Madeyes' face burned red with rage as he fumbled to pull up his pants, his hands trembling too much to manage the task quickly. "You're dead, you insolent whelp!"
The spear-wielding guard stepped forward, weapon poised, but Hamon was already moving. With a sharp twist, he yanked his sword free from the dying man's body and, in one fluid motion, sent it flying.
The blade whistled through the air, finding its mark in the guard's throat. His eyes widened in horror as he collapsed, hands clawing weakly at the hilt protruding from his neck. His spear clattered uselessly to the ground beside him.
Hamon turned his attention back to Madeyes, who had finally managed to yank his pants back up. The bandit leader now held a sword, pointing it at Hamon with shaking hands. "You're going to pay for that," he spat.
Hamon remained still, waiting. He didn't need to bait Madeyes; the man's fury would do that for him.
The first swing came fast but reckless, slicing the air inches from Hamon's face. He leaned back, letting the blade miss by a hair's breadth. The second strike was wilder, driven by desperation. Hamon sidestepped easily. The third was predictable, and it sealed Madeyes' fate.
As the sword arced downward, Hamon's hand shot out, catching the bandit's wrist in an iron grip, stopping the blade mid-swing. With a swift twist, he wrenched the weapon from Madeyes' grasp and sent it clattering to the floor.
Madeyes staggered forward, his balance thrown. Hamon seized the moment, delivering a brutal kick between the legs. The bandit leader let out a strangled cry as he crumpled to his knees, his breath stolen by the pain.
Hamon strode forward, grabbing a fistful of Madeyes' hair and dragging him backward. The man's knees slammed against the wooden chair, knocking it over with a clatter. A platter of food crashed to the floor, roasted meat and vegetables rolling across the bloodstained planks.
Madeyes struggled, but Hamon's grip was unyielding. With a sharp slam, he drove the bandit's head against the table, rattling the silverware.
Reaching into the mess, Hamon pulled out a thick meat cleaver—the kind used to hack through bone.
Madeyes' breath came in short, ragged gasps as he stared at the blade, his eyes full of real fear for the first time that night.
"Take it out," Hamon said, pressing the cold steel against Madeyes' crotch. "Or I'll take it off for you."
The bandit leader's eyes bulged. "Y-you mean—?"
Hamon tilted his head. "What else would I mean?" His voice was calm, almost amused. "Do it, or I'll start chopping."
Madeyes' breathing was choked, his eyes watering with fear as he fumbled with his trousers. His hands shaking so badly it took him three tries before he finally succeeded and laid it on the table.
Hamon's gaze remained impassive as he pointed the cleaver at the exposed flesh. "Tell me," he murmured. "You wanted me to suck that?"
Madeyes' face contorted in sheer terror. "N-no! I didn't mean it like that!"
"Don't lie to me!" Hamon raised his voice. Brought the cleaver closer to Madeyes' trembling member. The bandit's eyes rolled back in his head, and his voice was a high-pitched whine.
"Y-yes," he finally squeaked.
A slow grin spread across Hamon's face. "Then why don't you suck it yourself?"
Madeyes' mouth opened, but all that came out was a broken sob. "No! Please! I'm begging you—"
Too late.
The cleaver flashed downward.
The knife sliced through the air. The bandit's shriek was so high-pitched it could shatter glass. His hand shot up to stop the inevitable, but it was too late. The blade of the cleaver bit into flesh, cutting through with a sickening sound.
"Arhhhh!" The scream that tore from Madeyes' throat was so inhuman that it sent shivers to everyone around the camp.
Blood spurted in an arc across the table, mixing with the remnants of their meal. Madeyes' scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet gurgle. His body convulsed as the realization of what had happened set in.
Hamon sighed and casually stabbed the severed flesh as if it were a sausage. He turned back to the sobbing bandit, his smirk widening.
"Now taste it."
Madeyes' mouth opened in horror, but Hamon shoved the bloody sausage inside before he could protest. The man gagged violently, his entire body trembling.
Feeling satisfied, Hamon released him, letting the broken man slump to the floor in a heap.
He turned, picking up a random sword from the mess of weapons scattered across the tent, and walked toward the entrance. Before stepping outside, he cast one last glance over his shoulder.
"Your name is Wallace, right?" His voice was almost casual. "Wait here while I take care of things outside."
He paused, then added with a chilling smile, "If I come back and don't find you…"
He let the unfinished threat linger before stepping into the night.
...
The chilly night wind curled around Vera as she crouched in the shadows, her sharp gaze locked onto the tent where Hamon had disappeared. The fire crackled softly, its embers glowing like dying stars, while the distant laughter of the bandits punctuated the stillness of the night. She listened intently, straining to catch any sound from within the enemy's lair—any sign that things had taken a turn for the worse.
Her heart remained steady, but her mind was restless. Her thoughts drifted to the man she had come to know in such a short time. Despite his rough exterior, Hamon had proven himself a skilled warrior. But skill alone didn't explain him. He wasn't driven by duty or loyalty—he fought like a man who had nothing to lose.
Yet, she had seen glimpses of something else. The way he had handled the wounded mercenary. The way he threw himself into danger without hesitation. Recklessness? Or something deeper?
And then there were his eyes. Hidden beneath the surface of his ever-smiling facade, sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, she could see a flicker of something in it—an emptiness, a void that seemed to suck in all light and hope. It was a look she had seen before in the eyes of those who had seen too much, who had nothing to live for except the moment in front of them.
The more time she spent with him, the more her curiosity grew. Why would a man of his skill choose to wander so far from home? What had brought him to this foreign land, where war loomed on the horizon like an inevitable storm? What was his story?
Vera exhaled, shaking her head. 'Focus.'
The mission came first. There were hostages to save—or, at the very least, bodies to recover. That was her promise, and she would see it through, no matter the cost.
Suddenly, a scream tore through the night, raw and filled with terror.
The bandits near the fire froze mid-laughter, their heads snapping toward the large tent at the center of the camp.
'Is this the signal?' Vera tensed, gripping her sword. 'Should I rush in now?'
But the scream was abruptly cut short, replaced by eerie silence.
Then, a loud shout rang from inside the tent. "What are you doing?!"
That was enough.
Vera drew her sword, the silver blade whispering free from its sheath, and began her silent approach. The camp had erupted into chaos—bandits scrambling for weapons, some already rushing toward the tent.
Her first target stood at the edge of the camp, still dazed, his gaze locked on the disturbance. He never saw her coming.
Vera slipped behind him, clamping a hand over his mouth as her blade slashed across his throat in one swift motion. His body went limp, and she let him fall soundlessly to the dirt.
She moved forward, undeterred.
From the caged wagons, the slaves had taken notice. Murmurs of confusion and hope stirred among them.
Then came another scream.
Not just any scream—this one was different. It was a wretched, agonized wail, filled with a suffering so visceral it sent a chill racing down Vera's spine.
'What in the gods' name is he doing in there?'
"Who the hell are you?!" A sharp voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
A bandit loomed behind her, sword raised.
Without hesitation, Vera spun, her blade slicing clean through him in one smooth, practiced motion. He hit the ground before he could utter another word.
And then, from the center of the camp, the unmistakable clang of metal on metal rang out.
The real fight had begun.
The sounds of battle grew louder—clashing steel, desperate shouts, the dying gasps of men. Vera knew Hamon was at the center of it. Her pulse quickened as she wove between the tents, moving swiftly toward the chaos.
As she approached, she saw a bandit sprinting past her, the whites of his eyes stark in the firelight. The man's momentum carried him directly into the path of an unseen force. A second later, Vera witnessed his head flying back in the direction he had come from, a crimson arc trailing behind.
Vera's gaze followed the arc of blood, landing on the one responsible.
Hamon stood at the entrance of the tent.
He was covered in blood.
Not just splattered—but drenched. It dripped from his fingers, streaked his face, and soaked his clothes like war paint. Yet, his expression was disturbingly calm, as if he were standing in a field of flowers instead of a graveyard of fresh corpses.
She had known he was dangerous. Had even suspected he might enjoy it. But seeing him like this… something about it felt different.
Hamon turned to her, his voice light, almost amused. "See? Told you this wasn't such a bad idea."
Vera could tell that he was smiling.