Chapter 38: The Outlaw (2)

The leader of Squad Seven drew in a deep breath, his gaze locked firmly on the eyes hidden behind Gen’s steel helmet.

“So… you’re admitting it?” His voice sank lower, the pretense of civility gone.

Gen tilted his head slightly, as though weighing his words, then shook it.

“No… I only spoke of a hypothesis. But it seems you’ve just confirmed it for me.”

Several members behind the leader exchanged brief glances. One hand already hovered over a weapon.

The leader stepped forward, his voice turning hard.

“The arrest warrant has been signed. You come with us, or—”

“Or what?” Gen’s voice cut across his words, low but overwhelming. “So you can drag me through the streets, like some trophy for the one who paid for my blood?”

The leader frowned.

“I don’t care who wants your head. We only follow orders.”

A dry chuckle escaped Gen, echoing sharply within the helmet.

“Orders… nothing more than the crutch you cling to, when your hands are soaked in another man’s blood, isn’t it?”

He took a single step forward. Now only inches separated them, the air between them tightening like a drawn bowstring. Gen tilted his head ever so slightly—an unspoken challenge.

“I’m not going anywhere… And if you want to try—”

“…then take another step.”

The words slipped out through the slit of his helmet, cold and final, like the slam of a locking iron gate.

A morning breeze threaded through the alley, carrying with it the chill of steel and the damp scent of stone. The chains in Squad Seven’s hands rattled faintly. One pull, one sharp breath—battle would erupt.

Gen’s gauntleted hand turned slightly. From the spatial ring on his finger, a massive chunk of black metal emerged.

It was a great hammer, long-shafted and heavy, its enormous head rough like mountain stone. The weapon looked less forged than torn from the earth itself.

Gen rested the hammer on his shoulder.

Clang!

The haft tapped lightly against his armor, the clear note ringing out like a death knell. Instinctively, some of Squad Seven stepped back.

“I’ll say this one more time…” His voice rumbled, as if spoken from the depths of an abyss.

“…Take another step, and you’ll learn what waits at the end of this road.”

The leader of Squad Seven said nothing. His hand loosened from his sword hilt, shifting instead to grip the steel chain—then suddenly snapped it forward.

But Gen had already moved.

A single step tore apart the distance. The hammer swung down from his shoulder, howling with the force to crush an entire street.

BOOM!

The chain shattered, links scattering like rain. The leader had no time to evade—his chest collapsed with a sickening crack, his body hurled backward, slamming into the stone-paved ground.

Blood splattered in a long crimson streak.

A second fighter lunged from the side, faster than an arrow, his chain whipping out like a serpent toward Gen’s throat. But Gen did not retreat. He raised the hammer, swinging upward in a brutal arc that carried with it the wind and the blood of the fallen.

CRASH!

The man’s body was flung skyward, slamming onto a nearby rooftop. Tiles shattered, crimson rain dripping down.

Two more split to flank him, aiming to crush him between. Gen turned once, sweeping the hammer in a wide circle.

The sound of bones shattering echoed. Both were flung away like broken dolls—one crashing back toward the alley’s mouth, the other’s skull cracking open against the cobblestones like a split nut.

Three remained.

For an instant, they froze. Then instinct forced them forward. One slid low, dagger flashing. Another leapt from the rooftop. The last hurled a chain toward Gen’s legs.

He didn’t even look.

The hammer shifted to his left hand. His right caught the chain and yanked hard. The wielder stumbled forward—just in time to see the black hammer descend.

CRACK!

His head vanished in a spray of gore.

The attacker from above hadn’t even landed when Gen spun, swinging upward as though splitting the sky. The hammer met flesh with a bone-snapping blast. What had once been a man was reduced to shredded meat raining down.

The final fighter collapsed to the ground, dagger still clutched in trembling hands. His wide eyes stared into the steel mask, and all he saw was his own reflection—small, quivering, on the edge of vanishing.

Gen hefted the hammer back onto his shoulder and inclined his head slightly.

“Seven… now only one remains. If you want to live—run.”

The man bolted, stumbling away in panic, leaving behind a blood-soaked alley strewn with corpses. Gen turned, Dolly following at his side. His steps were calm, as if he had merely taken out the trash.

In George’s manor overlooking the plaza, filtered sunlight bled through thick curtains in muted golden lines. George sat behind his desk, one hand swirling a glass of red wine, the other tapping idly on the armrest. His half-lidded eyes seemed lost in calculation.

Mo Hamus entered, closing the door softly behind him. The faint click of the latch seemed to shut out the world beyond.

“My lord, Squad Seven has received their orders. Should that man resist, the town guard will have their excuse… Everything proceeds as planned.” His voice was low and steady.

George tilted his glass, watching the crimson swirl.

“I’d prefer not to spill my men’s blood in the streets if it isn’t needed. If he submits quietly, all the better. But…”

He turned the glass, the red within shimmering.

“…If he dares defy Venezia’s law, there will be hundreds eager to cut him apart for the chance to touch my coin.”

Mo Hamus dipped his head, though his eyes gleamed sharp as a freshly honed blade.

“He’s strong. A man like that doesn’t put his neck into a noose so easily.”

A cold chuckle escaped George, sharp as shears slicing through cloth.

“Precisely why I needn’t stoop to face him myself. Law is the cleanest blade of all—it cuts a man’s throat without ever dirtying your hands.”

The sun had risen high, its glare flooding the plaza like a mirror of blinding light.

The conversation soon ended. Life within the manor resumed its rhythm—guards changing shifts, servants carrying trays of polished silver, carriage wheels rolling over the cobbled streets outside.

None of them knew that just beyond the market, blood was seeping into the cracks of stone.

It was some time later when hurried footsteps and the clatter of armor echoed down the alley. A squad of town guards rushed in from the market, still panting, blades only half drawn.

Then they froze.

The entire alley had become a canvas of blood. Gray cloaks were nothing but shredded fabric clinging to chunks of flesh. White bone mingled with shattered stone, as though everything had been ground together in some grisly mortar.

A young guard swallowed hard, his hand trembling so violently that his sword rattled in its sheath.

“S-Squad Seven…?” he muttered, as though speaking softly might change the truth.

The older officer stepped forward, his seasoned eyes narrowing. He knelt, lifting a torn scrap of cloth. Beneath it lay a face crushed beyond recognition—but the iron ring on its finger was unmistakable.

“It’s them,” he rasped, voice hoarse not with grief but with the weight of consequence. “In this town… no ordinary man could have done this. Whoever did… was no mere mortal.”

A heavy silence fell, pressing down on every soul in the alley.

“But… why? Who would want to kill the entire Seven? Could it be some kind of grudge?” another soldier whispered, his eyes still fixed on the mangled remains.

A second soldier spoke in a hushed, strangled tone: “Maybe it was an enemy from outside… but if it was someone inside the town… then who could possibly have the strength to do this?”

The commander frowned, his gloved hand tightening into a fist. “Enough. Speculation will only cloud your minds. We don’t know—and we don’t need to know. At least, not right now.”

In the distance, the marketplace of Venezia still buzzed with noise, but here, time itself seemed to have frozen.

A young soldier asked hesitantly, “Commander… should we report this directly to the town overseer?”

“…Yes.” The commander glanced around, as if to make sure no unwanted ears were listening. He did not want panic spreading among the townsfolk. “We don’t know who did this, so it’s best not to guess.”

He didn’t say more. Instead, he turned his back and gestured for the men to collect the corpses. Every step through the pools of blood left behind deep crimson footprints, as if they themselves were stepping into an inescapable vortex.

The news had not yet escaped these walls.

But the wind could not be contained. It carried a strange, chilling breath, slithering through alleys and crawling up the stone steps of George’s mansion.

And then—

Heavy footsteps in steel armor echoed before the gates.

The guard stationed in the courtyard narrowed his eyes as the shadow of a stranger slowly approached.

In that moment, his heart skipped a beat. That armor—this was not something ordinary soldiers could ever afford. It wasn’t cheap iron or the crude steel given to patrolmen. It was something smooth, unyielding, a cold surface that seemed to swallow the very light around it. Expensive. Incredibly expensive. Even just the polished plates alone could be worth more than his entire family’s fortune.

A thought flashed across the guard’s mind: Someone wearing armor like that… could he truly be just a passerby? A hired knight? Or an assassin sustained by gold?

The guard scowled, his hand tightening on his spear. He barked out, “This is the mansion of Lord George. Who are you seeking?”

The figure gave no reply.

The guard’s grip tightened as he stepped forward, boots crunching against the gravel. “I asked you—what business do you have here?”

At that instant, a ragged piece of gray cloth slipped from the armored man’s hand, fluttering to the ground. The guard barely glanced at it, dismissing it as nothing more than a filthy scrap—never realizing it had once been the emblem of the infamous Seven.

The towering steel gates stood before the intruder, their bars woven together like a fortress wall.

The guard froze as the armored figure placed his gauntleted hands upon the iron.

A screech erupted, a piercing wail of metal. Hinges groaned and trembled, the gate itself quivering as though the very soul of iron was crying out in despair.

With a single wrench—

BOOM!

The gate collapsed like paper. Steel bars twisted and snapped like brittle twigs, crashing onto the stone with a deafening weight.

The guard stood paralyzed, eyes wide in disbelief. The very pillars that supported the gate had crumbled—torn down by nothing but a pair of armored hands.

The dark-cloaked figure did not pause. He stepped across the wreckage, boots grinding against the warped metal. Each footfall rang out like the cold strike of a hammer upon the heart of everyone present.

The guard staggered back, his legs trembling. His body refused to move, his face paling rapidly before the sheer, overwhelming presence standing before him.

And then, without warning—

CRASH!

A colossal war hammer appeared. The black-armored intruder swung it in a wide arc, smashing into the mansion’s main doors. Thick wood split along its grain, hinges snapped loose, and shards exploded outward like a storm of stone and splinters. The booming crash echoed through the halls, louder and more terrifying than the gate’s destruction, sending flocks of birds shrieking into the sky above the plaza.

The guard could only collapse backward onto the stone floor, his arm shaking uncontrollably, eyes locked on the shattered doorway. Through the haze of dust and splinters, sunlight spilled in from the plaza outside, casting the silhouette of the black-cloaked figure as he strode inside—slow, deliberate, and mercilessly imposing.

On the second floor, George lifted a glass of wine, his gaze thoughtful.

Suddenly, the thunderous crash shook the building, reverberating through wood and stone alike. The glass in his hand trembled, rippling the surface of crimson liquid. His eyes widened ever so slightly.

“…What was that?” George murmured, his voice low but sharp as a blade. He set the glass down, fingers curling into a tight fist.

Almost immediately, Mo Hamus entered the chamber, his voice low and strained. “My lord… did you hear it? The front door—it’s been destroyed.”

His eyes narrowed further, his tone grim. “This is an assault. But… in broad daylight, in the middle of the plaza… this is highly unusual.”

George did not answer right away. He listened to the faint vibrations still echoing from below, a reminder that someone had intruded upon his domain.

He drew in a deep breath to suppress the rising anger. His gaze fell upon the swirling red within his glass, his words cold, almost whispered to himself: “An assault… but why? Do they mean to provoke me?”

He shook his head. “In the end, this town is only a base. True power lies in the smuggling routes—where money flows strongest.”

Mo Hamus frowned, tilting his head in thought. “It could be rival syndicates. Julia, perhaps. She’s been pressing harder than ever, trying to seize control and cut off our profits. But whoever it is… they didn’t come here to negotiate.”

George let out a chilling laugh. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that they dared to strike my house. Whether it’s a probe or a challenge… they will pay. I want to know who stands in my courtyard—and why.”

With that, he set down the glass, his eyes flashing with cold intent.

Both men headed out immediately.

Mo Hamus lingered a step behind, eyes sharp, scanning every shadow.

The mansion’s grand hall was George’s pride—a checkerboard of black and white marble tiles, polished like mirrors. A crystal chandelier hung high above, hundreds of prisms scattering a faint golden glow. Twin staircases curled upward in a perfect arc, meeting at the second floor, the entire layout resembling the stage of a ruler.

As George and Mo Hamus descended the stairs, the hall seemed to freeze over. Every sound vanished. The broken main doors yawned open, sunlight spilling across the cold marble floor, revealing two figures standing motionless at the center.

One tall. One small.

Both clad in black armor from head to toe. The metal plates devoured the surrounding light, exuding a suffocating weight. They did not move. They did not speak. They were like grim statues, placed there solely to intimidate all who gazed upon them.

Scattered guards stood around the hall, swords drawn but useless. Their trembling hands made the blades quiver, producing a faint, pitiful ring. None dared to advance. Their eyes remained locked on the two dark figures, as though even the smallest misstep would see them swallowed whole.

One soldier swallowed hard, the sound echoing far too loud in the silence, making even himself flinch. Everyone waited desperately for someone—anyone—to break the crushing stillness, for the silence now pressed upon them like a blade against their throats.

A servant backed away in shock, silver tray trembling so violently it rattled, as though it might crash to the floor at any moment.

On the stairs, George’s hand clenched the railing so tightly his knuckles whitened. Not from fear—but from fury. His sharp eyes swept the hall, missing nothing: the trembling guards, the shaking servant, the dark sheen of the intruder’s armor. Every detail, no matter how small, fell into his gaze.

The grand hall was no longer a display of wealth and power. It had become a stage. A stage of silence, where only the clash of gazes remained—like invisible arrows, waiting for the instant they would ignite into violence.