The two stood there, motionless, like predators measuring one another. The soldiers' leader felt sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, his fingers tightening around the sword's hilt. Colin, on the other hand, was calm. Too calm. A crooked smile played on his lips, as if he were savoring the moment.
Being threatened gave him the freedom to hit back.
And when Colin hit back, he showed no mercy.
The leader moved first. His sword flared with concentrated mana, slicing the air in a lethal arc. He expected Colin to dodge, for the strike to pass through and catch the girls behind him.
But Colin didn't move.
SWIN!
The blade tore his shoulder. Blood spattered across his face, running hot and thick, yet his gaze remained fixed on the man before him—unblinking, impassive.
Tsk! What tough skin!
Then Colin surged forward.
"You want to be carved up? Fine by me!"
SWIN! SWIN!
Two more cuts—one scoring his face, another opening a deeper wound across his chest.
Damn it! My cuts are still shallow!
Colin drove a straight punch, but the leader slipped it with ease; his swordsmanship made his movements quick and precise. Every slash left scorching tracks across the false elf's flesh, but instead of retreating, Colin seemed to feed on the pain.
His eyes gleamed with something feral.
Something primitive.
A chill climbed the leader's spine.
This bastard is getting faster!
Colin used his agility and martial technique to weave through the man's strikes, countering with brutal kicks and punches. The leader blocked most of them, but the impact made his bones vibrate.
BAM!
He braced a clean kick to the chest, feeling the shock reverberate through his body.
"So much strength—damn!"
With every blow Colin threw, a surge of savage energy radiated from him.
The soldiers' laughter began to die.
Horror settled across their faces as they grasped what was happening. Their leader—a knight of Ultan—was being crushed by a man who wasn't even holding a sword.
Worse, that man didn't seem to feel pain. If anything, pain spurred him on.
He came into town dragging a Bakurak's head. He defeated Lord Wiben. The thought coiled in the leader's mind like a venomous serpent.
He stepped back.
Then again.
But Colin wouldn't let him breathe.
With a quick turn, Colin whipped a kick straight into the leader's shoulder. The blow hit hard enough to knock the sword from his hand.
"Damn it!"
Before the knight could recover, Colin bent his knees and launched upward.
BAM!
His elbow drove into the leader's chin.
The strike was dry. Cruel.
The man's awareness drained from his eyes—but Colin wasn't finished.
Before the limp body hit the ground, Colin bent his knees again and hammered a straight punch into the knight's abdomen, hurling him into the swampy muck where he slid to a stop at his men's feet.
None of them laughed now.
Colin was covered in blood—his and his enemy's. His breath came heavy, but his golden eyes smoldered like live coals.
He took a step forward.
The soldiers stiffened, instinctively gripping their swords tighter.
Another step.
They trembled.
"D-Don't come any closer!" one of them stammered, blade wobbling in his hands.
Colin kept walking.
None of them attacked.
None of them dared move a muscle beyond the involuntary shudder of their bodies.
His smile was a knife-edge, as lethal as any blade.
With unsettling calm, he slicked his hair back, streaking it with the hot blood still running from his wounds.
"I don't know who sent you," he said, voice low and almost gentle. "But I suggest you turn around before I get irritated."
Silence fell—absolute.
He watched them for a beat, letting the threat soak into their skin like poison.
Then, with an even crueler smile, he added:
"I'm letting this one go. Next time… I kill every last one of you."
Terror flashed in the soldiers' eyes.
They nodded frantically, muttering desperate agreements.
"Good." Colin raised a blood-smeared finger and pointed to Ivan's boat. "Now put everything valuable in there. Weapons. Jewelry. Anything worth taking."
The soldiers barely hesitated.
They moved at once, tossing belongings and coins into the boat while dragging their unconscious leader away.
The fear in their eyes was a rare wine—a nectar that slid down his throat warm and intoxicating. Colin savored every tremor, every pleading glance, every bead of sweat that traced down their temples—a silent offering to the predator before them.
His heart didn't beat with nerves or adrenaline. No. It pulsed with raw, burning excitement—like a freshly stoked forge. Power thrummed through his body, not from spells or enchanted blades, but from the simple truth that, in that moment, he held dominion over life and death. He decided whether those men returned to their families or their guts ended up decorating the muddy ground.
And best of all? They knew it.
Wide eyes, mouths half-open in horror, hands trembling on swords they didn't dare raise against him. It was almost comical.
The smell of blood in the air, the dampness of the mire, the heavy silence between the soldiers' ragged breaths—everything made the scene more delicious. Colin felt like a wolf among sheep who had finally understood the meaning of despair.
There was something addictive about it.
Blood still trickled from his cuts, a sticky heat gluing cloth to skin. But he barely felt the pain. If anything, it lit something inside him—a flame that burned brighter as he watched the soldiers bend to his will.
It was a cruel dance: he set the steps and they followed, tripping over their own terror.
Colin's breathing was slow, measured. Each second stretched just to let the threat sink deeper, to let them feel the weight of what he could do—if he wished.
The metallic taste of blood still coated his mouth. His tongue slid slowly across his lips, tasting iron and salt, as if savoring victory itself.
He knew that feeling.
It was dominion.
Absolute control.
Pure, indisputable power.
And he wanted more—but not now. His intimidation had worked; if those men had charged, the story might have been different, and he preferred to leave with the advantage.
Colin watched them go and then, without hurry, lifted his hand and turned his thumb down.
A simple gesture, but the soldiers needed no words to understand it.
They fled.
◊❱───────⸂◍⸃───────❰◊
The boat glided smoothly to the bank, laden with coins and precious artifacts—a war prize won not only with strength, but with cunning and intimidation. The smell of damp wood and rusted iron mingled with the freshness of night, and the village's silence was broken only by the hush of calm waters and the whisper of wind in the trees.
Brighid had healed Colin on the way back, her magic washing away cuts and exhaustion as though he'd never shed blood. But she knew. Colin knew. The taste of combat still burned in his veins like a strong wine that refused to be forgotten.
Ivan stood by the boat, eyes flicking between nerves and relief. His shaking hands pulled a tarp over the haul, as if to shield it from prying eyes.
"Forgive me for… doubting you…" He hesitated, picking his words with care. "I think everyone owes you an apology… I showed the creature's head to Lukasyl, and he showed it to the others. Without you, more people might have died… so… thank you."
Colin tipped his head, a half-smile playing at his lips. He patted Ivan's shoulder twice—light, gentle.
"It's all right," he replied, with a calm that seemed natural to him. "Can you get us a cart? We'll take half of what the soldiers left. The rest is yours."
Ivan's eyes flew wide.
"M-My lord… we can't accept… those are Ultan's things. What if they come back? What if they demand them? Besides… it's your loot…"
Colin let out a short laugh.
"They won't say a word," he said, voice heavy with certainty. "A leader got beaten unconscious by a nobody, and they were robbed without even fighting back. If they open their mouths, they might end up at the guillotine for being so incompetent and cowardly."
Ivan looked to Brighid and Safira for confirmation. Both nodded, discreet smiles forming on their lips.
"Th-thank you!" Ivan bowed, gratitude overflowing in every movement. "For everything!"
They nodded back and headed toward Lukasyl's residence.
The village felt quieter than usual, as if still digesting the last few days. A few doors were ajar; curious, wary eyes peered from the shadows. Colin felt the weight of their stares but didn't mind. Letting them fear him was a gift he was willing to grant.
When they reached Lukasyl's house, Brighid raised a hand and knocked lightly. The sound echoed within and, after a brief silence, the wood creaked open.
Lukasyl appeared in the doorway, eyes widening at the sight of them.
"You…" He flung the door wide, his expression a mix of relief and disbelief. "You're alive!"
He stepped back, making room.
"Please, come in, come in!"
And so they crossed the threshold.