A single drop of blood fell from the tip of the blade, landing in the dust with a soft tap and blooming into a small, dark red spot. An immediate, dead silence fell. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, leaving only the ragged gasps of the remaining thugs. They stared at the cold corpses strewn across the ground, then glanced at the wailing, one-armed Thrax and the pale-faced expert in green. With their two leaders so easily disabled, their last shred of will to fight popped like a balloon and vanished. One man was the first to drop his blade with a clatter, falling to his knees with a thud. The rest quickly followed suit, pressing their heads to the ground, their voices choked with sobs. "Mercy! Lord, have mercy!"
Finn didn't even raise an eyelid. He walked straight through the crowd of kneeling men and stopped before the one-armed Brother Thrax the Mad. Thrax was slumped on the ground, his remaining left arm clutched protectively to his chest. His eyes were wide with terror, and his body trembled uncontrollably as he watched Finn's feet approach.
Without any unnecessary movement, Finn raised his foot and stomped down hard on the man's remaining left arm.
CRACK!
The sharp sound of splintering bone was as grating as cracking ice. Thrax's body convulsed, but before a scream could escape, the tip of Finn's boot tapped lightly against his temple. The motion looked gentle, but it carried a soft, insidious force that penetrated his body and instantly shattered the energy channels he had spent years cultivating.
"AHHH—!"
A shriek more piercing than when he had lost his arm tore through the air. Thrax curled up on the ground like a fish out of water, his body twitching violently. For a martial artist, having one's power crippled was a fate worse than death—a despair that hollowed out the very soul.
Finn bent down, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him like a dead dog to the carriage. His voice was as cold as ice. "Speak. Who sent you? What is the status of House Vance?"
The carriage curtain was flung open. Isolde, supported by the doorframe, stumbled out. Her face was even whiter than before, her fingertips still trembling. She forced herself to walk, her eyes fixed on Thrax, clinging to a final sliver of hope.
When Thrax saw Isolde, a flash of venom crossed his eyes, quickly followed by a strange pity, as if he were looking at someone already dead. He suddenly burst into maniacal laughter, a hoarse, grating sound like a broken gong. "Hahahaha... House Vance? Too late! It's all too late!"
His malicious gaze locked onto Isolde's face as he spat out each word. "Just last night, Elder Horace of the Trident League personally led a team and razed the Vance estate! Except for you and your little brother Jace, who was kept as bait... sixty-four members of House Vance, top to bottom, not a single one was left! Not even the newborns were spared!"
BOOM!
The news struck Isolde like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. She staggered, nearly collapsing to the ground, saved only by her grip on the carriage door. The last flicker of light in her eyes died completely. Her face was as white as a sheet, as if her soul had been ripped from her body. She even forgot to breathe.
Elder Horace... he was her fiancé Sir Aldric's most respected master, the pillar of support she had thought she could rely on!
Betrayal, annihilation... An overwhelming tide of grief and hatred swallowed her whole, making it impossible to even stand.
"Please... just give me a quick death..." Thrax lay on the ground, his power destroyed, clinging to a thread of life that was worse than death. He begged weakly.
Finn's gaze shifted to Isolde. He unfastened the sword from his waist and offered it to her, hilt-first, scabbard and all. His voice was flat. "Your vengeance. Take it yourself."
Isolde stared blankly at the sword, her eyes hollow. After a few seconds, she reached out with a trembling hand and grasped the cold hilt. The touch was like ice, numbing her fingertips. The moment her skin met steel, memories flooded her mind: her parents' kind faces, her brother Jace's mischievous smile, the warmth of her family gathered around the dinner table... all torn to bloody shreds by Thrax's words: "not a single one was left."
"AHHH—!"
A piercing scream tore through the sky, startling birds from the distant trees. Isolde ripped the sword from its scabbard, her eyes no longer holding any softness, only frenzied hatred. Like a maddened lioness, she pounced on Thrax, plunging the blade into his body again and again in a mechanical, crazed frenzy.
Squelch! Squelch!
The sound of the blade entering flesh was relentless. Blood splattered her fine dress and her delicate face, blooming like crimson flowers. She felt nothing—not Thrax's screams, not the coldness of the blade—only the ceaseless need to hack and stab, to vent the grief that was tearing her apart.
Only when Thrax had been reduced to a mangled pulp, utterly still, did Isolde collapse to her knees in exhaustion, the sword clattering to the ground. She buried her face in her bloodstained hands and let out a choked, desperate sob, her shoulders shaking like a lost child's.
Finn stood by silently, watching it all with an unchanging expression. He bent down, picked up the sword, took a cloth from his coat, and carefully wiped the blood from the blade before sheathing it. His movements were as composed as if he were performing a mundane chore.
"We continue to Silverwood Prefecture," he said, his voice pulling Isolde from her despair.
Isolde snapped her head up. Tears and blood streaked her face, a wretched sight, but her eyes held a new, grim determination. "Yes! I have to save Jace! My brother is still in their hands! He's the only hope House Vance has left!"
"You need to be clear. Your opponent is Horace, an elder of the Trident League and a Champion-rank expert," Finn's voice was calm to the point of cruelty, hiding nothing. "My previous promise was to help you within my capabilities. If the situation exceeds my ability to handle, I will not risk my own life—that is my bottom line."
Isolde's body went rigid. She understood perfectly. Faced with a Champion, Finn could abandon her at any moment.
The carriage started moving again, its wheels rumbling on the road. The atmosphere inside was suffocating, the air heavy and oppressive. As they drew closer to Silverwood Prefecture, the number of pedestrians on the roads increased, but the despair in Isolde's heart only deepened. She knew Finn was her only hope of rescuing her brother, but that hope was as fragile as a candle in the wind, liable to be extinguished at any moment.
What leverage did she have left? Money? The hundred thousand gold coins were nothing to a Champion. The treasure map fragment? She didn't even know what treasure it led to, let alone if it would be enough to move Finn. In the face of life and death, such things seemed pale and insignificant.
Suddenly, as if she had made a momentous decision, the despair in Isolde's eyes slowly faded, replaced by the grim resolve of someone betting everything on a final gamble.
Inside the swaying carriage, she slowly raised her head. Her tear-filled eyes, reflecting the dim light, fixed on Finn. Then, with trembling hands, she undid the sash of her robe—an embroidered silk ribbon that came loose with a gentle pull.
The fine outer robe slid from her shoulders and pooled in her lap, revealing the white silk chemise beneath. The thin fabric clung to her graceful figure, outlining her soft curves. She didn't stop. Her fingers continued to tremble as she undid the buttons of her chemise, one by one...
"What are you doing?" Finn's brow furrowed. A hint of wariness entered his eyes as he leaned slightly forward.
"Mr. Adler... no, Mr. Faelan," Isolde's voice was choked with tears but strangely firm, carrying the finality of someone burning their bridges. "Money, the map... I've already given you everything I can. Now... all I have left is my body..."
Her voice grew quieter, but her words reached Finn clearly. "If you would have me... I am willing to use it to make a new deal with you. All I ask is that you save my brother Jace, no matter what. I'm begging you..."
Her pale skin seemed to glow in the dim carriage, a dazzling sight. It was, admittedly, an incredibly tempting offer—a beautiful young noblewoman, offering herself for a promise. The faintest flicker of desire passed through Finn's eyes, but it was extinguished in an instant by a deeper rationality.
He reached out, not to touch her tempting body, but to pick up the robe from her lap and gently drape it back over her shoulders. The gesture was gentle but carried an undeniable authority.
"Put it on," he said. His voice was still flat, devoid of emotion, yet it was a command.
"Our previous deal was settled. For one hundred thousand gold coins, I would get you past the checkpoint. As for saving your brother, I'll repeat myself: I will do my best—on the condition that my own life is not at risk."
He paused, his gaze falling on Isolde's surprised face. "I, Finn Adler, may act for profit, but I also honor my commitments. I don't need to add leverage this way, and I certainly won't take advantage of someone in their moment of weakness."
He was no saint; he had normal desires. But he knew better than anyone that once he accepted this "deal," their relationship would become complicated. A partnership tainted by personal feelings would affect his judgment, and in the treacherous Savage Reach, a single misjudgment could be fatal.
Isolde stared at Finn, her eyes filled with disbelief. She never imagined that in this dog-eat-dog world, the same "god of slaughter" who had created a river of blood in the shrine would refuse her final, most humiliating offer.
Her plan had failed, yet she felt a strange sense of relief, as if a great burden had been lifted. She silently retied the sash of her robe and sat up straight. The silence in the carriage remained, but the atmosphere was a little less tense than before.
The carriage rolled slowly through the gates of Silverwood Prefecture. The three large characters for "Silverwood Prefecture" were carved into the towering gatehouse, and the guards at the entrance, clad in standard-issue armor, eyed the passing travelers warily. The streets were lined with bustling shops, the air filled with the cries of merchants and the sounds of horses and carts—a scene of prosperity.
But no one knew that beneath this flourishing surface, an inescapable net had already been cast for them. Elder Horace and the Trident League were likely already waiting for them to walk right into it.
The real challenge was only just beginning.