Chapter Forty-Four: Slaughter (Part Three)

Everyone in front of Laurent instinctively retreated. Yet, there were always a few whose reactions lagged behind. One burly man gripping an iron hammer could only swallow hard as he watched Laurent effortlessly slay Old Rod. By the time he realized what was happening, those around him had already fallen back a step. He tried to turn and escape, but an iron spike pierced through his throat.

Charles watched Old Rod die with his own eyes and heard the old hunter’s final warning before death. Sweat poured down his forehead, quickly soaking his clothes. Yet, the most anxious person in the room was not Charles, nor the chubby little Corman, nor Sidis and Malt, who huddled in the corner wide-eyed with terror; it was Carlos!

His eyes darted restlessly, glancing warily at Laurent, whose gaze was as cold and unblinking as a snake’s, wondering if he would suddenly pounce. Then he’d flick his gaze to the door, hoping for a glimpse of his father, Baron Mori. Judging by how easily the other had killed Rod, this man possessed at least the strength of a commander, perhaps even approaching that of a general. Carlos, of course, refused to believe the latter—if so, there’d be no need to trap him here; Laurent would have stormed straight to the Stevenson estate.

He was certain of it. Only then did he believe he might have a chance to escape. Carlos’ legs seemed nailed to the floor, but he was convinced that if forced to unleash the dark power hidden within him, he could at least resist for a while.

Some time passed. Neither Laurent nor the scar-faced servant at his side made a move. This was a good sign…

Then came footsteps. Carlos turned his head with effort—only to see a woman.

Jeffrey approached Carlos, lowered her head slightly, and smiled down at him for a moment before whispering in his ear, “Who is your grandfather?”

Carlos nearly retorted, “Are you insane?”

The woman seemed unconcerned with his answer. She moved with light steps, coming to stand before Laurent. “Do you intend to kill him?”

Laurent regarded the woman, whose beauty was extraordinary as she strolled over with such poise. His eyes lit up. He hadn’t expected to encounter such a stunning woman in this remote town. Unable to restrain himself, he let his gaze linger over her exquisite features. The chill on his face melted away, replaced by a warm smile. “No, madam. Not unless absolutely necessary.”

Jeffrey’s long lashes cast shadows as she lowered her gaze, her tone skeptical. “Shouldn’t you focus your attention elsewhere rather than on my face? That’s dangerous.”

Laurent’s narrow eyes flashed with a keen light, quickly concealed beneath his lids. He looked at Jeffrey with a teasing smile. “Is that so? Then, madam, where should my attention be?”

The beautiful woman shook her head, extended a slender finger, and pointed behind Laurent. “Behind you. That way, you might at least die with fewer regrets.”

Laurent whipped around.

Flint stood behind him, both hands gripping the haft of his battle axe. Towering and godlike, he raised his weapon high and said with a grin, “Never trust a woman’s words. That way, you won’t die so disgracefully.”

The short-handled battle axe came down, cleaving Laurent’s brow open with a brutal blow that carved a crimson gash across the face of the once refined and arrogant noble.

Flint, moving with practiced skill, wrenched the axe free from Laurent’s skull with two quick twists, as if dislodging it from a log. Then, lowering his body, he dodged a furious sword strike from the golden-haired, scar-faced man, who had snapped out of his shock.

The old man’s battle axe gleamed with a white mist, and with a casual toss, it spun through the air in a sharp arc, slicing both the scarred man and a charging bounty hunter in half at the waist before returning to his hand.

Muttering to himself, the old man said, “The people I hate most in this world are bounty hunters—always greedy and without scruples!”

Several more bounty hunters rushed Flint, hoping to bring him down, but the dwarf’s axe struck with lethal precision and speed. Heads rolled onto the floor, bodies collapsing in their wake.

The beautiful woman, Jeffrey, watched the old man’s ruthless slaughter with eyes alight—filled with excitement and a long-lost anticipation.

“Grandfather, your throwing axe is as formidable as ever,” she couldn’t help but praise, utterly unconcerned by the blood pooling around her boots from the corpses at her feet.

Flint raised his arm, admiring his axe with pride. “Back when I rode into battle with General Barnes, as soon as my hand fell, I could sever an orc’s head the size of a bowl with ease.”

“Amazing, absolutely amazing!” Jeffrey continued enthusiastically.

But the old man sighed. “I have only two months left. Those fools in Cyprus are at war again with the Black Iron Dwarves. Just wait and see—the officers at the Empire’s high command are all blockheads. Exiling the pioneers’ descendants to such a remote place—only failure on the battlefield will wake them up.”

Jeffrey’s gaze grew somber. “Grandfather, are you thinking of heading back to the front?”

The old man glanced back at Carlos, who was frozen stiff. In a gentle voice, he said, “No,” and lowered his arm.

Barely had he done so when heavy footsteps sounded from outside the tavern wall, followed by the shriek of something slicing through the air.

Boom!

The wall facing the street exploded in a massive breach, pulverized by a powerful impact.

Baron Mori and his towering summoned golem appeared in the heart of the swirling dust.

The scale of the opposition had far exceeded his expectations. Every blast of musket fire from around the town sent a chill down the silver-haired baron’s spine, and each shrill scream of agony filled him with despair. For the first time, he regretted the blind confidence in his own arrangements.

Arriving at the scene, Baron Mori frantically searched for any sign of his youngest son, Carlos. Only when he saw Carlos safe and sound inside the tavern did the weight lift from his heart.

He had just raised his hand, ready to scold Carlos, when he caught sight—at the edge of his vision—of the old man and woman near the tavern door. His heart leapt into his throat. Squinting for a moment to confirm their identities, a cold sweat broke out on his brow. He quickly scratched his head with his right hand, feigning nonchalance, and hurriedly dropped it.

Baron Mori scowled, his face clouded with worry and regret, looking for all the world like a chastised child as he stepped through the breach into the tavern.

He shot Carlos a bewildered glare, then hurried over to Flint.

With a forlorn air, the disheveled noble greeted the old man respectfully, “General Flint, it’s an honor.” Forcing a sheepish smile, he added to the woman, “And you are—? High Priestess Jeffrey? Even more beautiful than when you were a child.”

Jeffrey blinked, gazing sweetly at Baron Mori. “Uncle Mori, you’ve truly outdone yourself this time. I was thoroughly entertained.”

Entertained? A vein pulsed on Mori’s forehead.

“How could you let these troublesome fools run rampant on your land, Mori? Since leaving the Central Province, have you really grown so foolish?” Flint snapped, glaring at the deferential baron without the slightest courtesy.

Carlos stood to the side, listening quietly, his jaw dropping in astonishment.

What? This unremarkable old man was in fact a full general of the Imperial Army, and the stunning, bewitching woman beside him—a true High Priestess of the Church of Holy Light? And from the looks of it, both seemed to have close ties to his own family.