Lo Quen had no time to worry about noble eyes on him.
All his focus was locked on the monster lunging at him again and again.
After several fruitless strikes, he gave up on trying to land a killing blow in one swing. Instead, he began looking for flaws and weak points.
Earlier, Gerion had used his combat experience to direct the men-at-arms to target the joints. The guards followed his lead, hacking desperately at those same spots. But even with wounded joints, the creatures fought on with unbroken savagery and speed.
Lo Quen shifted tactics. Instead of going for the joints, he aimed for their more vulnerable heads.
Another monster hurled itself at him, its foul stench washing over his face.
With a roar, Lo Quen stopped slashing wildly and drove all his strength into his arms, thrusting the steel blade straight toward the center of its eerie green eyes.
Squelch!
The blade punched through its eye with a sickening pop and buried itself deep in the skull. Thick, black blood spurted from the socket, spraying across Lo Quen's face in a nauseating splatter.
The monster shrieked, thrashing in agony, its hooked claws tearing at the air.
Lo Quen clung to the hilt, staggering under its violent spasms.
Biting down hard, he shoved downward with every ounce of strength he had, forcing the sword through and cutting sideways.
The steel tore halfway through its neck, leaving the head hanging by a shred of flesh. At last gravity did the rest, and the gruesome head dropped off completely, rolling across the ash.
The twitching body collapsed with a heavy thud.
The bloody, brutal sight stalled the battlefield.
Everyone had just watched a slave kill a monster.
"Strike the eyes! The eyes are their weakness!"
Gerion Lannister's shout snapped his struggling men-at-arms back into focus.
He led by example, seizing an opening. With his left steel bracer, he knocked aside a claw meant to kill him, ignoring the shock that ran down his arm. Driving forward, he rammed his sword point into the monster's eye. Brain fluid burst out as the beast fell dead.
The sight lifted his men's spirits.
They began working together, deliberately creating openings for one another to stab at the eyes.
Soon, several more beasts were brought down, collapsing in bloody heaps.
But the tide had not turned.
The monsters still vastly outnumbered them. Worse, the slaves and sailors were nearly gone—unarmed, unarmored, slaughtered like lambs.
Screams and the sound of flesh tearing filled the air, the stench of blood so heavy it choked the breath.
"Lord!"
One guard, his face streaked with black blood, shouted urgently at Gerion between blocks.
"Give the spare swords to the slaves! Let them fight! If not, we'll be bled dry here!"
He meant the weapons left behind by fallen guards.
Gerion didn't falter. He shoved back a monster with a sweep of his blade, but his blue-green eyes locked on Lo Quen—the black-haired slave wrenching a sword free from another beast's corpse.
The eerie calm in that gaze sent a chill down Gerion's spine.
An Eastern slave, with such strength, holding steel, having seen him deal with the sick crew and Lened's men—what would he do next?
A dark thought struck Gerion.
"No!"
His command cut like iron. "Those maggots are dead weight! They'll only add to the chaos. Kill the beasts—our men are enough!"
Before the words were finished, he was already plunging back into the fray, making his stance clear with steel.
The guards exchanged looks, conflict flickering across their faces.
But years of drilling and the crushing weight of discipline pressed them into obedience.
Not all of them, however, could strangle that faint spark of pity.
Amid the chaos, seizing the moment when Gerion was tangled with two beasts and his sight blocked, several guards slipped daggers from their belts or snatched up fallen blades, hurling them quickly to the feet of the nearest slaves and sailors.
"Pick them up! Fight these monsters with us!"
The instinct to survive crushed fear.
Several dying slaves and sailors summoned the last of their strength, scrambling on hands and knees toward the fallen weapons.
Cold steel met their palms, and in their desperate eyes a faint spark of hope flickered to life.
With hoarse roars, they swung the unfamiliar blades and clubs, throwing themselves at the nearest monsters like cornered beasts, their lives buying the guards a moment's relief.
Lo Quen, however, had slipped into a strange state of focus.
Killing three of the creatures had not only given him a clearer grasp of the strength born of Dragonblood, but also a strange kind of "feedback."
Each time a monster died, Dragon's Soul seeped into his body.
It trickled like a stream, flowing into the vast "lake" within his consciousness that marked the limit of his Magic.
0.08%...
The number pulsed in his mind.
He had slain three, Gerion's men five.
Eight in total—enough to raise his bloodline purity by 0.08% and expand his Magic capacity by 800.
One of these monsters held ten times the power of last night's grotesque red maggots.
The discovery thrilled him.
If he could keep hunting such beasts, his bloodline purity would soar.
But just as he was calculating, the battlefield shifted.
Screee—!!!
A sharp cry split the air, echoing from deep within the forest.
It was nothing like the chaotic roars before. It was a command, a horn's call.
Every monster froze mid-attack.
For an instant, confusion flickered in their glowing green eyes. Then, as one, they wheeled about and fled—racing into the withered forest even faster than they had come. In a blink, they were gone, leaving only mangled corpses behind.
Leaning on his sword, Lo Quen panted heavily, eyes fixed on the woods. His chest hammered.
That had been a signal.
Something was commanding these monsters.
A stronger beast?
Or some unknown force?
A thought crept in—absurd, yet chilling enough to freeze his spine.
Could it be human?
He had no time to dwell on it.
Before the last beast's tail vanished into the trees, Gerion Lannister's cold voice rang out.
"Surround them!"
Clang!
Steel scraped in perfect unison.
The twelve surviving guards, wounded but drilled, moved at once.
They closed ranks with flawless discipline, forming a ring of steel, sword points glinting coldly at the battlefield's center.
Only five remained inside, Lo Quen among them.
Three slaves barely able to stand, and two sailors drenched in blood.
They gripped the weapons they had just claimed, their hands shaking uncontrollably.
Back to back, they faced the Lannister guards—men who moments ago had fought beside them, now glaring with killing intent.
Gerion stood just outside the ring, eyes like ice.
His emerald gaze swept his men slowly.
"Which of you disobeyed my order and threw swords to that filth? Step forward."
The four who had done so blanched at once.
They traded glances, fear and hesitation plain in their eyes.
Under Gerion's cold, soul-piercing stare, they finally lowered their heads and stepped out, one by one, until they stood at the inner edge of the ring.
"Pick up your weapons," Gerion commanded, "and kill those who took your pity."