Chapter 8

Dawn broke, and a pallid mist rolled over the city gates like a rising tide.

The old man strode at the front, his steps hurried, the hem of his robe soaked with dew, yet his pace betrayed an irrepressible urgency. Behind him followed several trusted aides, pushing a cart hastily laden with cobbled-together weapons and crude magical supplies.

The gates creaked open.

Heavy wooden bars groaned as they shifted, revealing the damp wilderness beyond. In the fog, a force was already gathered.

Dozens of mercenaries—each clad in mismatched armor, some polished and gleaming, others chipped and rusted. Their expressions varied: a few gnawed lazily on dried meat, others watched their comrades with cold eyes. But when their gazes fell upon the sealed iron coffer in the old man’s hands, the same hunger flickered across them all.

“This the monster you spoke of?”
The mercenary captain sat astride his horse, his expression dark and predatory, his tone probing as he stared at the old man.

The old man wasted no words. He simply raised a hand and patted the iron coffer, his eyes glinting with barely restrained fervor.
“Yes. Its material can forge armor beyond all compare—if, that is, you can bring it back.”

The captain studied him for a few moments, then gave a sharp, mocking laugh.
“Fine. We ride.”

At his command, the thunder of iron boots rang out, echoing through the mist as the column marched beyond the gates.

No one spared a thought for the father and son who had been tossed like refuse at the gates the night before. By now, they had vanished without a trace.

The guards cared nothing—those who noticed simply dismissed them as beggars, garbage too insignificant to matter.

And so the column advanced, driven by greed and violence, toward the village where a monster’s massacre had once taken place…

The air in the village no longer reeked merely of blood as it had days before.
Now it was worse—rot, damp, and the stench of carcasses torn apart by beasts mixed into a nauseating miasma, as if the entire place itself were slowly decaying.

The old man stood beneath the half-collapsed eaves of a ruined house, inhaling deeply as though savoring the faint trace of blood that still lingered.

His cracked lips curled, his eyes glittering with a greed he could no longer disguise.

“Somewhere around here.”
The old man muttered under his breath, as if speaking only to himself.
“That monster couldn’t have gone far.”

Yet even after scouring most of the ruins—searching through charred cellars and collapsed granaries—there was still no trace of the so-called Red Armor.

The mercenaries exchanged uneasy glances, the bravado on their faces slowly giving way to agitation. They were no strangers to blood, but finding nothing—that was what truly set nerves on edge.

One of them couldn’t help but grumble:
“How long ago was the intel you got? Is the monster even still here?”

“Silence!” the old man barked, eyes narrowing sharply before turning toward his attendant.
“Bring it.”

The attendant hurriedly pulled out a thick stack of parchment, stamped with countless debt markers.

The old man flipped through them, until his gaze settled on one name.

—Locke Village.
—Agnes.

“Heh.”
A low, sinister chuckle escaped his throat.
“If the monster can’t be found for now… then let’s take care of some other business first.”

He raised his hand in a commanding wave.

“Split up. You—continue sweeping this village and the surrounding area. Dig up the ground if you have to, but drag that creature’s shadow into the light.”
“Yes, sir!”

“The rest of you, with me.”
The old man slipped the debt slip into his sleeve, his voice cold and hard.
“Debts… must always be repaid.”

And so, a small detachment turned and began marching toward Locke Village…

…

Silead sat within the forest, the dull red gleam of his armor catching in the dappled sunlight.
Today was unnervingly quiet.

Because Agnes didn’t appear—
there was no creak of a wooden bucket, no scent of wild grass, no woman’s endless chatter.

Silead suddenly found himself… unaccustomed to the silence.

Her presence had always been abrupt, noisy, intrusive—yet now, with that disturbance gone, his heart felt oddly hollow, as if something was missing.

“Perhaps… it really is better when someone is talking.”
The thought flickered silently through his mind.

He had expected to feel relieved, but instead, there was a faint emptiness gnawing at him. His thoughts circled endlessly, until a sudden sound shattered the quiet.

Water splashed.
A plump fish leapt from the river’s surface, traced an arc under the moonlight, then crashed back into the stream.

Silead’s eyes sharpened. Almost by reflex, he rose to his feet.

Staring at the rippling water, he felt a strange sensation stir within him.
The tension in his nerves eased—just slightly.

“Fish…”
He murmured under his breath, removing the heavy gauntlet from his hand before crouching at the riverbank.

There was no real purpose.
He simply reached into the water, trying to catch one.

His fingers skimmed the cold surface. His movements were clumsy—several times he lunged, only to pull up handfuls of weeds and mud.
The weight of his armor made even bending awkward, nothing at all like a hunter.

But he wasn’t impatient.

After a few more tries, at last he slapped down on a slippery body, closing his hand around it.
The fish writhed wildly in his palm, scales flashing as droplets scattered through the air.

He lifted it up, watching its gaping mouth open and close.
And then, unexpectedly, he almost laughed.

—This pointless, meaningless act… had made him, if only for a fleeting moment, forget the world he was trapped in.

“Eat it?”
He muttered to himself, though his gaze slowly darkened.

His stomach wasn’t hungry. His body remained strong. But taste—taste was still there.
On days with no goal, no road home, perhaps the only way to confirm that he was still alive… was through the small act of eating.

Dragging the fish back to the hollow tree, he gathered dry twigs and prepared a fire.
The flames flickered, casting dim red reflections across his crimson armor.

The smell of roasted fish spread through the forest.
Silead chewed in silence, the faint satisfaction of taste lingering in his mouth.
But when he swallowed the last bite, the realization struck—

Agnes still hadn’t come.

He stared at the dying fire, an unplaceable irritation stirring in his chest.
Was it anger?
Or… had something happened?

The scrape of armor echoed through the woods as he rose slowly to his feet, slung the greatsword across his back, and followed the familiar path toward the village.

Noise reached him at the edge of the clearing.
Silead crouched low in the grass, gray eyes peering coldly through the slits of his mask toward the village entrance.

A small band had stopped outside.

Not knights—their gear was shabby, mismatched armor and rust-pitted weapons cobbled together, spears and curved blades barely holding shape.
Even their horses were gaunt and weary.
Five men in total, their eyes glinting with greed and cruelty.

They jeered, shoving one another, boasting as though showing off some prize. Then, with laughter, they tossed something onto a saddle.

Silead’s pupils narrowed.

It wasn’t something.
It was a person.

Agnes.

Her wrists and ankles were bound tight with coarse hemp rope, thrown against the horse like a sack of grain.
Her hair was disheveled, her face streaked with dirt and fear.

She thrashed, but no sound came—her mouth was gagged with filthy cloth.
Her wide, desperate eyes darted toward the village gate, searching for help, for a miracle.

One of the mercenary-looking men sneered, utterly unbothered, and barked with crude laughter:
“Can’t pay the debt? Then pay with a body! Hah, this girl doesn’t look half bad!”
“Ha! Once we get the coin, we can all have a little fun with her!”

Among them, the leader—an older man—spoke with a dismissive tone:

“Your debt will stand as it is for now. Next time, I’ll come back for the rest.”

With that, they cracked their whips and spurred their weary horses, ready to leave.

From within the undergrowth, Silead’s gaze turned utterly dark.

Agnes… she really was in trouble.

He could feel a restless heat churning in his chest.
That woman… he had only known her for a few days.
She was not a companion, not family, not someone he was bound to protect.

By all reason, her fate had nothing to do with him.

If he turned away now, nothing would happen.
No one would ever know.

And yet—her image wouldn’t leave his mind.
Her stubborn chatter, speaking of meaningless hobbies…
Her eyes, secretly watching him even after he rejected her.

—Why should it matter?
—Why let it disturb him?

Silead clenched his teeth, that cold, unshakable rationality in his heart torn open by something unseen.

“No… this can’t be left alone.”

The soft grind of metal echoed as he slowly straightened to his full height.

He didn’t rush in.
Instead, he stilled his breathing, steps soundless, following the five-man band from a distance.

First, observe.

The beat of hooves echoed through the forest, the mercenaries jeering and cursing, unaware that in the darkness, a crimson figure shadowed their every move.

Through the tangle of branches, Silead’s eyes grew colder, his fingers brushing against the hilt strapped at his waist.

“For now… I’ll just watch.”

He moved in silence.

Dry twigs cracked faintly under his boots, the sharp snap drowned beneath the mercenaries’ coarse laughter.

Silead held his breath, his gaze fixed like ice upon their retreating figures.

Yet the farther he went, the deeper his frown became.

The trees thinned, revealing traces of desolation ahead—scattered rags, broken tools. The sharp stench of blood was gone, but the air still carried the rancid aftertaste of decay.

—Here.

He recognized it.

This was the village.
The one slaughtered in blood.
The nightmare surged back into his mind—the torn limbs, rivers of gore, the scene spiraling out of control right before his eyes…

His fingers tightened instinctively, pressing harder against the hilt of his sword.
His breath quickened.

He didn’t want to admit it. But deep down, he knew with painful clarity—
It was all his doing.

And now, those mercenaries dragging Agnes… had brought her straight here.

Worse still, they weren’t alone.

Among the ruins, another group—more than a dozen men—scattered in clusters, weapons in hand, clearly searching.
They looked busy in different corners, but their intent was the same—
To find something.

Before Silead could think further, a sharp voice split the silence:

“Who’s there?”

The flames of a torch flared violently, and several piercing gazes snapped toward the shadow where he stood.

Silead froze.

He had been discovered.

The moment that challenge rang out, the scattered searchers began to converge, drawn as if by an invisible thread.

Torches wavered in the mist, casting wary faces in flickering light.
The shuffle of boots closed in, the tension in the air pulled tight as a bowstring.

“Trouble.”
Silead cursed under his breath.

The next instant, hesitation was gone.
With a metallic clang, his longsword slid free of its sheath, the crimson armor on his body catching the firelight and scattering it into a cold, merciless gleam.

His gaze locked on the man who had first spoken—the burly one holding a torch, a longsword strapped to his hip.

No words.

His boot slammed against the ground, snapping dry twigs beneath him.
In the blink of an eye, Silead became a streak of crimson, lunging out from the shadows.

The air split around him, his blade humming with a low, lethal resonance as it swung straight for the man’s neck and shoulder.

“Enemy attack!!!”
The shriek tore through the night, igniting the forest with chaos.

From all directions, more torches flared to life. More steel drew and converged upon him.

But Silead’s expression remained calm—
No panic, only a chilling stillness behind the mask.

He was ready to carve a path of blood.

The sword came down.

Crack!
The torch was cleaved in two, sparks scattering into the dark. The burly man hadn’t even drawn his weapon before Silead’s boot smashed into his chest, hurling him into the wreckage of a collapsed hut—alive or dead, it didn’t matter.

That single strike set everything ablaze.

“Kill him!!”
“Surround him!”

A half-dozen mercenaries roared, blades flashing with murderous light in the fire’s glow.

Silead raised his sword to parry—

CLANG!
Steel crashed against steel, the impact numbing his arms. His movements were stiff, without flourish or trained technique—only instinctual slashes and desperate blocks, raw and brutal.

Another blade lunged toward his abdomen—

But the crimson armor stopped it cold, sparks bursting across the mask’s narrow slits, gleaming with an icy, murderous light.

A mercenary roared and charged, his spear thrust straight for Silead’s chest.

Thud!
The spearpoint slammed in, but it only carved a shallow scratch across the armor before the backlash split the man’s palm open.

Silead seized the opening, swinging his sword—
Shhk!
The steel tore through flesh. The man screamed and collapsed.

The others froze, fear flashing in their eyes.

And then—

A hunched figure finally arrived at the edge of the chaos.

It was the old merchant from the magic shop.

In the firelight, he saw the crimson armor raging like a demon in the dark. His eyes widened, greed spilling out as though it could no longer be contained.

“Hahaha… Found you! It really is you!!”
The old man shrieked with manic laughter, his voice tearing through the night:
“Take him alive! Do you hear me? Alive!! Capture that monster—double the pay I promised!!”

The words poured oil onto the flames.

“Double!!!”
The mercenaries roared, their fear buried under a flood of greed.

No longer attacking in scattered strikes, they gritted their teeth and closed ranks, fighting in groups, alternating between offense and defense. Blades flashed, shields locked, their formation pressing in like a tightening noose.

Silead’s breath grew ragged, his muscles stiff beneath the armor.
His movements were still clumsy, without discipline—only blocks, chops, and brutal swings.

But each instinctive strike landed like a beast’s pounce, the weight of his armor crashing down with every blow, driving his enemies stumbling back.

Clang! Clang! Clang!
Steel rang again and again, forcing Silead backward, his boots carving deep furrows into the ground with every retreating step.

In the flickering firelight, Silead’s crimson figure no longer looked human in the mercenaries’ eyes—he was something else, something that had awakened from the darkness.

“Don’t give him a chance to breathe—press him in!” someone roared.

Several mercenaries swapped out their weapons, hefting heavy warhammers and long-hafted battle-axes as they charged forward, panting like beasts.

“Smash the armor! Crack it open!!”

BOOM!
The first warhammer crashed down, slamming into Silead’s shoulder. Sparks burst violently from the armor, the impact ringing with a deep metallic roar.

The blow staggered him, one boot sinking deep into the mud under the sheer force.

Another mercenary followed up instantly, his battle-axe chopping down with a savage cry.

CLANG!
Silead barely raised his sword in time to block, but the shock numbed his entire arm.

They had seen his weakness—his clumsy movements, his lack of finesse. Their plan was simple: break the armor, force an opening, and tear him apart.

And then—

“Heh heh heh…”

A chilling, twisted laugh slithered out from behind.

The old man stood there, leaning on his staff like a cane, eyes burning with fervor as his lips poured out a string of guttural, foreign syllables.

“Kal’Varr… Grul’tes!”

The air trembled violently, as though some unseen force was condensing out of the void.

The firelight shook, shadows on walls and corpses stretched and twisted, writhing as though they were about to come alive.

Silead’s chest tightened in an instant.
He couldn’t understand the incantation, but every fiber of his being screamed: Danger. Mortal danger.

His gaze snapped toward the old man.
If that chant was allowed to finish, something terrible would happen.

Silead lunged, sword in hand, aiming to cut the old man down in one strike—
But before he could reach him, two mercenaries stepped in front, blocking his path.

“Trying to get through? In your dreams!”
“Die here, bastard!”

Blades and hammers swung at him in unison, strikes sharp and filled with murderous intent.
His way forward was sealed tight.

Behind them, the old man’s chant rose higher and higher, the guttural syllables swelling like a storm, as though calling forth some monstrous existence…

And then—

BANG!!

The old man staggered violently, his body knocked off balance by something slamming into him from behind. He crashed to the ground, his staff nearly flying from his grip. The incantation broke off mid-word, and the power gathering in the air shuddered, scattering into static with a shrill hiss, like lightning shattering in the void.

“Wh-What?!”
The mercenaries froze, startled, their eyes snapping toward the commotion.

What they saw was a small, battered figure—
Agnes.

Her hands were still bound, her cheek scraped raw from the fall, but her eyes burned with stubborn defiance.
Moments ago, she had tried to slip away unnoticed. But seeing Silead trapped, seeing the old man uttering those horrifying chants… a reckless thought surged up in her heart:

Maybe… he came to save me.

And so, while everyone’s focus was fixed on the spell, she had thrown herself forward, teeth gritted, body slamming straight into the old man.

“Argh—!!”
He stumbled, tumbling to the ground, his staff clattering several feet away.

Silead’s eyes went cold in an instant.
Opportunity.

“Die!”
With a roar, his sword swept wide, knocking back the two mercenaries before him. He stomped forward, crimson armor shrieking with the sound of metal, charging directly at the fallen old man.

The old man scrambled across the dirt, panic twisting his face in a way he had never shown before.
“Stop him! Stop him!!”

The mercenaries finally snapped out of their shock, yelling as they rushed in. But the aura bursting from Silead now was like that of a beast breaking its chains, freezing their hearts for just a breath.

In the firelight, his sword point gleamed cold, locked straight on the old man.

Beside him, Agnes stared at Silead with wide eyes, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

The sword was already within reach.

The old man’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. A strangled cry tore from his throat:
“No—!!”

And in the next heartbeat, he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for death’s embrace.

Yet—the blade never fell.

Thud!
A heavy bootstep struck the ground.

The old man suddenly felt a rush of air beside him. When he dared to open his eyes, he realized—Silead hadn’t driven the sword into his chest at all. Instead, the knight’s gauntleted hand had seized Agnes by the arm, hauling her upright.

The crimson armor flashed in the firelight—then his figure blurred into the fog, vanishing from sight in an instant.

“Wha… What?!”
The mercenaries stood stunned, frozen in place.

“What are you waiting for? After him!!”
Someone roared, though the edge of panic was already clear in his voice.

But in the very next heartbeat, their gazes all snapped to the old man still sprawled on the ground—
His face had gone ashen, sweat pouring down his brow.

“If the employer dies… who the hell pays us?!”
“Guard him! Now!”

The mercenaries quickly tightened their formation, closing in around the old man, desperate to make sure he was unharmed.

And while they scrambled in confusion, Silead had already vanished into the misty forest with Agnes in tow, their footsteps fading deeper into the night.

The fog swallowed the crimson silhouette whole.

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