His face was filled with killing intent as he leisurely walked through the forest. He quickly summoned his items.
Soon, his ragged clothes slowly dissipated into the void. In their place, agate-colored armor materialized piece by piece across his body.
Moonlight fell upon it, reflecting the color of death.
At last, the pure black sword appeared at his belt. But Hector didn't allow it to rest for long.
He swiftly drew it from its scabbard and brandished it a few times, pulling back the killing intent from before—his shadowy figure emerged from the bushes and headed toward the campsite.
However, in the very next moment, he frowned as he took in the scene before him.
All of the fat noble's underlings were already dead…not by his poisoned meal, but slain through chopping, hacking, and smashing.
They were killed brutally, as if they were nothing more than sheep in a slaughterhouse, born only for that fateful day.
