From one of the huts, a soldier's rough voice pierced the uneasy silence.
"Supreme General, I've found something!"
Heads snapped toward the sound. Even the restless horses stilled, snorting clouds of hot breath into the air. Granero, crouched high on a swaying branch, fixed his eyes in that direction. His heart squeezed inside his chest. He had insisted on staying when his uncle Passo urged them to flee. Now that decision hung on his shoulders like a curse. If his mother died here… what then? Would he live only to drown in guilt and agony, blaming himself until his last breath?
"What is it?" Supreme General Vincent Kim's voice thundered, steady and commanding, though his brows tightened ever so slightly. He stood beside his horse, one gauntleted hand resting on its neck.
Earlier he had dismounted in a fury, sword flashing as he prepared to cut down the shadowy figure in the tree. But after a few exchanges, he reconsidered. To bring the full weight of his might against a single boy perched above was too crude, like smashing an egg with a warhammer. Now, he tried something different—a softer blade, one that cut deeper than steel.
The soldier emerged, dragging a frail form behind him. Granero's mother. Her body scraped against the dirt as he pulled her mercilessly across the ground.
He was more or less dragging a woman with a broken spine on the cold hard ground. The broken curve of her spine twisted unnaturally, and every movement seemed to tear through her like knives.
She clawed weakly at the earth, fingers trembling, yet could not stop the violent pull. Her lips parted, but no scream escaped—only a strangled breath, the sound of a soul caught between torment and silence.
Gasps rippled through some of the soldiers, though none dared to protest. They had seen brutality before, but something about a mother's suffering under the indifferent grip of war always carried its own weight.
Up in the tree, Granero's eyes widened. His veins seemed to thrum with fire. The boy's whole body shook—not from fear, but from a fury so primal it hollowed him from within. His gaze locked on the figure of his mother, helpless, humiliated, dying by inches.
If anyone looked into his eyes at that moment, they would not see a boy.
They would see the gaze of a beast.
A cornered beast whose blood had awakened into something far more dangerous than rage—something ancient, unyielding, and ready to burn the world.
Granero's body moved before his mind could catch up.
He leapt from the branch with reckless abandon, hurtling down like a hawk upon prey. A vine, tightly wound around his wrist, unraveled as he swung it in a wide arc. With a sharp pull, hidden mechanisms clicked into place.
From every direction, arrows whistled out of the shadows.
Thirty-two soldiers screamed in unison as the deadly storm struck. Some were pinned to the ground, others skewered through their armor, their blood painting the earth. The chaos erupted in less than a heartbeat—an ambush that should have been saved for a grander strike, a devastating final move that might have claimed hundreds.
But Granero's heart was no longer calculating. The sight of his mother dragged through dirt, her bones grinding with agony, had forced his hand. He couldn't wait. He wouldn't wait.
Even in the storm of death, one man was calm. Supreme General Vincent Kim.
As soldiers fell around him, he sat straighter in his saddle, his smile widening until it stretched ear to ear. His eyes glimmered with satisfaction.
"I got you…" he whispered, almost reverently, as if all this carnage was exactly what he had been waiting for.
Granero landed lightly on his feet, momentum carrying him forward. His eyes locked on the soldier who still clutched his mother. With a flick of his wrist, a blade shot through the air so fast it blurred.
The soldier's instincts screamed—he raised his arm.
Steel punched through his palm, but the blade stopped short of his throat. A near miss. Blood streamed down his hand, yet he only sneered, teeth flashing.
"After all that," he mocked, voice dripping with disdain, "you're still too slow."
Granero's lips curled into a grin of his own as his feet touched the ground.
"You'll find out soon…"
For a heartbeat, the soldier looked confused. Then his pupils dilated. His body convulsed. Veins blackened, crawling across his skin like cracks in glass. A scream tried to escape his throat, but his lungs betrayed him. Instead, his entire frame quivered violently before swelling grotesquely.
With a sickening boom, he exploded into fragments of flesh and blood, scattering across the dirt.
The poison was no ordinary toxin. It seeped beyond flesh, beyond blood. It devoured cultivation, corroded life force itself until nothing remained but an empty husk. It was the kind of death that even seasoned warriors whispered about in fear.
Granero exhaled sharply. In a way, he had avenged his mother. But victory was fleeting.
Before he could draw another breath, soldiers surged toward him, enraged by the spectacle. Dozens surrounded him, blades drawn, faces twisted with fury. He fought to rise, but exhaustion pulled at his limbs. He had poured too much into that one strike.
Blows rained down.
A fist cracked his cheek.
A boot slammed into his ribs.
Open palms smacked his face again and again, reducing him to a bloodied rag doll. They treated him not as a warrior, not even as an enemy—just a punching bag.
Granero never cried out. He never begged. Each strike was met with silence, though blood poured freely from his mouth and nose. His body swayed like a beaten reed, yet his eyes never lost their fire.
At last, they tied him. A heavy wooden pole lashed his arms behind him, his body pressed cruelly beside his mother's. She reached weakly toward him, but her strength failed. Their blood mingled in the dirt as soldiers continued their sport, kicking and slapping until their hands stung.
Above them, Vincent Kim leaned lazily against his saddle, watching with the air of a man sipping wine at a festival. His cruel smile never left his face.
From the carriage behind, Emperor Cailan Gravis parted the curtain and glanced out. His gaze swept over the carnage once, impassive and cold, before he spoke a few words to his attendants.
"Let them rest. In a few hours, we march again. The next region awaits."
The curtain fell shut. His carriage rolled on.
And in the dust, Granero hung half-conscious, bound, bloodied—yet unbroken.
He had carved his mark into the battlefield. Forty-two men lay dead by his hand, reducing the mighty enemy host from 599,600 to 599,558. For one youth, barely standing at the 2nd level of the Ocean Opening Realm, that tally was nothing short of legendary.
But numbers could not hide the truth. His body was shattered, his strength nearly drained, and the enemy's eyes burned with fresh hatred. What awaited him now was not glory, nor mercy—only the promise of suffering that no tally could balance.