“What a breathtaking creature… she’s been tormenting my thoughts this entire journey,” a gaunt mage said with a lecherous grin.

  The scarred man cast him a sidelong glance. “If you want one, catch her yourself. This one’s for delivery. If anything happens to her, you’ll bear the brunt of our employer’s fury, Erik.”

  The thin mage’s smile faltered, and he quickly backpedaled. “Just talking. Didn’t mean it literally.”

  “Hmph. It had better stay that way.”

  With a lazy gait, the scarred man strode toward the cage. The elf’s eyes followed him, burning with silent hatred.

  “She can’t be dirtied, of course,” he murmured with an icy chuckle, “but that doesn’t mean…”

  A whip appeared in his hand. In the next instant, it cracked through the air, striking the girl’s arm with a sharp, vicious sound.

  A red welt rose upon her pale skin. Her body trembled, but she made no sound—her teeth clenched, her pride unbroken.

  “Still defiant, little elf? Catching you cost me several good men. So scream for me—loudly! Let me vent my anger, and I might even see you fed decently on the road!”

  He lashed again and again, his expression contorted into something beastlike. Nearby mages and rookie guards watched with unease. They knew their leader well—whenever a mission went poorly, someone always paid for it. Sometimes a subordinate, sometimes an unlucky stranger. Tonight, the elf bore that misfortune.

  The whip was no ordinary tool—it was a magical instrument designed to double the pain without breaking flesh. He had spent a fortune on it, a testament to his appetite for cruelty.

  After several strikes, the scarred man forced himself to stop—not out of pity, but calculation. Too much pain, and the mind could shatter. He had learned that once before, when an underling he’d beaten lost his sanity.

  This time, restraint was necessary. The elf was valuable property, and his employer would not tolerate a damaged prize.

  He had assumed such a frail girl would beg for mercy by now. Her silence only deepened his irritation.

  The marks upon her skin began to fade, but the ache lingered, searing through her trembling frame.

  “What a stubborn race,” he muttered coldly. “Too proud to yield, too blind to survive.”

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  Then, unexpectedly, the elf spoke. Her voice trembled, hoarse but unwavering.

  “You… wicked creatures… all you have done to our kind—Mother sees it. And She will judge you.”

  Among forest elves, “Mother” referred to the forest that nurtured them. The scarred man understood and laughed mockingly.

  “Mother? That’s what you call your trees? Tell her she’s welcome to come for me—I’ll send her to hell myself!”

  Laughter erupted around him. Only the girl remained silent, her fury burning behind her tears. To hear her sacred forest mocked and be powerless to answer—there was no greater torment.

  The scarred man and his mages left, joking as they went. A single tear slipped down the elf’s cheek, glimmering faintly in the darkness.

  The mercenaries reveled until past midnight, their drunken shouts echoing through the town.

  When the moon thinned and even the stars seemed weary, only a nightingale’s song pierced the stillness.

  A shadow moved across the rooftops—swift, silent, deadly. Glenn.

  He had chosen to strike at night to avoid attention. Slaughtering a band of “formidable” mercenaries in broad daylight would only make him famous—and fame invited danger, especially from those he could not yet handle.

  He knew his strength ranked high in this world, but not high enough to be careless.

  From afar, he spotted the tavern where the mercenaries had made camp. The veterans drank inside, while the new recruits stood watch outside.

  Even here, in a patrolled town, they remained cautious. That alone told Glenn these were not mere rabble.

  Perched atop a tall building, he did not rush in. The sentries posed no threat; his concern lay with the three mages. They had surely set detection wards—and Glenn, unfamiliar with magic, could not see them.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t act.

  He watched carefully, noting where the mercenaries moved, deducing which rooms belonged to the mages. Once he was certain, he crouched low. His leg muscles bulged beneath his loose trousers, fabric straining to contain them.

  Then—boom! The roof beneath him shattered as he launched upward like a cannon shot.

  “By the gods! Who’s there?!” someone shouted below.

  A bag dropped through the broken roof. The man caught it, opened it, and found silver coins inside. He shut his mouth instantly.

  In the cover of darkness, no one noticed the black shadow plummeting toward the tavern.

  Headfirst, Glenn descended, his arms morphing into lupine limbs to absorb the impact. A gust of wind rippled through the courtyard as he landed—then silence.

  At that very moment, three mages stirred awake in separate rooms, sensing the faint tremor in their wards. They hesitated, unsure if it was an accident.

  The first mage rose and opened his door—only for a hand to seize his throat. A twist, a crack, and he was gone.

  A second-tier mage—stronger than most men, but just as mortal.

  The remaining two followed, unaware of their comrade’s fate. One was the thin mage from earlier; both stepped into the hall almost simultaneously.

  A whisper of wind passed between them. Then came the brittle snap of bone—and silence.

  For Glenn, killing these “formidable” mages was child’s play. He snapped their necks cleanly to avoid spilling blood—the scent of which might alert any keen-nosed mercenary nearby.

  And in this crew, he was certain such men existed.

  Truthfully, he could have slain everyone in that tavern within minutes. But doing so would draw the attention of Sheriff Doggley—and Glenn had no wish to trouble a man he still owed some respect.