Rivaan and Reiner followed their hearts, standing before the grand, rotting manor.
Rivaan adjusted his coat, scanning the area.
"We should make a plan," he muttered. "We don't know how many are inside, what weapons they have, or—"
Reiner smirked, already drawing his swords.
"I don't follow plans." His boots crunched against the dirt as he stepped forward.
Rivaan sighed.
"Fine. You keep them distracted. I'll find Mira's mother and the others."
Reiner cracked his neck.
"Do what you want."
As they approached the manor, Reiner said,
"I'll go first."
Rivaan frowned.
"You want to die or something? We need to go together."
Reiner waved him off.
"Don't worry. Just wait and watch."
Reiner moved toward the gates where four guards stood watch.
One guard called out, "Hey, sword man! Move! This is the leader's property."
Reiner didn't stop.
The guard's voice sharpened.
"Don't you understand, sword man? Move, or you'll lose your filthy life."
Then something happened — something Rivaan still couldn't explain.
Shing...
Neither guard saw the strike. Not the first, nor the second.
A moment later, their heads hit the ground, rolling to the side, eyes still wide in confusion. Their bodies stood motionless for a heartbeat, as if unaware they had already died — then collapsed in a heap.
Rivaan exhaled, staring at the clean, effortless kills.
Reiner's cuts were so precise, not a drop of blood touched the blade.
Rivaan nodded slowly.
"Okay… now I know you'll handle this."
Reiner smirked.
Rivaan revised the plan.
"You handle the guards. I'll handle the prisoners."
Reiner agreed, pointing toward a stairwell leading down.
"Look — the prisoners must be below."
They split up.
Before heading toward the hall, Reiner glanced down at the severed heads and grinned.
"Hmm… I think I'll take these. A little surprise for later."
He grabbed the heads and strode toward the manor.
Inside, the party hall reeked of alcohol, blood, and rotten wood.
Thugs, slavers, and mercenaries feasted and laughed, gold and stolen goods scattered across the tables.
A fat man in a red coat stood at the center. The leader — Sir Voltair. He slammed his cup down.
"To our rule! And to the dogs who serve under us!"
The room erupted in cheers.
Thud…!
Three severed heads landed on the center table, rolling between goblets and platters.
Silence fell like death.
The spilled red wine mixed with the blood dripping from the heads.
Voltair rose, furious.
"Who the hell in this manor dares to ruin my pleasure?"
Footsteps echoed as Reiner stepped forward, swords still sheathed, smirking like a wolf in a den of sheep.
His eyes swept the room, unfazed. He wrinkled his nose.
"I never liked drinking," he said quietly. Then he exhaled sharply.
"I just hate the smell."
The room froze. Voltair stared, confused.
Then — someone screamed.