Chapter 22: Will You Help Me?

  Ethan ran at full speed.

  Three cavalrymen raised their swords and charged toward him on horseback, shouting like hunters chasing prey. The Imperial Envoy’s earlier bold tone had fired them up—they were eager to earn merit.

  As they closed in, Ethan raised his hand and hurled a fireball, hitting one cavalryman square in the face. The man toppled off his horse instantly. The other two froze in shock. Ethan seized the chance, leaping onto one of their horses’ heads and vaulting over them, continuing his charge forward.

  Ahead lay the circle of cavalrymen slashing at the villagers. The meadow there was already stained red with blood, and the villagers’ screams were fading.

  Ethan plunged straight into the crowd of cavalry. He jumped onto a horse’s back, swung his sword twice, and cut down two men. The other cavalrymen panicked, scrambling to surround him—throwing their formation into chaos. Ethan darted through the gap in their ranks. Up ahead, the Imperial Envoy and Lord Dott sat calmly on their horses, watching the slaughter. Taking on so many cavalry alone was impossible; in situations like this, the obvious move was to target the leaders.

  Before the two men could react, Ethan charged over, yanking them off their horses one by one. He pressed his sword to the Imperial Envoy’s neck immediately. “All of you—freeze!” he shouted. The cavalrymen stopped at once.

  In the pool of blood, only a few children remained standing, screaming and covered in blood—miraculously unharmed. The villagers had shielded the children with their bodies. Only Levin the hunter had snatched a weapon from a cavalryman and fought on, despite several deep wounds. Covered in blood, he knelt on one knee, gasping for breath. Faint moans still escaped from some of the fallen.

  Even with a sword at his throat, the Imperial Envoy remained surprisingly calm. He clung to his scholarly demeanor and official authority, sneering: “You wouldn’t dare harm a single hair on my head. Every soldier here has seen your face. If you dare hurt an envoy appointed by His Majesty the Emperor, you’ll become a wanted criminal, hunted across the empire. And your family—”

  He cut off his own speech with a shriek worse than a pig’s death rattle. Ethan had broken one of his fingers. “I’ve never been interested in harming people’s hair,” Ethan said coldly.

  After a few whimpers, the Imperial Envoy tried to regain his composure. “You dare injure a man of the cloth? Such a sin will bring—” Another searing pain shot through his hand as two more fingers were wrenched apart. The bones, once joined tightly, were forced at an unnatural angle, tearing the flesh around them. His entire arm twitched from the agony, and he let out an animalistic howl.

  “Tell them to dismount and drop their weapons. Now,” Ethan said, gripping three fingers of the Envoy’s other hand.

  “Drop your weapons! Hurry—drop them!” the Imperial Envoy screamed, his voice a mix of wailing and pleading. Tears, snot, and saliva streamed down his face.

  Two soft footsteps sounded behind Ethan. He spun around, swinging his sword hilt at the cavalryman who had tried to sneak up on him. The man screamed and flew several steps back, rolling on the ground with his face covered in blood. A few bloodied teeth landed on Lord Dott, who froze mid-movement—he had been groping at his waist. He knelt there, sweating profusely.

  Ethan had used the flat of his sword—likely cracking the soldier’s cheekbone. He had no desire to kill indiscriminately; the two cavalrymen he had cut down earlier were not fatally wounded either.

  “All of you—dismount and drop your weapons. I won’t say it again,” Ethan said, tightening his grip on the Imperial Envoy’s fingers. The Envoy immediately wailed, repeating Ethan’s order. His earlier scholarly poise and “general’s aura” were gone. “Dismount! Drop your weapons! Do whatever he says, you fools! Do you want to watch him kill me?” The cavalrymen scrambled to dismount and throw down their swords.

  Ethan glanced at the surviving villagers—several were seriously injured. Even if he let them go now, they wouldn’t get far.

  He released the Imperial Envoy’s hand, then pressed the sword harder against his neck. “Do you have any seals, documents, or tokens? Bring them out.”

  “Yes! Yes!” The Imperial Envoy fumbled in his robe, pulling out a seal—obedient as a well-behaved child.

  Rodhart had sat up on the ground. Staring at the bodies scattered across the meadow—villagers who had danced and celebrated his promises just last night, now slaughtered like livestock in the very place they had hoped for salvation—he buried his face in his hands, shaking his head slowly. His voice cracked with sobs: “How could this happen…?”

  Ethan took the seal and tossed it to Rodhart. “Grab a few horses. Take the survivors and the wounded to the city—find a doctor to treat them. If anyone stops you, show them this seal. Tell them it’s the Imperial Envoy’s order: he’s wiping out heretics here and will pursue them further. He’ll return in a few days, and these are his injured soldiers. Once you’re done, take them far away—run as far as you can.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  The seal landed at Rodhart’s feet, but he didn’t even glance at it. He pressed his face into his palms, digging his fingers into his forehead and cheeks as if he wanted to tear his features apart. Tears oozed through his fingers. He made no sound, but his entire body trembled.

  Ethan suddenly kicked him in the face. “If you want to cry, go cry somewhere else! Do you want to get everyone killed here?” As he moved, his sword nicked the Imperial Envoy’s neck, drawing a trickle of blood. The Envoy let out a squeal halfway between a sheep’s bleat and a pig’s grunt—and wet himself.

  Rodhart was sent rolling across the ground. He lay there motionless for a moment, then stood up on his own.

  His brows furrowed tightly, and he bit his lower lip so hard with his neat teeth that his mouth filled with blood—whether from the bite or the kick, it was hard to tell. His tear-streaked face and fierce expression blended into a tragic sort of courage. He picked up the seal quickly, roughly bandaged the injured villagers, fetched several cavalry horses, and helped them mount.

  Ethan looked at the dozens of remaining cavalry horses. An idea struck him. He turned to Levin. “How bad are your wounds? Can you still move?”

  “I’m not dying yet,” Levin said, clutching his injuries. The gashes were deep, and blood still oozed out—but his tough constitution kept him going. Ethan gestured for him to come over, then pressed a hand to his wounds, channeling all the healing magic he could muster. He had never been interested in healing spells and rarely practiced them; this was the limit of his ability.

  “Drive all these horses away—as far as you can,” Ethan told him. The city was hours away by horseback. If he could get rid of the horses, even if things spiraled out of control, the escaping villagers would gain valuable time.

  Levin turned to round up the horses. As he passed Lord Dott, he suddenly grabbed the fat man and beat him until Dott collapsed to the ground. Only then did Levin herd the horses into a group and lead them away.

  Ethan watched as Rodhart left with the villagers, and Levin disappeared into the forest with the horses. He finally let out a breath—then unleashed the anger he had been suppressing. He grabbed Lord Dott by the fat on his neck, yanking him over like a dog, and forced him to kneel beside the Imperial Envoy. He pressed his sword against both their necks. “I’m going to kill one of you. I only need one hostage. Tell me—who deserves to die?”

  “He does!” they shouted in unison.

  “He’s higher-ranked than me! This was all his idea!” Dott’s fat quivered. His voice sounded like a pig’s squeal. “He said we should kill all these bandits! I’m just a minor official—I only did what they told me!”

  “I’m thinner! I’ll be easier to take as a hostage!” The Imperial Envoy, true to his scholarly nature, knew to highlight his “advantages.” He held up the hand Ethan had broken, as if showing off a great achievement. “Look—he’s already maimed me! I… I don’t want to die…!” Snot and tears poured down his face.

  Ethan ignored their pleas and their pathetic displays. Sometime earlier, the robed man who had stood by Whispering Woods had walked over silently, stepping into the pile of villagers’ bodies and kneeling down. The cavalrymen, already panicking, paid him no mind.

  Lord Dott—who had been kneeling on the ground—suddenly found a burst of courage and strength. He scrambled to his feet and ran toward the robed man, dropping to his knees beside him. “Sir! I did as you told me! I executed all the prisoners in the city and buried them here!”

  The robed man stood up and nodded. “Yes. I’ve collected all the bodies. You did well.”

  Dott begged: “I know you’re a mage! I saw you use magic! Please—save the Imperial Envoy from that brute!” He knew that even if he survived now, he would die if the Imperial Envoy was killed. Dozens of people had heard him shift the blame.

  The robed man ignored him, looking up at the sky.

  Dott grabbed the robed man’s hand, pleading: “I beg you! I’ll get you more bodies—any number you want…!” He fell silent mid-sentence. He had pulled back the sleeve of the red robe—and seen the hand beneath.

  It was not a hand any living person could have. Or rather, it barely looked like a hand at all—it resembled a tattered old leather glove stretched over a human skeleton. Through the holes in the fabric, bones were visible—not white, but a dull gray, like the eyes of a dead fish.

  “I’m sorry. I’m very busy,” the robed man murmured, still staring at the sky. But his “non-hand” had closed around Dott’s hand, its dry bones sinking into Dott’s soft, white flesh—like squeezing a ball of over-risen dough.

  Dott’s eyes bulged. He stared at his hand, his mouth opening wider than it ever had. But anyone could see he was not in pain—he was in terror.

  His plump, pale hand withered before their eyes, shrinking rapidly like a lettuce leaf held over a fire.

  He tried to scream, but only strange gurgling sounds escaped his throat. They were not cries of pain—they were the sound of air being forced out as his lungs shriveled. He deflated like a punctured balloon, his body shrinking inward. Everyone watched in horror as the fat on his face slowly deformed, then clung tightly to his bones. Yet his eyes still moved, darting left and right—though his facial muscles had withered completely. Those lonely, rolling eyes showed no emotion; they only proved he was still alive, still feeling himself die, bit by bit.

  At last, his eyes stilled. In the space of a few breaths, the once-fat Lord Dott had become a mummified corpse.

  The robed man released his hand and sighed—as if he had just drunk a cup of mediocre tea. He finally lowered his head from the sky.

  Above, the sun shone as always, pouring light and warmth onto the earth—even onto this suddenly eerie meadow.

  Suddenly, a shadow appeared at the edge of the sun.

  The robed man looked up, his hoarse, uncanny voice now tinged with excitement. “It’s here! The gate that opens once a century—finally open!” He lifted his “non-hand” casually, as if calling a pet. “Everyone—rise and work.”

  The villagers who had fallen in the pool of blood suddenly began to twitch. One by one, they stood up slowly—some with gaping holes in their chests, others with heads hanging by a strip of skin, frozen in the positions they had fallen in.

  Witnessing this, the cavalrymen let out screams usually only heard from women. Several collapsed to the ground; most turned and ran. But when they spun around, they saw the earth on the meadow splitting open. Rotting corpses crawled out of the ground—heretics Lord Dott had buried here over the past two weeks. One silver coin per corpse. Driven by greed, Dott had killed relentlessly; over two hundred bodies lay buried in this small meadow.

  “You’re already here—don’t leave,” the robed man said. He turned to Ethan and smiled. “Everyone—help me. Young man… will you help me too?”