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Eris stomped her way forward before skidding to a perfect halt in front of Allen.
Her first glance was at his leg, poised to step out the door.
Eyebrow raised.
Mouth twisted.
Arms crossed.
"Bro—"
The word got stuck in her throat, the "-ther" never making it out. Instead, she just glared at him.
"You all lied to me! You are that Allen from the capital! And that Allen isn't even my cousin!"
After a night and a morning of stewing, she'd finally pieced together the inconsistencies in his identity. Now, the young lady seemed caught between indignation and reluctant acceptance.
Allen couldn't help but smirk. He glanced at the Boreas estate gates and immediately understood what Eris was after.
Tilting his head, he ignored her accusations entirely.
"Your Sword God style has reached the Advanced tier. And this morning, you saw me unleash the Light of the Sword."
His voice was calm.
"So?"
"How did it feel?"
Eris blinked. Her gaze dropped to the scabbard at his waist.
Then, with surprising obedience, she uncrossed her arms.
"...I... I want to swing my sword. But I don't... know where to start."
Just like that, the resentful little sister vanished, replaced by a reverent student—as if thinking, "My teacher is so incredible, how could I ever doubt him?"
Her instincts made the shift effortlessly.
Allen reached out and flicked away a stray piece of straw sticking out from her shoulder.
"Good. Then you're only missing the final step."
He leaned down, bringing his face level with hers, staring straight into her eyes.
Eris' crimson brows shot up. His face was close now—authoritative yet warm. Her expression flickered between awe and lingering irritation, like a rapidly changing mask. Adorable.
But her eyes never left his.
She wouldn't look away.
Allen watched her silently for a long moment before suddenly smiling.
"I'm heading out. Want to come with me?"
Eris' eyes lit up. She'd been ready to deploy her tried-and-true "Eris the Bewitching Cat" tactic, but now that Allen had invited her outright, she practically glowed with excitement.
"Okay! Where are we going, Teacher-Brother?"
A seamless rebranding.
Allen was someone she admired—someone she wanted to become. Beneath the surface-level anger at being deceived, she was just a clingy little sister who wanted to tag along. And deeper still, there was the simple, blood-deep affection of family.
Some part of her had wanted to call him "brother."
After all, in some way, she'd always longed for someone to stand up for her.
But back at the noble academy, where they'd treated her like a brutish freak, no one had.
Had Eris really just punched people indiscriminately?
Of course not. At first, it had been her own foul temper—arguments, then taunts, then fists. Eventually, she'd stopped differentiating altogether. That was why she'd been sent home.
"...Not for fun."
"Huh? Then why?"
Allen tilted his head, watching her confusion. Then he narrowed his eyes.
"To kill."
"To sharpen the blade."
The spring breeze couldn't dispel the bloodlust in his words.
He turned his back to her and crouched down, glancing over his shoulder.
"Get on. Ask your questions on the way. Time's limited—I'm moving at full speed."
The sheer casualness of his murderous declaration stunned her for a second. But Eris had never been the type to balk at death, whether dealing it or witnessing it.
Once it sank in, she stared at his back, excitement bubbling up. It reminded her of riding on Sauros' shoulders.
A light-speed leap later, she was clinging to him.
"Let's go!"
Allen stood—and vanished.
The street echoed with Eris' voice, stretched into a long, fading line.
"——SO———————FAST———————!"
[You're not worried they'll be gone by the time you get there?]
The wind slammed into Allen, messy but ignored. His bangs fluttered.
'In the original story, the kidnapping happened in the afternoon. Eris and Rudy woke up around midnight. This time, the banquet ended at 11 PM, so the abduction likely happened between 1 and 2 AM. Sneaking out, finding a carriage, and transporting the "goods" to their hideout would've taken them till sunrise.'
'They need this Wietan base to organize their "resources."'
'And most importantly—'
Allen smiled.
'I told him during the banquet. What, did you miss that conversation? Off recharging?'
Dust swirled around him. Silence.
Lately, the system had been appearing far more often than usual. Because Allen was slipping from its control.
And that made it nervous.
But the more it spoke, the more mistakes it made.
The more it explained, the more it exposed itself.
So—
Changing the subject, steering the conversation back to their usual banter, was the safest move.
And whenever this topic came up, Allen's thoughts—those of a seasoned netizen—would scatter wildly, impossible to rein in.
[I'm your system, not your wife. Why would I memorize every word you say?]
Allen raised an eyebrow, turning to glance at the system panel—
Only to meet a pair of crimson eyes instead.
Red hair fluttered across her gaze as she stared at him, brow arched.
Her voice, and the system panel, were both swept away by the wind.
"Who are we killing?"
[Oh, right. You've got a little sister. Man, you're complicated. What's your deal?]
"Not a good person."
'I'm your dad.'
[...]
[6.]
Wietan Outskirts
"The 'goods' from 6 AM still haven't woken up. How much sedative did you use, Glasses?"
A coarse voice drifted through the air, dissolving into Wietan's sky.
This was a rundown town.
Two towns over from Roa, a four-hour trip by the slow, rickety public carriages. But compared to Roa's prosperity, Wietan was barely a step above a village.
Rusty armor and broken swords littered the streets. No walls, no patrolling guards like in Roa. The sentry at the town entrance dozed against a tree, hat pulled over his face, ignoring the occasional adventurers passing by. Beyond the town lay vast stretches of untamed wilderness—no crops, more transients than permanent residents.
A perfect base for underground operations.
Near the edge of town stood a dilapidated warehouse. Two men waited outside—one a rough-looking brute picking his teeth with a twig, the other a portly noble nervously eyeing the town's entrance.
"Extra dosage," the noble—Glasses—said, frowning at the nickname. "A VIP is coming to inspect the goods. If they wake up too early and act up, bruises lower their value. This client seems like a warrior, but he's got a refined air. Not like those capital nobles who prefer their merchandise battered."
"Thought he was picking from our stock too?"
"Your batch is trash. Just a bunch of brats, barely cleaned. No wonder Black Snake was so 'generous' handing them over for free. Even brothels would only use them for scrubbing floors. You call this a—"
"Tch."
The unshaven, bald giant spat, cutting him off. He kicked a discarded set of armor near the warehouse entrance and stood.
His shadow swallowed the noble's face. The man was massive—towering, broad, exuding intimidation. His clothes were ragged, but the unsheathed scimitar at his waist gleamed, clearly high-quality.
He looked down at the noble, who immediately covered his nose with a handkerchief.
"Drop the noble act. Save it for the boss. I don't wanna hear your whining. If you weren't useful, you think I wouldn't slit you open right here, Piggy Bank?"
With that, he stomped down, crushing the discarded armor into scrap metal, grinning savagely.
"Where's this 'VIP' of yours? Huh? What 'big shot' could you possibly know? These goods are decent—the capital's old farts'll love 'em. Oh, and Black Snake said no cut? Don't push it. We're taking twenty percent. Not a copper less. Got it?"
He kicked the flattened armor away, then raked his eyes over the noble with a sneer before strolling toward the sentry post.
The noble's face darkened as he stared at the ruined metal. He removed his monocle, polishing it to mask his unease.
Most of this new bandit group were unfamiliar faces—crude, violent, barely human.
Only their leader, Black Snake, still treated him with the usual deference, even a hint of sycophancy.
But—
The rest? Not even Black Snake reined them in.
And that was what unsettled him.
After Thomas' death, Roa's noble gatherings had dwindled. Everyone feared another purge, so they'd all withdrawn.
Which meant he hadn't been able to gather much "quality stock" this past year. Thankfully, the lord had thrown a massive banquet for that brat Eris' tenth birthday—a grand amnesty for Roa's nobility.
A perfect opportunity to "rescue" unfortunate noble girls, offering them a new life.
But now, he couldn't even afford guards...
Sighing, he glanced toward the town entrance. The bald giant was already chatting with the sentry.
No sign of any VIP carriage.
Damn it.
He'd stepped outside to wait precisely because the bandits' leering inside the warehouse was suffocating.
Yet even out here, one had followed just to harass him.
Twenty percent is too much...
Need to talk to Black Snake again...
After a moment, he took a deep breath, his chubby face trembling slightly as he adjusted his monocle.
Eyes closed.
Then open.
Once more, he was the dignified, proper noble "lord."
With a handkerchief shielding his hand, he gripped the rusted warehouse door handle.
Pushed.
Stepped inside.
Wietan Entrance
Under the tree, the bald giant was "negotiating" with the sentry.
"Come on, take one. What's the harm? Even if they're small, they can scrub floors, wash clothes—useful, right?"
"Ha... We sentries can barely feed ourselves..."
The bandit grinned, slinging an arm around the sentry's neck. With his body blocking the view, he slipped a handful of copper coins into the man's palm.
"Buy yourself a drink. Don't mind the small change. We're broke too—just got 'goods.' Shame you don't want 'em. Sure, they look filthy now, but some capital nobles love that. At best, they sell for a gold coin. Hell, quit this sentry gig. Join us."
The sentry's hat was crooked. He clenched the coins, lips pressed tight.
"Black Snake and I go way back. If I ran off with you, who'd tip you off about patrols or nobles passing through—"
A gust of wind cut him off, blowing sand from the wasteland into his eyes.
He blinked—then froze.
Beside him, the bandit's brow furrowed as he followed the sentry's gaze.
Through the dust, two figures approached—one tall, one short.
The taller one was a sharp-eyed young man. Despite his swordsman's attire, he carried an air of nobility. He rolled his neck, as if relieving stiffness, his expression wry as he glanced at his companion.
The sentry's eyes dropped—
And stalled.
The shorter figure was a red-haired noble girl, looking around with bright curiosity. Her skin was almost luminous in the sunlight. Even with his limited experience, the sentry could tell—her boots, her clothes, all expensive.
Real nobility.
Speak of the devil...
Instinctively, he straightened, stepping away from the bandit.
By then, the two had reached them.
The young man scanned the area, then raised an eyebrow at the sentry.
"Wietan?"
"Y-Yes, sir!"
Before the sentry could say more, a low, appreciative whistle came from beside him.
The bald bandit was ogling the noble girl, his gaze burning. She met his stare head-on, brows rising.
The sentry gulped.
This won't end well.
Then—
The bandit spoke, voice booming.
"Prime goods! Top tier! High class! Damn!"
The sentry whipped his head around. The bandit was practically salivating over the girl before suddenly turning to the young man, eyeing the scabbard at his waist. He snorted.
"You the one? Always with the noble posturing. That fat guy wears glasses, you carry a sword—you even know how to swing it? Tch. Where's your carriage? Not bad, though—bringing your own premium stock. But best I can do is ten of the brats. No more—"
The young man raised a hand, cutting him off. He pointed at the distant warehouse.
"That the place?"
The bandit scowled, annoyed at the interruption, but followed his finger.
"Yeah. Glasses is inside. I'll take you—"
"Say it again."
"…Huh?" The brute blinked. "The hell? You deaf or—"
A clear, loud voice cut in.
"No blinking! No fear! Watch the blade, not the corpse!"
The bandit froze.
His instincts—a North God Advanced-tier swordsman's reflexes—screamed at the girl's bloodthirsty emphasis on "corpse."
Then his mind replayed the earlier glimpse—
The young man's outstretched finger.
The thick calluses on its pad.
His head snapped back—
Just in time to see the sharp-eyed youth's hand now hovering in front of him, index finger extended, aimed directly at his own scimitar's hilt.
Like a reminder.
Draw.
The bandit's pupils shrank. His hand shot toward his waist—
But the familiar grip of his weapon never came.
Instead—
A cold, fleeting sensation.
Like grasping wind.
The wind climbed, swift yet gentle.
Brushing his wrist.
Gliding up his arm.
Kneading his elbow.
Loosening his shoulder.
At the same time, the young man—shorter, slighter—raised his own arm, fingers moving in perfect sync with the wind's path.
As if conducting it.
In that instant, the bandit understood.
He looked down—
And in that split second, his swordsman's eyes caught a feast.
Floating in the air beside his leg—
Dozens of paper-thin, palm-sized slices.
Bloody.
Pale.
Perfectly even.
Layer upon layer.
A cascading ribbon of flesh.
For a moment, he saw his entire arm laid out on the ground.
Whole.
Pristine.
As if never touched.
His pupils contracted—
Then time resumed.
Clang.
The scimitar hit the dirt.
The slices collapsed, spilling like a butchered roast, arranged neatly across the ground.
A feast.
Fresh.
Unedited.
Straight from the oven.
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