Chapter 76: Ambush

  Ethan finally resisted the urge to use that teleportation scroll.

  Though Vedenina's promise was undeniably tempting, and he felt genuinely curious about this classmate—his guard having lowered somewhat after learning of her past human identity—he still did not go to Diya Valley.

  The reason was simple: the scroll wouldn't expire sitting there, but once he actually went to Diya Valley, he might never return. Regardless of whether it was the paradise Vedenina described, even if it truly was paradise, caution was essential before going. Someone had once said: though it was probably a good place, once you went, you couldn't come back, so it was better to delay going as long as possible.

  Diya Valley was certainly no paradise, yet once one entered, returning to a normal life would be equally impossible. Moreover, it was the Necromancer Guild. No matter how appealing Vedenina's words sounded, its centuries-old reputation for treachery was enough to make even the boldest think twice.

  Still, knowing he had this escape route made the tasks Bishop Ronis assigned him seem less burdensome. The awareness that he could leave this environment at any moment allowed him to face things with a lighter heart. Perhaps tomorrow he would depart for Diya Valley, bidding farewell forever to his life as a priest here, to Bishop Ronis, the Magic Academy, and this royal capital. Spending more time here to see more of it wouldn't hurt.

  According to Bishop Ronis's arrangements, he would depart for Aery again in a few days. Ethan found it rather amusing that the bishop, like a seasoned politician, understood how to frame others to gain political capital, while the two men he had appointed to catch the murderer were, in a sense, the true culprits.

  But he needn't concern himself with the specifics. Bishop Ronis had likely already briefed Rodhart on every detail. As the protagonist, Ethan felt like a diner waiting for a meal to be cooked and served.

  Inside the great hall, Ethan lazily packed his things for departure. Sandro idled just as lazily on the stone platform, idly fiddling with several severed heads.

  "Hey," Sandro suddenly spoke up. "What　　are you planning to do now? Stay here, or go to Diya Valley?"

  Ethan was somewhat surprised. The old man rarely initiated such serious conversations. Observing Sandro's expression and movements—slow, wooden, still that half-dead, half-alive state—it seemed like he'd only casually brought it up as an afterthought.

  Ethan sighed, responding with equal listlessness, "I don't know what to do either."

  He had been profoundly lost these past days. He wasn't naturally indecisive, but the choice before him wasn't as simple as deciding whether to eat a piece of bread. Though he found it depressing and distasteful, it was a major plan—one the Bishop had pinned considerable hopes on, one　　said to concern the very peace and security of the continent. And the only other option wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. According to Bishop Ronis, it too affected the continent's safety. Even if his mind was devoid of any sense of responsibility and he had no interest in grand affairs, facing such a weighty choice wasn't something he could simply shrug off and say, "Not my problem."

  Sandro sighed and shook his head. "You're such a sissy, and Ronis actually thought of you to be some kind of hero shouldering great responsibility? Looks like his brain's about to turn to mush..."

  Ethan shrugged. "Truth is, I never aspired to be some heroic savior."

  Sandro shook his head, clicking his tongue. "At least you've got some sense. That's the most miserable job in the world. High risk, immense pressure, irregular hours, exhausting, mentally draining—it looks glorious but is utter crap. Honestly, it's the most despicable job in the world. And to do it, you need sharp wits, reckless courage, ruthless determination, and a heart of stone. Just look at how pathetic you are over this trivial matter—you'd never last a day."

  Suddenly, someone pounded loudly on the heavy wooden door outside. A woman's voice called out, "Is anyone home?"

  Ethan recognized the voice. But he was puzzled—how had she found this place? He walked toward the door and told Sandro, "She's looking for me."

  Unexpectedly, Sandro glared at him and snapped, "Just because it's a woman's voice, you assume it's for you? How do you know it's for you and not me?" He walked over, opened the door a crack, and peered out, asking in a voice that sounded almost gentle, "Excuse me, are you looking for me?"

  But the outcome was bound to disappoint him. He turned back to Ethan and yelled, "Hey, you corpse-hauling punk, someone's looking for you!"

  Ethan approached the door and saw that the visitor was indeed prostitute Xuan. He frowned and asked, "How did you find this place?"

  He disliked drawing attention.　　Though his position as a priest made him influential within the Magic Academy and the imperial court, that recognition extended nowhere near to commoners like Xuan. Even ordinary officials didn't know him. He'd never revealed his true identity to Xuan, nor had he ever told her where he lived.

  "Pfft, like I wouldn't know," Xuan replied, still dressed in flashy attire, her face a mix of casual and coquettish charm. "I followed you last time and saw you come this way."

  "Really?" Ethan frowned, still finding it odd. Even for a skilled thief, tracking him down wouldn't be easy, let alone her. "What do you want?"

  The prostitute's eyes widened. "Can't I come find you? Anyway, I need to talk to you. Come out!" She suddenly caught sight of the scene beyond the wooden door and jumped back in fright. "Wh-what is this place?"

  Sandro stood nearby, making a face. "He's the laborer who helps me move bodies. This is the capital's morgue. All the dead belong to me now. You'll belong to me soon too."

  The prostitute's face drained of color as she clapped her hand over the exposed half of her chest. "That scared the life out of me."

  "What did you need me for? Want to go inside and sit down to talk?" Ethan asked.

  "Hurry up, come out! I need your help with something important. Just come with me." Xuan ignored Sandro, pulling Ethan toward the exit. Sandro called after them, "Don't worry, if you die soon, I'll handle the cleanup."

  "Don't worry about that now. Just come with me," the prostitute　　insisted, linking her arm through Ethan's and pulling him along. The mansion was close to the city edge, and soon they reached the outskirts of the royal capital, gradually growing farther away. At the edge of a dense grove, Xuan yanked Ethan straight inside.

  The grove was eerily quiet. Ethan had no clue what was happening. Suddenly, his arm brushed against Xuan's chest. Glancing up, he caught sight of her flushed cheeks. A wild thought struck him: Could she possibly want him to... do that with her here? He blurted out, "Listen, now is not the time for this. I still have to..." But mid-sentence, a strange sensation surged through him.

  It felt like ice water pouring into his body through every pore. This was an instinctive sense of danger and killing intent!

  Ethan's mind snapped to attention, his nerves taut. Yet his body went limp.

  Almost the instant after sensing the danger, another sensation—more tangible, more peculiar—began spreading through his body.

  His legs suddenly grew heavy—not just heavy, but numb and weak. This weakness spread through his body like wildfire, his muscles rapidly giving way, one by one. As his feet sank, his waist instantly weakened, unable to support his weight, causing him to bend forward. The weakness rapidly climbed to his chest, robbing his lungs of the strength to breathe. His heart seemed too lazy to beat. His head felt large and heavy, his neck struggling to hold it up. He felt dizzy.

  The sensation traveled through his body with astonishing speed. From the moment it first touched his feet to the blink of his eyes, the entire process unfolded in an instant. The instant his eyelids closed, his entire body went limp, drained of even the strength to open them again.

  This was a dual curse of weakness and sluggishness, so potent that not even five individuals within the Magic Academy could cast such a swift and devastatingly effective curse spell. Even a horse would have its very strength to stand eroded in the blink of an eye by such a curse.

  And at that moment, the oblivious Xuan was still tugging at his arm, pulling him deeper into the woods.

  How careless. He’d fallen into a deadly trap as easily as a fool. Xuan truly held no hostility toward him and posed no threat whatsoever, so he’d let down his guard completely. But he’d forgotten she might be manipulated by others.

  His mind was already foggy, yet Ethan still heard the simultaneous ripping of air by five swords. Though his body was weak and limp, his spirit, spurred by the crisis, hardened completely, becoming sharp and angular.

  Five figures emerged as if rising from the ground, appearing suddenly from five directions. Their long swords flashed through the air like sudden bolts of lightning—nowhere to be seen a moment before, they struck with lightning speed, faster than he could blink or shield his eyes.

  The speed, angles, and timing of these five thrusts were flawless. And Ethan was already reeling from numb legs, a weak body, and dizziness—not to mention the person clutching his arm.

  Ethan swung his arm, mustering every ounce of strength to fling the　　dazed Xuan away. She flew through the gap between the swords just in time. But that split-second delay meant Ethan himself had no chance to dodge.

  The five-sided assault was seamless. The timing, speed, and even the slightest tremor in the wrists of the five swordsmen echoed in perfect unison. Together, their blades wove an inescapable net. No matter if he advanced, retreated, dodged left, or weaved right, this net of blades would close in on him in an instant, merging to pierce him with ten holes. And he simply didn't have the strength to evade anymore.

  With a thunderous boom, Ethan was hurled skyward by the blast wave of his own fireball, while the five swordsmen below were also thrown back by the explosion. This desperate measure had come to him in the nick of time. Weakness and sluggishness could only affect his body; they could not shackle the release of magic.

  He could feel the muscles in his back nearly shattered by the shockwave, a rib snapped. A metallic taste filled his throat as he spat out a mouthful of blood. The fireball hadn't been cast with full force, and his mana reserves were still sufficient for immediate recasting. Ethan placed his hands on his body, first dispelling the curse, then casting a healing spell.

  As his injuries improved and the Weakness spell dissipated, suspended mid-air, he saw the ambush waiting for him below.

  There weren't many of them—only twelve: eleven swordsmen wielding long blades and one mage. Yet Ethan felt an almost despairing sense of danger.

  Their positions were precise, allowing them to encircle him with maximum efficiency and launch attacks at optimal speed. That they could conceal their presence entirely, releasing their killing intent only at the moment of strike despite such careful planning, marked them as absolute masters.

  Almost the instant Ethan began his descent, the three closest swordsmen lunged toward his falling trajectory. They showed no shock at his unexpected evasion or the explosion, immediately launching the most effective attack without a moment's hesitation or delay—a swift, decisive move. This was the mark of masters.

  Ethan was still mid-air when the first blade reached him, its edge nearly grazing his clothing. He seized the sword, gripped the hilt tightly, twisted, and disarmed the swordsman.

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  The sensation in his hand was effortless—the swordsman had already released the blade as Ethan seized it. Grasping the hilt was futile against a hand gripping the blade; when it was time to let go, he let go. And when Ethan's twisting force was spent, his arm exhausted of follow-through, the swordsman re-gripped the hilt and thrust forward with renewed force. When it was time to strike again, he struck. This was the mark of a true master.

  The twisting force in his arm spent, the sword in his grasp strained to break free and thrust forward. Ethan clenched fiercely, the blade shattering in his palm. Broken—the shards still lunged toward his face as two other swords flashed toward him like lightning. Ethan planted his feet, flicked his wrist, and hurled the broken blade fragments toward the faces of the two swordsmen.

  Thud. Xuan, thrown by Ethan, finally hit the ground, knocked senseless.

  The two swordsmen didn't flinch at the flying shards. They didn't duck, didn't even blink, their blades still thrusting forward relentlessly. They knew Ethan, having just landed, was most vulnerable to attack, so they used this tactic to buy a moment's respite. Their actions embodied the most crucial element of team combat—seizing any opportunity with reckless abandon. These weren't merely skilled fighters; they were true warriors, tempered by countless battles.

  Thud. Both blades pierced Ethan's body as intended. These strikes were lightning-fast, pinpoint accurate, and rock-solid. Ethan could only twist his body at the moment of impact, forcing the blades away from vital organs. Yet they left two long, deep gashes across his torso, blood gushing forth instantly. His clothes were soaked through.

  The swordsman who had successfully struck his target collapsed straight backward. Shards of broken blade had pierced his eye, driven deep into his brain, nearly exiting through the back of his skull. Ethan's throw had been far more than a mere scare tactic to buy time. The other swordsman's face was now embedded with shards of broken steel, each cut deep enough to expose bone, nearly shattering his features into fragments.

  Yet across this shattered visage remained a single, unbroken expression—resolute and cold, as if the torn flesh and bone were merely irrelevant appendages. The eyes above fixed solely on Ethan's form, their entire focus consumed by the imperative to wield the weapon with unrelenting precision, carving ever more devastating marks into that body.

  This steel-like resolve was the warrior's true combat strength. In a life-and-death struggle, the deadliest weakness was not physical frailty but mental hesitation. Only those who could stab through their opponent's chest with complete focus even as their own throat was being slit had the greatest chance of victory.

  The swordsman's blade, having just swept across Ethan's body, slashed out horizontally—blood spattered as the cut went deep to the bone. But the swordsman froze, for the strike had connected with his own comrade's body. Ethan had finally seized the arm wielding the broken sword, crushing the wrist bones while pulling the swordsman toward him to absorb the blow.

  Against such skilled opponents, the cost of taking two heavy blows to capture one was justified. Dragging an enemy's body to use as both weapon and shield was a highly effective tactic Ethan had honed through countless battles against overwhelming odds. Such a massive shield offered tremendous coverage, and witnessing a comrade torn apart by one's own attack dealt a devastating blow to anyone's fighting spirit.

  The swordsman who struck his own comrade hesitated only briefly before raising his blade again. Ethan seized the fallen warrior once more to block the incoming blow. His superior strength, reflexes, and physical prowess allowed him to literally drag enemies around as human shields.

  Snap. The blade cut ruthlessly through muscle and bone, severing the arm Ethan held cleanly at the shoulder.

  The swordsman's clean strike severed his comrade's hand, then swiftly yanked him toward himself. He recognized the grim fate awaiting his fallen comrade in Ethan's grasp. Without hesitation, he swung his blade like a lumberjack, mercilessly cleaving off the arm. This act saved his comrade's life while utterly thwarting Ethan's scheme.

  The armless swordsman's face was already contorted, yet he uttered not a sound. Clutching his severed limb, he staggered toward the mage's position to seek healing.

  Ethan stared blankly at the severed limb in his hand, a chill settling in his heart.

  Every single one of these men was undoubtedly a top-tier master. Their swordsmanship was beyond question, but what truly stood out was their unwavering resolve, fierce fighting spirit, and impeccable judgment. Such opponents were formidable even in one-on-one combat, let alone when their coordination was so perfectly synchronized.

  Just as he began channeling magic for a healing spell, that intense wave of weakness surged through his body again. He had to switch to a dispel spell instead.

  Even after the dispel wore off, a lingering weakness remained—a genuine exhaustion. The wounds from those two sword strikes ran deep, blood still trickling steadily.

  The mage maintained a relatively safe distance from Ethan, showing no urgency to cast offensive spells. The distance and surrounding trees made direct hits unlikely, and powerful spells risked friendly fire. Instead, he persistently used the devastating Weakness and Sluggishness spells. This proved sufficient. Ethan had no choice but to expend every casting opportunity on dispels. Anyone struck by such Weakness spells would be utterly incapacitated.

  Though this was the ambush with the fewest enemies he'd ever faced, it was also the most perilous.

  As he dispelled, the initial five swordsmen and three others from elsewhere swiftly formed a circle, trapping Ethan in the center. Everyone could see this opponent was far beyond being dealt with by random, isolated attacks; the most effective assault was required. The swordsmen took their positions, and all nine struck simultaneously.

  This was undoubtedly a collective attack formation, meticulously studied and honed through countless battles. Nine swords, each acting independently yet interlocking in perfect coordination, wove a vast net of sword energy that descended upon him like a storm. Simultaneously, that deadly Weakening spell surged through his body once more, causing his taut muscles to rapidly collapse into limpness.

  This was indeed the most perilous moment yet, and likely his last.

  Ethan abruptly focused all his spirit and magical power into a single point through meditation, then unleashed it with the same frenzied intensity as before. The raging torrent of strength and will within him instantly forced the weakness spell out. A shrill, almost inhuman cry erupted from his throat as he charged toward the encroaching net of swords.

  Ethan could even feel the air around him being torn, split, and whistling along the sword edges. His meditative focus had reached its peak, yet even so, he couldn't detect any gap in the surrounding barrier that might allow him to slip through. They were merely nine narrow iron bars, yet they seemed to fill every inch of space within a radius of over ten paces. Visually, gaps wide enough for a horse to pass appeared, but the sword energy and momentum were impenetrable. Every direction, every angle, every possible route for his leap was blocked. The footwork, body movements, even the breathing of these nine swordsmen reflected a subtle, shared rhythm. No matter how he dodged from the center, the nine swords moved like a rehearsed dance—coordinated, specialized, orderly, and efficient. They intercepted, restrained, thrust straight, slashed sideways, and cut diagonally. He could never evade them all. If he was struck by even one sword, or paused for an instant, the others would immediately follow, until he was reduced to a pile of meat.

  Ethan charged instinctively toward one swordsman. This was the strongest link—his sword aura and momentum were densest, and nearly every shift in the blade net revolved around him. Yet he was also the weakest link, the primary attacker and orchestrator of this formation. Defeating him would inevitably expose a breach, perhaps even shatter the array entirely.

  If there was no way to dodge, then he wouldn't dodge. If there was no path to survival, he would fight his way through. The greater the pressure and the stronger the sense of crisis, the more motivated and murderous he became. Danger and tension were catalysts that unleashed every ounce of primal instinct and vitality within his soul.

  Facing his charge, the swordsman immediately retreated. Though his body moved back, his sword momentum did not wane—it only intensified. The two swordsmen flanking him also retreated, closing in toward the center as they did so. All three concentrated their sword energy and momentum before him, forming a vortex of sword qi in front of his stance.

  The sword momentum of the three advanced swordsmen had merged, resonating in unison. Even a solid mass of steel plunging into it would be reduced to iron filings. Thus, the trio halted, waiting for the rear sword net to close in.

  Yet Ethan's momentum showed no sign of slowing. Not a flicker of retreat crossed his mind. Facing the swirling blades poised to crush him, his fighting spirit had become a red-hot, razor-sharp spike.

  He did not use magic; he could not wield it now. This fury, this vitality, this raw combat instinct roared within him, fusing even his magical power into this primal force. This wild, untamed energy scorned technique and efficiency. He wielded the most direct weapon—his own fists—determined to carve a path through the storm with his very flesh and blood.

  Faced with such direct, honest, and utterly raw aggression, all subtlety and artifice proved futile. Three swords thrust toward Ethan's fist from three directions, matching speed, force, vibration, and momentum.

  This was a head-on collision. Ethan's entire fighting energy collided with the swordsmen's sword energy and momentum.

  The moment the swords met the fist, they shattered simultaneously, emitting only a single, crisp crack.

  Guided by the sword qi, the tips pierced through the fighting qi enveloping the fist. The skin touched by the three blades instantly burst open, the sound of shattered finger bones mingling with the crack of breaking steel.

  Sword energy, fighting energy, thrusting force, impact force, and recoil force all tangled together and released simultaneously. Each weapon, locked in an evenly matched struggle, could no longer hold. The three swordsmen's palms split open, unable to even grasp the bare sword hilts, which fell to the ground.

  Flesh and bone splattered from his fist. Ethan let out a howl. Though it still vaguely resembled a hand, it felt like a rag trampled by cattle, utterly mangled.

  The momentum of his charge had been completely drained in this brutal clash. His body halted, and the six swords behind him were now almost touching his clothes. But now it was only six swords. The sky-filling net of blades had disintegrated as the three front swordsmen collapsed. The net behind him, deprived of its forward momentum, had reverted to six isolated blades. When the three closest swords pierced the flesh of his back, Ethan finally regained his strength and began to flee.

  His remaining strength was insufficient to confront six such swordsmen, let alone withstand another similar sword net formation. Yet it was still enough to flee. Though blood soaked through his clothes, he held an absolute advantage in physical stamina. The lingering fighting energy within him could temporarily resist curses like weakness.

  Ethan leapt over the three swordsmen ahead and sprinted toward the forest's edge. Once he reached the royal capital, he should be safe. After all, he was a revered Divine Priest. No one would dare pursue him in broad daylight.

  Behind him, an odd whistling sound tore through the air—not the sharp, piercing shriek of a blade slicing through the atmosphere, but a dull, muffled rush. The sound lacked depth, carrying only immense speed and little mass. Even if struck, it seemed unlikely to cause significant harm.

  Ethan leapt upward as the object streaked past beneath his feet. It was an ice sphere, slightly larger than a human head, hurtling forward at breakneck speed. Ethan could distinctly sense the magic energy churning within it. Mid-air, he raised his arms, bent his waist, and crouched, shielding his head, face, chest, and abdomen with his limbs.

  The ice ball exploded. Unlike a fireball's imposing blast, it didn't send shockwaves flying. Instead, it hurled solid ice shards in all directions, producing only the sharp, forceful sounds of collision and penetration. Within a small area, trees were instantly shattered and scattered. Propelled by magical force, these ice fragments possessed penetration comparable to crossbow bolts. Numerous branches as thick as arms fell, while even slimmer trees were pierced through by the ice shards.

  Ethan curled into a ball and plummeted from midair like one of those fallen trunks. Numerous ice shards had embedded themselves deep into his limbs, nearly reaching bone. Had he not tensed his muscles and channeled his remaining fighting energy into defense, these tiny, moisture-condensed projectiles could have pierced his chest or abdomen clean through.

  This water-elemental "Frostburst" was no minor spell. Unless the caster was　　at the transcendent level of Bishop Ronis or Sedros, they needed to regulate their magical energy and catch their breath before casting again. This wide-area attack should also delay the pursuing swordsmen. Thus, Ethan, having hit the ground hard, sprang back up immediately. He had to keep running.

  But the stabbing pain in his right leg and left shoulder instantly shattered the momentum he'd gathered. Two swords pierced through his thigh and shoulder. Then four hands and two more swords immediately surged toward his body. Ethan froze instantly.

  The icy blades, one on each side, had pierced his skin, stopping millimeters from the arteries in his neck. The slightest downward pressure would send blood gushing forth like a fountain. The four hands gripped crucial points on his limbs with powerful, precise control, locking his joints—a technique honed through countless drills and real combat. The blades in his shoulder and thigh had pierced through muscle, so even with his fighting spirit intact, he could only be pinned down, defeated and humiliated, by those swordsmen.

  It all happened too fast. From the moment he realized the ambush, through evasion, counterattack, and flight, to his final capture—it had taken little more than a single deep breath.

  But Ethan knew he wasn't entirely blameless. The swordsmen pinning him down were all pierced by shards of ice, blood trickling from their wounds. When that "Frostburst" struck, they hadn't retreated or dodged, merely shielding their faces slightly. If not for their leather armor providing sufficient defense, they too would have fallen. Ethan had to admit that even with his superior skills, facing such highly skilled, perfectly coordinated opponents who were willing to risk their lives to achieve their goal, he truly had no chance.

  The exhaustion left him weak, making every wound on his body ache even more intensely. Blood continued to flow as the two long swords piercing his shoulder and thigh nearly pinned him to the ground. One seemed to have gone through bone, and the pain felt as though his very marrow was seeping out along the blade.

  "What are you doing? Do you know who I am? I'm a priest of the Magic Academy! What do you think you're doing? Are you rebelling?" Even Ethan found his own words dull, clichéd, and weak, but now he could only pin his hopes on the effect of this official rhetoric.

  None of the swordsmen reacted to his words, not even a flicker of expression crossing their faces. The blades remained intimately pressed against the veins in his neck, while those powerful hands continued to exert firm control over his joints and vital points. The mage and the one-armed swordsman in the distance slowly approached, but neither spoke. This group seemed like machines designed solely for combat and action, utterly unresponsive to anything else.

  Yet from farther back, a figure suddenly leapt forward.

  This man had been watching cautiously from a distance, ready to flee at any moment. Even when Ethan was pinned down, he hadn't dared to emerge. Only now, hearing Ethan's voice and knowing for certain that he was completely safe, completely victorious, did he leap out from behind the trees. His voice rang out, brimming with triumphant glee, almost like singing: "Well? Finally got you this time. Finally, I won. Finally made you eat shit, didn't I? I told you before—mess with me, and you're asking for death."

  "So it was you, you bastard. Should've killed you earlier." Ethan glared viciously at the　　smug young Chancellor.

  "Ouch." Xuan, who　　had been thrown aside by Ethan and was now reeling from the impact, finally managed to stand. But the bloody scene before her instantly froze her in terror. She scrambled over to the young nobleman, trembling as she asked, "You said you just wanted to find some people to beat him up? How did it end up like this?"

  Earlier that morning, this nobleman had sought her out, claiming he had a lucrative deal requiring her assistance. He instructed her to lure the young man who frequently visited her to the woods outside the city, even providing his address.

  She had found it odd at the time, but the nobleman explained he had a minor dispute with the lad and wanted someone to teach him a lesson. Since it was difficult to act within the city, he had devised a plan to lure him out.

  She sensed something was off. Yet the nobleman immediately assured her he wouldn't kill him or break his limbs—just teach him a lesson to vent his anger. He promptly handed her ten gold coins and promised another ten afterward.

  Twenty gold coins—that was nearly enough to set her up for life. Besides, if it was just a beating, it didn't seem like much to him. So Xuan practically skipped over, dragging Ethan along the whole way.

  But now, with blood everywhere and two swords piercing his body, it seemed death was imminent. Xuan trembled as she fumbled a few coins from her bosom. Her voice breaking, she approached Modo and said, "I'll return this money. I don't want the other ten gold coins either. I beg you, please release him. I'll take him to a doctor. He'll die like this."

  "Fuck you," Modo snarled, slapping the prostitute hard across the face, sending her crashing to the ground. This morning, he'd wasted so much breath with this woman just to ensure she could lead him out without arousing suspicion or giving away the game. For the esteemed Chancellor's son to negotiate with a prostitute—if word got out, it would be utterly disgraceful. But since his father had strictly forbidden him from bringing anyone else out to cause trouble, he had no choice but to handle these matters personally.

  Xuan clutched at Modo's feet on the floor, sobbing and pleading, "I beg you, spare him! I'll give you money..."

  "Get lost." The young master of the Chancellor family kicked Xuan hard in the head and face, sending her flying. He drew a knife and waved it menacingly. "Stupid woman, I'll deal with you properly after I finish off this guy."

  Modo advanced toward Ethan with the blade, but shuddered at the glare Ethan shot his way. Hesitating, as if unwilling to admit fear yet undeniably intimidated, he ordered the swordsmen: "First, cut off all his limbs."

  The swordsmen still did not move. The mage spoke up, clearly the leader among them. His face bore the typical austere simplicity of an ascetic practitioner. "Lord Modo," he said, "this target has completely lost the ability to resist. I suggest we detain him temporarily, await trial, and then execute him."

  "What? Do you doubt me?" Chancellor's son roared, his voice tinged with irritation.

  The mage's voice was dry as split wood, yet carried weight: "We do not know who he is, nor do we concern ourselves with it. We merely obey orders. What I just stated is merely a suggestion to you."

  Modo drew a commission letter and a seal from his robe, waving them. "You saw it yourselves. This is your captain's insignia. And the letter of appointment states clearly that all matters fall under my command. You need only obey orders. Whatever I say, you do."

  "I was merely suggesting," the mage repeated hoarsely. "Suggesting."

  "No need for suggestions. Just follow my commands." The Chancellor refrained from displaying his true temper only out of respect for the Paladin Order's reputation. He turned to Ethan, having originally intended to torment him thoroughly. But now it seemed these high-ranking Paladin Order members were not easily controlled. To avoid complications, he needed to eliminate this man swiftly.

  "I'll take a piss right now. If you drink it, I'll give you a quick death." He looked at his opponent with smug satisfaction—the man who had repeatedly humiliated him, caused him suffering, seemed impossible to kill, but now finally lay beneath his feet. Feeling the full triumph of victory, he reached for his belt buckle. "But even if you don't drink it, I'll still drench you in it. You know what it feels like to have piss poured on your wounds? Well? Surrender yet? Admit I'm the real deal? Got anything left to say? Huh?"

  "Yes," Ethan bellowed, barely clinging to life. "Damn it, why aren't you helping? Just watching me get slaughtered?"