On the other hand, the mercenaries, still basking in the chaos they had created, suddenly found themselves under siege. The arrival of the Crimson Serpent Sect elders shifted the tide in an instant. The disciplined ferocity of the disciples, now bolstered by the overwhelming strength of their leaders, transformed what had been a one-sided slaughter into a desperate fight for survival.
Zirkel’s group, stationed in the narrow streets of Thornridge, was the first to face the wrath of an elder. The wiry elder, his smirk gone and replaced with cold malice, descended upon them like a hawk on prey. His blade sang as it cleaved through the air, cutting down one of Zirkel’s men in a single, brutal strike.
“Fall back!” Zirkel roared, his mismatched eyes narrowing as he hefted his axe. “Regroup and retreat!”
The three remaining mercenaries with him moved to comply, their earlier confidence shattered. Zirkel swung his axe in a wide arc, the blade gleaming as it deflected a strike meant for his back. The elder pressed forward, his strikes relentless, and Zirkel gritted his teeth, knowing he couldn’t hold him off for long.
The elder sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “You dogs thought you could take on the Crimson Serpent Sect? Pathetic.”
Zirkel’s muscles burned as he parried another blow, his mind racing. He had faced strong opponents before, but this was different. The gap in power was undeniable. He could feel the weight of the elder’s mana pressing against him, suffocating and absolute.
Across the city, the other groups fared no better.
In the eastern district, a massive explosion of mana heralded the arrival of Elder Jayan. Her silver-streaked hair shimmered as she moved with predatory grace, her blade cutting through the air like a whisper. A mercenary screamed as she bisected him cleanly, her movements precise and unyielding.
“Scatter!” one of the mercenaries shouted, panic lacing his voice. But it was no use. Jayan’s strikes found their marks with terrifying accuracy, cutting down two more before the survivors could even think to flee. The remaining mercenary bolted down an alley, but Jayan made no move to chase him. Instead, her cold gaze shifted to the next target zone, her movements deliberate as she left the corpses behind.
In the western district, chaos reigned as Elder Varos cut through a group of mercenaries like a storm of steel. His axe swung with terrifying power, cleaving through weapons and bodies alike. The streets ran red as the mercenaries tried to regroup, their cries of pain and desperation echoing through the narrow alleys.
One of the mercenaries, a young man barely older than a boy, turned to run but was cut down by a vicious swing. Varos laughed, his booming voice reverberating through the night. “Run, dogs! You’ll only die tired!”
The coordinated attack that had once been the mercenaries’ greatest strength now worked against them. With each group isolated and under assault, their numbers dwindled rapidly. The elders moved with ruthless efficiency, cutting off escape routes and forcing the mercenaries into desperate skirmishes where their inferior strength became painfully apparent.
Zirkel, bloodied but unbowed, finally managed to pull his group into the cover of an abandoned building. He glanced at the two remaining mercenaries with him, their faces pale and their breaths ragged.
“We’re splitting,” he said grimly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Stick to the shadows and head for the safe point. Don’t stop for anything.”
“What about you, boss?” one of them asked, his voice shaking.
Zirkel’s mismatched eyes gleamed with determination. “I’ll keep them busy. Now move!”
The two mercenaries hesitated for a moment, then nodded and slipped into the shadows, their steps quiet but hurried. Zirkel turned back toward the sound of approaching footsteps, his axe hefted and ready.
By the time the dust settled, the mercenaries’ numbers had been halved. Out of the twenty who had started the assault, only ten managed to escape the blood-soaked streets of Thornridge. The rest lay dead, their bodies scattered among the carnage they had wrought.
The survivors regrouped in a hidden safe house on the outskirts of the city, their faces etched with exhaustion and grief. Zirkel arrived last, his axe dragging behind him and his mismatched eyes shadowed with guilt.
“They got Jonas, didn’t they?” one of the mercenaries asked quietly, his voice heavy.
Zirkel nodded once, his jaw clenched. “Jonas. Riker. Valen. Too many.”
A heavy silence fell over the group as they processed the cost of their mission. For all the gold coins promised, for all the chaos they had unleashed, the price had been steep.
The air in the safe house was thick with a mixture of blood, sweat, and quiet despair. The flickering light of a single lantern illuminated the haggard faces of the mercenaries who had survived the chaos. Each of them nursed wounds—some shallow, others deep—but the heaviest injuries weren’t visible on their bodies. The weight of loss, of comrades left behind, hung in the room like a specter.
Zirkel sat in a corner, his axe resting against the wall beside him. His mismatched eyes stared into the shadows, replaying the events of the night in his mind. The clashing of steel, the overwhelming presence of the elders, and the screams of his men as they fell—it all echoed relentlessly.
“You will die if you are not nimble with your feet.”
Lucavion’s voice surfaced in his thoughts, calm and matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather rather than planning an assault on a sect entrenched in power for decades. “That is why I’m giving you a day to make yourself familiar with the interior of the city, so that you can leave.”
He had meant it. Lucavion had given them time—time to rest, time to learn the layout of Thornridge, and time to reconsider their choices. No one had been forced into this. They all knew the risks. They all understood that what they were attempting bordered on suicidal madness.
But the money…
Zirkel rubbed his face with a bloodied hand, the coins promised flickering like a cruel mirage in his mind. One gold coin for every kill. It was absurd, the kind of offer that no sane mercenary would trust. And yet, against all reason, they had believed him.
Perhaps it wasn’t just the money, Zirkel thought, his fingers tightening into a fist. Maybe it was something else. Something about Lucavion himself.
The man wasn’t like any employer Zirkel had ever worked for. He wasn’t loud or boastful, didn’t puff out his chest and bark orders like a noble who thought himself untouchable. Lucavion was… calm. Too calm. And beneath that calm was a quiet intensity, an unshakable conviction that made even the most skeptical mercenary pause.
Zirkel sighed heavily, leaning his head back against the wall. “Haaah… I’m really crazy,” he muttered, his voice low but audible enough to draw the attention of one of the others.
“Crazy?” one of the mercenaries echoed, a younger man with a deep cut across his arm. He gave a bitter laugh, his voice thick with exhaustion. “We all are. Following that guy into this mess… what were we thinking?”
Another mercenary, a wiry woman with blood matted in her hair, shook her head. “We were thinking about the gold,” she said bluntly. “And maybe… I don’t know… maybe it’s more than that. He’s just—”
“Different,” Zirkel finished for her, his mismatched eyes flicking toward her. “Yeah. I’ve been trying to figure him out since we left. That guy… he’s not normal. Not just strong—hell, we’ve seen plenty of strong people. But there’s something about him. Something…” He paused, searching for the word.
“Trustable,” the younger man said, surprising them both. He shrugged when they looked at him. “I know it’s stupid. Trust has no place in this line of work. But when he talks, it’s like… I don’t know. Like he’s already planned ten steps ahead. Like he knows exactly how this ends, and we’re just along for the ride.”
Zirkel snorted, his lips twisting into a wry smile. “Trustable, huh? For a guy who’s probably more dangerous than anyone we’ve ever met. Yeah, that sounds about right.” He glanced around the room, taking in the exhausted faces of his remaining men. “But trust or not, we’ve got to make it through this. That bastard’s not going to pay us if we don’t survive, and I’ll be damned if I let my share slip through my fingers.”
The wiry woman smirked faintly, though her eyes held a flicker of sadness. “You really think we’re making it out of this, boss?”
Zirkel’s grin was sharp and bitter. “We’d better. Or I’m dragging that crazy bastard down with me.”
The group fell into a tense silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Outside, the faint sounds of Thornridge’s chaos still echoed through the night. Somewhere out there, Lucavion was moving, his calm confidence cutting through the storm he had unleashed.
********
The eerie silence that followed the mercenaries’ retreat gnawed at Elder Varos as he scanned the blood-soaked streets. His hulking frame was still, save for the faint rise and fall of his chest as he gripped his axe tightly. The lingering scent of blood and burning mana filled the air, but the enemies were gone.
“Rats,” Varos growled, his deep voice reverberating through the empty street. “They scurry away into their holes the moment they feel the heat.”
The wiry elder stepped beside him, his smirk returning, though it was tinged with frustration. “Clever little pests, I’ll give them that. But no matter how far they run, we’ll find them.”
Nearby, Elder Jayan arrived, her silver-streaked hair disheveled from the chase. Her blade was still drawn, but the tension in her posture revealed her frustration. Her two allies trailed behind her, their expressions grim.
“Heh…One would expect that, one rat would be better at finding another….I guess that is not true.”