounded and being bandaged by their sisters-in-arms. He stayed silent, conserving strength.
"Houtu, they're bringing in Defenders—frontline heavies, a whole row of them! What's the call?"
"Casters, keep bombing! Guards, get ready to carve them up!"
Houtu rose as the captain of Blue Rain, barked commands. The Casters unleashed another wave of merciless bombardments. Explosions tore through the shield line, bodies staggering, screams splitting the air.
The bounty captains outside ground their teeth in fury. Four-sided siege, yet the fortress hadn't budged. Their intel had promised a handful of assassins—so why the hell were there this many Casters?!
"Charge!"
Just as the enemy defenders reeled, Houtu gave the signal. The melee fighters kicked the gates open, weapons flashing cold light. What remained of the knightly order, wounded but unbroken, rushed out beside them, their longswords raised high as they roared for vengeance.
Steel clashed. Blood sprayed.
The bounty hunters had never seen assassins fight like this. These so-called Armorless Union "rogues" fought like lunatics. One hunter hacked off an enemy's arm, only for the grinning bastard to jam a dagger straight into his chest a heartbeat later.
They're not fighting to win—they were fighting to drag their enemies into the grave.
Fear spread like wildfire. Mercs who were used to bullying the weak now faced opponents more terrifying than the strong.
Under a storm of Arts, arrows, and suicidal strikes, the bounty hunters faltered, pushed back step by bloody step until they found themselves at the same gate they'd entered through.
"Verdammt—we can't breach them!"
"Fall back! Regroup later!"
But as they stumbled along their escape route, a figure suddenly blocked the path—a middle-aged man in a long coat, calmly holding up an umbrella, reading a newspaper.
"You! Who the hell are you? What business do you have here?!"
One of the hunters, panic rising, didn't wait for an answer. With a roar, he swung his battle axe down at the man.
Clang!
The axe halted mid-swing. The newspaper fluttered to the ground. On its cover, not war reports, but wine reviews. And the man, still calm, had stopped the strike with nothing but a sheathed longsword. The blow hadn't even cracked the scabbard.
"People have forgotten what true struggle is… forgotten what it means to fight simply to survive."
"Who the hell cares what you're babbling about, you corporate dog!"
Several more hunters charged, blades slashing toward his arm, his waist, his thigh.
A flash of cold light.
Steel shrieked. Their weapons flew from their hands, clattering uselessly to the ground. Blood welled from fresh cuts across their arms, tendons sliced just deep enough to cripple. Their grips failed—they could no longer lift their weapons.
"Hey! Move it up there!"
"Don't block the way!"
"Out of the road, mutt! Get lost!"
The cavern was already crammed with three bounty hunter crews. None of them knew each other, and before this mission they had even fought over contracts. Now, with their lives on the line, nobody cared about anyone else's survival.
Just as the three groups were about to turn on each other, the middle-aged man let out a weary sigh.
"They don't even realize how disgraceful they are."
…And then, the rain came.
Raindrops fell. His umbrella had long since been cast aside, and at last his blade left its sheath. In the darkness, golden light tore open the night, ripping a hole through the gloom.
Like a flash of lightning in shadow, his sword aura surged forth, carrying his fury, his weariness, his helplessness, and his numb resolve—rushing straight into the bounty hunters.
—Shhk!
The sound of steel carving flesh. The result was only a little tougher than slicing tofu. Their armor was nothing before his strike. The front line of bounty hunters dropped like wheat before a scythe.
Then the second row. Then the third.
None of them got close enough to swing a weapon at the man. Terror overtook them instead. They scattered, screaming, sprinting toward the other exits.
When the vanguard and specialist players finally arrived, they froze at the sight. The enemies they'd been chasing were already lying on the ground, lifeless. Only the middle-aged swordsman remained—standing in the rain, letting it wash over his face and the blade in his hand.
MagicZX's eyes lit up. He rushed forward a few steps. "Młynar, sir, are you alright?"
Młynar shook his head. He still remembered the boy. "You have your mission… and I have my work."
"As for those who fled…" His eyes darkened. "There will always be holes for them to crawl into. And there will always be more of their kind waiting to welcome them."