"Let's make a bet, Walton..."
When these words calmly fell from Corleone's lips, Walton instinctively felt as if his world had started to change drastically.
Time seemed to freeze at this moment. His sword held high in mid-air, yet felt like it was stuck in viscous amber, unable to fall for a long time.
Everything around them—the swaying woods, the cold moonlight, the God's Eye, and even the tense Hound and Arya behind him—began to fade rapidly, blurring until they completely disappeared.
It was as if they had been stripped from this world.
Only he and Corleone remained.
"This... what is this..."
Walton spoke with difficulty, an unprecedented palpitation in his chest, as if standing before some indescribable great existence!
"Let's make a bet, Walton."
Corleone spoke again, his voice echoing in this void.
There was clearly no light source, yet the Gold Dragon in his hand emitted a glow that Walton couldn't look away from no matter what.
"I know, you are the best warrior in the Dreadfort."
"Your sword has drunk the blood of countless people and chopped off countless heads. You have unparalleled confidence in your own sword."
"But..."
Corleone changed the subject, the corners of his mouth rising slightly: "Just now, before you swung your sword, I had already broken your sword."
"In other words, what you hold tightly in your hand now is nothing but a pitiful broken sword."
Hearing this, Walton subconsciously looked at his hand. The refined steel blade shone coldly, clearly intact!
"What the fuck are you... talking about!"
Forcing himself to calm down, he roared loudly, but appeared somewhat fierce in appearance but weak inside.
"Don't believe me, do you?"
Corleone grinned, that smile appearing extremely mysterious under the glow of the Gold Dragon.
"Then let's make a bet. The stake is this one Gold Dragon."
Saying this, he flicked his finger slightly, tossing the dazzling Gold Dragon into the air, flipping.
"I bet your blade... cannot cut off my head!"
The moment his voice fell, Walton seemed to see the light of that Gold Dragon flicker violently!
Immediately after, he felt as if he had pressed his handprint on some supreme rule document.
"Are you kidding..." Walton took a deep breath, trying to dispel this absurd feeling.
Pride as the strongest warrior of the Dreadfort burned in his chest. He roared to embolden himself with his voice: "Don't think you can scare me with these pretentious tricks!"
"My, Walton's blade, will never miss!"
"Argh!!!"
Using all his strength to break free from that invisible stagnation, he hacked fiercely at Corleone's neck!
This strike was infused with all his beliefs, strength, and lifelong understanding of swordsmanship!
Absolutely... absolutely can win!!
However, facing such a strike, Corleone didn't dodge or evade, nor did he make any blocking motion!
He just stood there quietly, that unsettling mysterious smile still hanging on the corners of his mouth.
Then—
Clang!
Walton watched helplessly as the refined steel sword he believed in so deeply, the moment it touched the skin of Corleone's neck.
...Broke!!!
The front half of the blade drew an arc and fell lightly to the ground. In his hand, only half a ridiculous broken sword remained.
Broken...
Really... broken!!!
"No!!!!"
Walton's worldview collapsed instantly at this moment.
It wasn't just the blade that broke. Because the moment the sword broke, he felt as if something deep inside him, something that had supported him all his life, also broke along with it!
That was... his confidence and dignity!
He was no longer the feared "Steelshanks" Walton, just a... utterly defeated, humble wretch.
Thump!!!
His knees went soft, and Walton could no longer support himself, kneeling heavily on the ground.
His eyes lost their luster, leaving only boundless fear and blankness, as if an invisible hand had drained all strength from his body.
Only then did Corleone step forward slowly, reach out to gently grab Walton's hair, lifting his head to fully expose the fragile neck.
"Mer... mercy..."
Under the guidance of the rule, Walton had completely lost the will and courage to resist.
Like a lost lamb, he stared blankly at Corleone, murmuring a plea with his last strength: "Please... spare me."
"Lord Corleone... please give me another chance..."
Listening to his humble begging, Corleone's eyes remained stern, even carrying a trace of pity.
"As I always say, Walton."
But he ultimately spoke coldly, delivering the final judgment on Walton: "In this world, women and children are entitled to make mistakes, but men are not."
"You made your choice, and that choice was betrayal."
"Then, bearing the consequences of this choice is only natural."
Then, Corleone raised his longsword.
"I, Vito Corleone."
He murmured softly, whispering constantly in the darkness: "In view of your crime of betrayal... in the name of the Corleone family."
"Sentence you to death!"
The whispers ended. In Walton's vision, Corleone's face seemed to gradually blur, undergoing some kind of change.
It had no eyes, yet seemed to perceive everything; no mouth, yet pronounced the final fate.
This face eventually merged slowly with the face carved on the Heart Tree in his memory, like the Old Gods believed in by all Northern people since ancient times.
"So... that's it..."
Walton murmured to himself, a wave of regret rising in his heart. However, it was all too late.
Squelch~~~
The blade stabbed into the side of the neck with extreme precision, then was swiftly withdrawn, clean and crisp.
Walton's body swayed, the last bit of light in his eyes completely extinguished, and he fell forward.
Having done all this, Corleone stood straight by the lake, gently performing a sword flourish.
Swish!
With a flick of his wrist, he shook off all the warm blood droplets on the blade onto the grass, his movement as elegant as brushing off dust.
Turning his head, he looked not far away.
The Hound, Sandor Clegane, had collapsed weakly on the ground at some point, barely staying upright by leaning on Arya.
Both were staring dead at him with extremely shocked eyes at this moment.
"What the fuck are you..."
The Hound was somewhat incoherent, but suddenly remembered his previous experience with the Brotherhood Without Banners, and changed to: "You and Dondarrion, are you..."
"I have nothing to do with them."
Corleone interrupted him directly but didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked to his warhorse, untied something from it, and threw it to Arya.
"Needle!"
Catching it blankly, after seeing clearly what was in her arms, Arya shouted excitedly, then looked at Corleone with grateful eyes.
"I said, both of you owe me a favor. Now it seems you should remember it forever."
Looking at the little girl's happy appearance, the corners of Corleone's mouth rose slightly. Then he bowed slightly, like an artist who had just completed a perfect performance on stage.
"Allow me to introduce myself, you two."
His voice returned to its usual calm, speaking lightly:
"My name."
"Is Vito Corleone."