After the murder incident, the atmosphere in Bouten shifted dramatically. The fear that had once floated vaguely in the air now had a clear direction. The citizens no longer whispered the name Sin Counter with a mixture of awe and unease. That name began to fade, replaced by something far more tangible... fear of the authorities.
At the marketplace, a baker leaned across his stall and spoke in a hushed tone. "Did you hear? They found the body with the city's insignia beside it."
An old man beside him nodded grimly. "I knew it. No one dares oppose them openly, so they silence people in the dark."
A mother pulled her child closer as a pair of armored soldiers passed by. "Don't look at them," she whispered urgently. "Lower your head."
"Mother… will they take us?" the child asked.
"Quiet," she replied, her face pale.
The fear spread quickly, like fire catching dry timber. And from the shadow of a stone archway, Lucas watched.
This was what he wanted.
The direction of terror had shifted. No longer toward a myth, but toward the structure that had ruled through intimidation for years. The authorities were now the symbol of threat. Trust eroded by the day, replaced with suspicion and quiet resentment.
But for Lucas, it was not enough.
He had not orchestrated this merely to redirect whispers. As long as the apparatus of power stood intact, the cycle would continue. Oppression would adapt. It always did.
He decided on something far more decisive.
Total slaughter.
Not scattered attacks. Not symbolic gestures. He would eliminate the lower ranks first collapse their foundation and then, without allowing time for recovery, he would execute the highest officials of the city.
A swift and merciless ending.
His plan was calm, deliberate. Lucas understood himself well: he thrived in confined spaces, in shadows, in the narrow gaps others overlooked. The city's alleys favored him but the forest beyond the walls favored him even more.
Outside Bouten stretched a dense forest, its trees tall and tightly packed. Branches intertwined overhead, filtering sunlight into fractured beams. The ground was uneven, tangled with roots and thick undergrowth. For heavily armored soldiers, it was a nightmare. For Lucas, it was an advantage.
He lured them out.
An anonymous message, disguised as a citizen's report of a secret rebel gathering in the woods, was enough. The authorities already gripped by paranoia dispatched a sizable unit to investigate.
Lucas was waiting.
As the soldiers entered the forest and began to spread out, their formation weakened. The dense trees forced them to move in smaller groups. Their calls to one another were muffled by leaves and wind.
The first strike came without warning.
A soldier walking slightly ahead of his unit froze mid-step. A shadow flickered. Two flashes of steel glinted between shafts of light. He collapsed before he could cry out.
Lucas moved silently.
He slipped between tree trunks, darted behind brush, emerged where he was least expected. The soldiers attempted to regroup, shouting orders, but distance and terrain fractured their coordination.
One by one, they fell.
Some tried to swing their swords in wide arcs, but the forest punished large movements. Lucas ducked beneath blades, severed tendons, stabbed through gaps in armor. A scream pierced the air before being swallowed by the trees.
Another soldier ran, desperate to escape the forest's suffocating maze, but a dagger struck his back. He fell forward, fingers clawing at damp soil before going still.
Blood seeped into the roots.
Lucas showed no hesitation. His face was unreadable. His movements efficient. He ensured each body ceased moving before shifting to the next.
The forest, once quiet, now carried the metallic scent of death.
It ended quickly.
Lucas walked among the fallen, verifying there were no survivors. No witnesses would return to the city.
When he was certain, he left the forest behind, silent as he had entered it.
The next step was more dangerous.
He approached the authority building a massive stone structure with towering pillars and iron-bound gates. Usually heavily guarded, it now stood weakened after dispatching so many soldiers.
Lucas scaled a darker section of the outer wall and dropped silently into the inner courtyard.
Before he reached the main entrance, two Level One guards intercepted him.
They were different more disciplined, more precise. Without exchanging words, they attacked in coordination.
Lucas struggled.
His daggers clashed against their swords, sparks flying in brief flashes. He was forced to pivot constantly, defending from two directions at once. His smaller frame granted him agility, but their strength nearly overwhelmed him.
A blade grazed his shoulder. He hissed in pain but did not retreat.
The fight was fierce. Lucas poured every ounce of skill into each motion. With a sudden feint and a precise strike to an exposed joint, one guard fell. The second followed shortly after, collapsing heavily onto the stone floor.
Breathing hard, Lucas pushed forward.
Inside the grand hall, cold and vast, he felt it immediately.
Someone was waiting.
A cloaked man stood at the center of the chamber. His attire resembled Lucas's dark, light, concealing much of his body. But in his hands rested a massive scythe, its curved blade gleaming faintly.
He appeared perhaps twice Lucas's age. Hardened. Experienced.
Lucas tensed. "Who are you?!" he shouted.
The man smiled faintly. "I am Thomas," he answered calmly. "I am like you… or at least, I was."
The smile widened.
Without warning, the scythe swung.
Almost.
Only a fraction of a second saved Lucas's head from being severed. The blade sliced through the air so close he felt the wind kiss his neck.
Lucas retreated swiftly. With only two daggers against such a weapon, he was at a disadvantage. He bounced left and right, barely avoiding each sweeping strike.
He could not understand how a man of that build wielded such a large weapon with terrifying speed and precision.
"How trained is he…?" Lucas thought.
The attacks came relentlessly. Stone flooring cracked where the scythe struck. Lucas was forced entirely into defense, unable to find an opening.
When he finally paused for a brief breath, it was a fatal mistake.
Thomas lunged.
Instinctively, Lucas raised his right arm to block the descending arc.
"SLAAASHHH!"
Time froze.
His right arm was severed cleanly.
Blood erupted violently, splattering across the stone floor. The pain followed a split second later searing, overwhelming. He staggered backward, fighting to remain standing.
With his remaining hand, he tried to press against the wound, but the blood would not stop flowing.
Thomas advanced slowly, lifting the scythe once more. The next strike would end everything.
Lucas's vision blurred.
The blade began its descent
"ENOUGH."
The voice thundered through the hall.
Thomas halted.
Lucas knew that voice.
With what little strength remained, he turned toward the entrance. The large doors at the far end of the hall had opened slightly. A figure stood there, backlit by the pale light outside.
Lucas's eyes widened in disbelief.
"…You…?"