Allen's lazy voice rode the night wind, drifting across the camp and brushing against the ears of the bandits.
Everyone froze.
Leopard narrowed his eyes, locking his gaze onto Allen's face. In the span of a single breath, a flicker of delight bloomed across his expression.
The target walked right in? The intel was real!
Gray Hawk, standing beside him, reacted even faster. He opened his mouth and roared:
"Allen! That's Allen! Night Lion-sama's intel was spot on—he actually dared walk into our camp?! Kill him! Night Lion-sama said it himself—he's not taking a single coin of the bounty! The full thousand gold is ours to split!"
The moment those words left his mouth, the thirty-plus men in the camp stiffened in unison. Even the air seemed to still for a heartbeat.
Then—shing!—a chorus of steel tore through the silence. Blades flashed wildly in the torchlight.
"Kill him!!"
With Gray Hawk's furious cry, every bandit lunged toward Allen, eyes blazing with bloodlust.
The thunder of thirty feet pounded the clearing, loud enough to shake the trees. Dust rose in thick clouds under the dark sky.
Allen narrowed his eyes at the sight.
Then, without warning, he stepped forward—right from the border between light and shadow.
The earth burst at his feet. His body shot forth like an arrow!
One man versus thirty-plus.
The clash began.
Someone near the front of the charging mob let out a gleeful cry:
"A thousand gold! Hahaha—finally, I can hit Rigait and blow it all on women! Kill him!"
Even as the words left his mouth, that bandit—a mid-level practitioner of Sword God Style—had already closed the gap.
Allen glanced at him—just a glance—and instantly read his blade's path. He pivoted smoothly, dodging the downward slash with a twist of his body, and in the same motion stepped into the man's right flank.
A strange posture—low, twisted, as if he couldn't possibly draw force from it.
Their eyes locked for an instant.
Allen's toes lifted off the ground.
The blade was unsheathed.
He spun midair, arms whipping, bringing the arc of his strike upward from his foot's curve—
North God Style — [Circle Heaven Slash]!
Under the orange torchlight, the blade carved a beautiful crescent through the air. Battle aura surged at the edge, drawing a pressure wave in its wake.
The bandit was quick. He immediately brought his own sword up in defense.
Clang!
A violent clash. Steel screamed against steel.
But in the next moment, the bandit's eyes widened in horror—his blade shattered into fragments midair.
Allen's attack hadn't slowed in the slightest. It tore past the guard, sliced through liver, shattered ribs, slashed through the lungs, severed the spine, pierced the heart, cleaved the shoulder blades, burst through the clavicle, skimmed the cheek, and split the teeth—exiting with a clean slash through the torn edge of the ear.
How long does it take a blade to tear through a human body?
Less than a breath.
The next moment—
Allen landed lightly on one foot, sheathed his sword, and took a single step forward—passing straight through the man's body.
Behind him, the bandit split in two, bursting open in the cold night air.
Flesh shredded by the wind. Unrecognizable organs. Bone fragments tinged pale by blood. All of it splattered across Allen's shoulders and back as he passed.
The bandits froze mid-charge, gaping at the figure before them—a blood-drenched butcher who looked like he'd walked straight out of a slaughterhouse.
Only, this wasn't the slaughter of monsters or beasts.
It was men.
The butcher casually brushed some loose gore from his shoulder.
"Duels are too restrictive," he said, tone light, almost amused. "They hold you back—keep you from using the full destructive force of a real North God Style battle technique. A fight to the death, now that gets the blood pumping."
He flicked his blade across the ground, drawing a long red line in the dirt. A faint green glow flashed across his arm for half a second.
The healing spell's rune—triggered. The wear on his body from North God-style real combat had already been mended.
Allen looked at the frozen mob of bandits and grinned.
"What's wrong? No one else coming?"
From the rear, Leopard had watched Allen's strike in full. His face had gone dark.
That was North God Style's practical killing form... This brat's not just an advanced Water God Style user...
Allen lifted his gaze beyond the crowd, looking straight at Leopard—whose delicate features were now twisted with killing intent. Then, he glanced around at the bandits who had silently surrounded him, yet made no move to advance.
"What's the matter? Are you all scared?"
Silence.
These men were nothing if not opportunists. At this moment, not a single one was willing to be the first to step forward. Each hoped to let someone else take the front line.
And so, like cowards thinking the same thought, the entire crowd took a synchronized step backward.
Perfect unison.
Allen chuckled, crouching slightly into an awkward stance, resting the dulling back of his blade on his right shoulder.
"You lot were all fire and fury a moment ago—shouting, charging, eyes red with greed. And now? If you're scared, I suggest you kneel and start kowtowing. I'll make it quick."
Leopard's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. But Gray Hawk, ever unable to stand people acting cool, raised his voice, ready to rally the group and mob Allen to death.
But before he could—
"Arrogant little shit!"
A roar cut through the camp.
One of the bandits, a man with a bushy beard, eyes blazing, couldn't take Allen's taunting anymore.
Before his shout had fully echoed, the ground beneath him exploded. His figure vanished in a flash.
[Longsword of Silence]
Sword God Style — Advanced level!
In a blink, he was in front of Allen, colliding with him at blinding speed.
The wind shrieked. The impact sent shockwaves outward, rattling the trees. The night split with the sound of tearing flesh.
The two men stood still—just for a heartbeat.
Then—
The bearded bandit's body crumbled like a pre-assembled model. One light tap from Allen had broken him into pieces.
Cleanly cut chunks fell like rain, landing at Allen's feet. Blood poured over him, head to toe. He didn't even shift from his casual, blade-on-shoulder posture.
Silence.
In the distance, Leopard swallowed hard, choking on the words he'd been about to say. He recognized it—this was the opening form of Allen Boreas Greyrat's original technique.
But according to intelligence, Allen could only use it for defense. This… this wasn't supposed to be possible.
His expression turned ugly. He exchanged a glance with the equally grim-faced Gray Hawk.
The intel's wrong.
But if it was wrong—then why did the behavior of the fallen body, the way it dropped without momentum, match perfectly with advanced Water God Style's "Flow Technique"?
What was going on?
Just then, Allen spoke.
His tone was relaxed, almost bored, as he looked down at the severed head near his feet.
"A barely grasped [Longsword of Silence]. Aura control was sloppy. Too focused on destruction—completely ignored speed. Easy to read."
He gave the head a glance.
"Didn't die unjustly."