As Allen's words fell, the bandits all took another synchronized step back, expressions twisted in growing fear.
You've got to be kidding. If even an advanced Sword God Style user got killed, we're just walking corpses if we charge in.
Toward the rear of the crowd, one low-tier Sword God Style bandit realized he didn't stand a chance. Using the wall of bodies ahead of him as cover, he tried to slip away.
But just as he turned—
Fwoosh—!
A piercing shriek of wind erupted behind his ear. A high-pitched crack echoed at the back of his skull.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something glinting—flashing past into the distant forest.
He froze.
Something cold crept across his flank. Water dripped softly onto the ground beside him—drip, drip, drip—and then came the stunned expressions on the faces of those around him.
He opened his mouth, dumbstruck. A cold realization crept in.
He looked down.
A crimson jet of blood was spurting from the center of his chest.
The proud chest muscles he used to brag about were now gone—replaced by a gaping, bloody crater.
Chunks of organ-laced gore bubbled from his lips. He staggered, turning toward the others for help.
But their faces had already blurred in his dimming vision.
Strangely, Allen's figure—standing far off, seemingly harmless—remained crystal clear.
That blood-drenched specter had one hand still extended in a throwing pose. When he saw the bandit looking his way, he even offered a distant, casual smile.
Darkness swallowed the world.
Thud.
The mutilated body collapsed like a sack of wet cloth.
All eyes turned from the corpse to Allen, who had just performed that lightning-fast throw—the North God Style's signature ranged technique.
Allen slowly retracted his open hand. The dead man's sword, once hanging at his waist, had vanished. A faint green shimmer rippled briefly over Allen's body, almost imperceptible.
The night wind stirred the air, but his voice was sharp, crystal clear:
"You all should know this by now—tonight, you have two choices."
"One: get on your knees, and die quietly."
"Two: kill me."
"And before any of you decide—"
He lifted his sword, its edge catching the firelight. His gaze passed over the heads of the stunned crowd and landed directly on Leopard, whose face had gone ashen.
"No one's getting out of here."
"So... my advice?"
Allen reversed his grip and ran the dull side of his blade across his shoulder. His tongue flicked out, licking a smear of blood from his cheek.
"I'm on a schedule."
Silence.
The bandits glanced at one another, but no one moved. Trapped between fear and greed, they stalled, paralyzed.
Toward the rear, Gray Hawk and Leopard exchanged a look—one of quiet, mutual understanding. The torchlight flickered across their grim, tight expressions.
Gray Hawk took a deep breath, about to shout something—
But a gust of wind blew dust into his eyes.
Leopard moved.
His foot struck the earth. Dust and gravel exploded beneath him as he launched forward and leapt high into the air!
Steel flashed—his blade dragged a long arc of light through the fire-glow.
A howling wind followed, his sword falling toward Allen like a comet.
Perception—
Allen's eyes rose, a calm smile on his lips. The forest fell silent. The bandits had barely registered the shift when Leopard's slender form, blade in both hands, came crashing down like a pouncing beast.
The arc of the strike lit up Allen's pupils.
North God Style Counter Slash—[Avalanche Descent].
A brutal overhead cleave—starting from a high stance, all aura focused on the edge to deliver an area-detonation on impact.
His grip on the hilt is shifting. Poor technique? Or a feint?
In a heartbeat, Leopard's strike collided with Allen.
The moment the blade neared Allen's throat—his own sword was already raised.
Perfectly intercepting the trajectory.
Their weapons clashed—BOOM!
Leopard's blade was knocked aside!
But—he no longer held it.
In that split-second, he'd abandoned his weapon. His body twisted midair and dropped to the ground beside Allen on all fours like a beast.
Stone cracked beneath him as he landed. In a blur, he lunged—right for Allen's waist.
At the same time, a dagger flashed with cold light, aiming for Allen's ribcage.
But before it could land, Leopard's expression changed.
He abandoned his dagger too, flipping backward like an acrobat, both hands on the ground to push off and retreat.
SCREECH—!
A piercing whistle rang out between them.
The dagger was now embedded in the dirt, shattered by Allen's backhanded strike. Casually, Allen drew his sword back from the fragments, tilting his head toward Leopard.
Leopard had retreated to a safe distance and snatched a new blade from a nearby comrade. His appearance was disheveled—but a wry smile curved his lips.
"...I thought your famed self-styled technique had improved again. So that was a baited feint—breaking Flow Technique midway, transitioning into a Sword God-style wrist-thrust to counterattack, huh? Clever... but not quite fast enough."
Allen chuckled, utterly unfazed.
"[Avalanche Descent]. Pretty basic stuff. And that four-legged stance—amusing. Then again, for someone who invests everything in trick plays, I doubt you'd understand the principles of real combat."
"Keep digging into your dog-paddle style. Might suit you better."
Leopard's smile faded. His narrow eyes flickered with a trace of resentment.
"You talk a lot for someone who's supposed to be the silent, stoic type."
Allen blinked innocently.
"Takes one to know one."
Leopard's voice rose theatrically, the gravity in his face easing as he spoke loud enough for all to hear:
"If it's just me you're fighting, you can break Flow Technique and counter. But if everyone attacks at once—would you still dare interrupt Flow Technique to strike back?"
He didn't wait for a response.
"Everyone saw it, right?! His defense relies on Water God Style! His counters aren't fast! And he can't use [Longsword of Silence]!"
"If we keep the pressure up, he won't be able to do a damn thing! One thousand gold—split however we want—then we all party in Rigait!"
Most of the gathered bandits were Sword God or North God Style users. That clash had given them just enough insight to feed their egos.
He's waiting for people to come to him.
All that trash talk—it's tactical baiting, nothing more...
Once that idea took root, it spread like wildfire.
Tempted by the allure of one thousand gold, their minds scrambled to rationalize their earlier hesitation.
That last guy's [Longsword of Silence] really was half-baked.
Sure, a few might die—but not me, right?
As long as I'm careful, that gold is as good as mine.
Suddenly, they felt brave again.
While the crowd stirred and tightened their grips, Leopard quietly furrowed his brow and took a small step back—letting the others move ahead of him.
Subtly, he exchanged a glance with Gray Hawk not far away.
Allen watched this with thinly veiled amusement. He hadn't spoken a word since.
He wanted this.
If it had been a few months ago, facing this many opponents in one night would've been reckless. He might've had to rely on pure aura endurance and hit-and-run tactics—whittling the enemy down like at the Upper Jaw of the Red Dragon Mountains.
But this forest wasn't that far from town. If even one got away, his location would be exposed. That would be... troublesome.
But—things were different now.
Certain things had undergone a fundamental transformation in recent months.
Like his swordsmanship.
Like the healing spell runes etched into his body.
And—
His evolved self-styled technique.