Then—shhk!
A pale, whitish-blue rapier manifested in Fenric's hand, faster than most could blink. He lunged, aiming straight for the impostor's throat.
But the impostor was just as quick. He jumped back, narrowly avoiding the thrust, and drew a crimson-red sword, meeting Fenric's next strike head-on.
Shannng!
Steel screamed against steel, the clash echoing down the corridor. The earlier servant—eyes wide—turned and bolted to call for reinforcements.
"Well… looks like you figured it out," the man drawled, his voice no longer weak but cold and sharp.
Fenric's eyes hardened. "An impostor, from the very start."
The false guard's grin widened. "Smart boy. But not smart enough to walk out of here alive."
Suddenly, from his empty left sleeve, something began to form—an eerie black hand, twisted and clawed. The moment Fenric saw it, recognition hit him like a hammer.
The name rang like a funeral bell in Fenric's mind.
The Death Hand Bandit.
Laxin—the son of a disgraced noble.
