Chapter 43 - 18: [The Failed Infiltrator and the Scarlet Sword]

Chapter 43: Chapter 18: [The Failed Infiltrator and the Scarlet Sword]

"We’re splitting the team into these groups to avoid clumping together between the narrow walls of the Ancient Imperial Beacon Tower Ruins. That would hinder our abilities or even cause friendly fire."

"Fine." Talia snorted, hefting her Hammer Spear as she stood beside Ruby and Selena.

"We’ll do our best to deal with the bandits in the camp through stealth first, thinning their numbers. If you hear a single whistle blow, it means our position has been compromised. Glad will retreat and regroup with the rear guard, and Ruby will cast a flare. If you hear three whistle blows, Ruby and Selena will start attacking from range, and everyone else will push forward and converge at the entrance of the Bandit Camp by the beacon tower ruins." Randall tapped a bone whistle hanging around his neck.

"Understood." Everyone took up their respective positions.

"I... uh, Randall, I’m actually not very good at killing... I’ve never killed anyone before." Samael clumsily stuffed scraps of rag into the gaps of his armor to prevent the metal plates from clanking. He followed closely behind Randall and Eliot, muttering under his breath, "I’m a bit unaccustomed to this... How about I knock them out, and you guys... finish them off?"

Eliot frowned. He had his lower face covered with a dark red scarf, revealing only a pair of slightly bewildered eyes.

No, this man clearly wasn’t a Hunter Warrior of the Demon Race, nor was he some... bizarre Demonized Wizard. He didn’t even count as a villain. Eliot thought it was utterly absurd. He truly seemed like a monk from some remote, isolated Monastery who had never seen a bandit in his entire life. He was as naive as a noble student from Lunos Academy who had probably never set foot outside the magnificent Floren Royal Capital.

He figured he was overthinking things—an affliction undoubtedly caused by spending too much time with that brat, Randall. Eliot massaged his temples. Bah! The kid had made him completely paranoid!

Randall paused. He showed no surprise, nor any disdain. He merely let out a soft sigh.

"Samo Cultivator... you probably haven’t been away from the Monastery for very long, have you? You haven’t witnessed their atrocities," Randall asked. "Never mind the Barren Land; even within the borders of the Empire, hordes of bandits and robbers still run rampant.

"The Empire’s laws cannot perfectly cover every corner. Desolate roads are always plagued by murder, looting, theft, and rape, and these people are responsible for many of those crimes."

"I admire your benevolence and morality, Samo Cultivator, but there is no need for mercy when it comes to these people. They are no different from wild beasts," Eliot added. Though he spoke of admiration, inwardly, he cursed this foolish cultivator for being so ridiculously squeamish. He was just like every other bleeding-heart Priest, cut from the exact same cloth as the Holy Light Priests he had encountered in the past.

"Al... right." Samael hesitated, raising his Kite Shield and Knight Sword.

The trio swiftly reached their ambush positions. Thanks to Samael stuffing a bunch of rags into his armor joints beforehand, he managed to avoid making too much noise.

A large ring of sharpened wooden stakes formed a barricade around the Bandit Camp, which was littered with a messy assortment of tents, broken cart frames, old wooden barrels, and grain sacks.

At a gap in the barricade stood two bandit guards armed with broad-bladed shortswords and daggers. One had sneaked a few sips of alcohol and was staring blankly into space, while the other was already nodding off.

The moon was a fickle bitch, always changing. The distracted bandit stared blankly at the gloomy sky, yawning as fuzzy thoughts drifted through his mind. Life in the Barren Land wasn’t fit for humans. They scavenged in the dirt like wild animals, and he didn’t know when he would ever be able to return to the habitable zone—even if it meant risking being hunted down by Bounty Hunters.

How many more years until his bounty poster expired? Once it did, he could return to the habitable zone, hide his identity, and start a new life somewhere else. He counted on his fingers as he thought.

He had to admit that he had spent far too long numbly mingling with dice, cards, cheap booze, blades, bludgeons, and thugs—so long that he had forgotten how many years had passed like this. The Barren Land turned people into beasts, whether of the noble or the despicable variety.

It had started with a simple game of cards, which gradually escalated into a gambling debt. The debt grew larger and larger until it culminated in murder. He couldn’t quite remember the details of what happened after that. Regardless, he was still playing cards, and he was still committing murders.

How did things end up this way? It didn’t matter anymore. When he was just a fourteen-year-old boy, he saw others profiting from evil deeds without being punished, so he followed suit. He wasn’t punished either, and gradually, he stopped caring. Villainy became his most efficient means of survival, and eventually, his only means of survival.

It was like the blade of a murderer piercing a victim’s chest—the blood just kept flowing. In the end, even staunching the bleeding wouldn’t save them.

The next moment, he felt a faint, chilling sensation.

He looked down and saw the tip of a serpentine Curved Sword protruding from his chest. It was stained with blood and glowing with the faint, blue luminescence of poison.

Numbness rapidly spread throughout his entire body, followed by darkness. The Curved Sword slowly withdrew from his chest. He collapsed to the ground, his soul gradually sinking into a thick, freezing void.

His final thought was that his bounty poster only had three years left before it expired.

Eliot gently laid the corpse down and nodded, gesturing for the other two.

Randall flicked the blood off his sword, laid the body of the sleeping bandit on the ground, and waved for Samael to follow.