Chapter 166: The Crimson Blade of the Brassvale Hero
The man in the black cloak moved through the trees.
A thick mist hung heavy around him. The dry leaves on the ground did not crunch beneath his boots, and snapped twigs made no sound. He walked in absolute silence—no heavy breathing, no pauses, no hesitation.
At his waist, the sword in its plain black scabbard swayed gently with his stride. The hilt, forged from ancient metal, was etched with archaic engravings—symbols unknown to any modern scholar, relics from an era before the current kingdoms were even a thought.
He had been walking for hours. Perhaps half a day. Perhaps longer. This forest was vast, but he was in no hurry. Time had never been his enemy.
Suddenly, a rustle erupted from the thickets. Not just one, but many.
The man stopped. His boots remained still on the damp, black earth. From behind the blackened trees, monsters began to emerge. One by one. Slowly.
Black wolves with glowing red eyes. Their fur shimmered under the dim light filtering through the canopy. Long claws raked the earth, leaving deep furrows in the soil. They growled low, a vibration that rattled deep within their throats.
Shadow Stalkers with translucent bodies drifted through the trees, nearly invisible until they moved. Their forms flickered as the mist swirled around them.
Thorned Howlers—massive primates covered in jagged spines with claws capable of rending light steel. Their yellow eyes burned with hunger.
Twenty. Perhaps more.
They didn’t strike immediately. They surrounded him. Circle by circle, row by row, they locked the man in from all directions. The wolves took the front. The Shadow Stalkers held the flanks. The Thorned Howlers guarded the rear.
A massive wolf stepped forward, larger than the rest. Its fur was darker, its eyes a deeper crimson. It bared its fangs, strings of saliva dripping from its maw as it caught his scent.
The man stood perfectly still. His expression didn’t shift. No fear. No anger. No vigilance. He looked upon them with the same boredom one might feel while watching rain hit a window. To him, these monsters weren’t threats; they were merely scenery obstructing his path.
Among the pack, one figure stood out: a Thorned Howler Alpha. It was twice the size of its kin. Its spines were longer, sharper, tipped with a dark, dried-blood red. Its yellow eyes glowed with a predatory intelligence. It stayed back, observing, like a commander weighing the enemy’s strength before ordering the slaughter.
The man let out a breath. Slow. Unhurried.
His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. The plain, ancient metal felt cold against his palm—a chill that wasn’t natural. It was a cold that seeped into the bone, into the very marrow, as if the sword itself possessed a soul.
His fingers tightened. Then—he drew.
Fwusssshhh!
A blade of blood-red energy ignited from the hilt.
It hummed with a low, vibrating frequency that resonated through his arm and into his chest. The crimson light sliced through the mist. The fog surrounding the blade instantly evaporated. One hand was enough. For these beasts, one hand was more than enough.
The first monster lunged from the front. A black wolf with jaws wide open.
The man didn’t move. He didn’t retreat. He didn’t dodge.
The wolf was a mere meter away. Half a meter.
One slash.
The red blade blurred horizontally. It was too fast for the naked eye. The wolf’s body was cloven in two in mid-air. The front and back halves separated before they even hit the ground. Black blood sprayed, drenching the earth and the man’s boots. The metallic, foul stench of rot and iron filled the air.
The other monsters did not falter.
Two Shadow Stalkers closed in from his left and right. Their translucent bodies flickered as they moved. Their claws were invisible, but the sound of them raking the air was unmistakable.
The man spun.
He became a whirlwind of black fabric and red light. The energy blade swung in a perfect arc. One Shadow Stalker lost an arm; the other lost its head. Their bodies turned solid upon death, hitting the ground with wet thuds.
Black blood splattered across his cloak. There was no satisfaction in his eyes. No pride. Only the execution of a task.
A Thorned Howler lunged from behind. Its jagged spines glistened, ready to shred him.
The man didn’t even turn his head. He ducked. The claws whistled over his head, narrowly missing his hood. In one fluid motion, he thrust backward blindly. The red blade pierced the Howler’s gut, shearing through spines and bone alike until it erupted from its back.
The beast let out a choked, gurgling roar before collapsing. The man withdrew his blade. The crimson energy continued to hum, black blood sizzling off its edge.
He looked around. Twenty monsters lay dead. Their carcasses formed a grisly circle around him.
But from the depths of the mist, more were coming. The forest hissed with the sound of movement. Red eyes in the dark. Claws scraping soil.
The man didn’t care. He wasn’t in a rush.
He stepped forward.
Slash. A black wolf fell.
Thrust. Another Shadow Stalker perished.
Dodge. A Howler’s claws swept past his ear.
Pivot. Two monsters were bisected simultaneously.
Every movement was efficient. Nothing was wasted. Every swing found a mark. Every thrust ended a life.
Minutes passed. The slaughter ended.
The Thorned Howler Alpha had not moved. It stared at the man with glowing yellow eyes, its spines bristling. The man stared back.
The Alpha growled, a deep, low rumble that vibrated through the earth. The man remained motionless. The Alpha growled again, louder this time. After a long moment of assessment, the beast slowly backed away. One step. Two steps. Three. It turned and vanished into the mist.
The man did not pursue it. He deactivated his sword. The red blade vanished. The ancient hilt returned to silence. Only a faint ozone smell lingered in the air before it, too, was swallowed by the forest.
He stepped over the mountain of carcasses, his boots leaving bloody prints on the earth.
He had walked another few hundred meters when he stopped again.
In front of him, a figure stood in the middle of the path. A translucent form, hovering inches off the ground. A body that wasn’t truly there—mist shaped into a silhouette, sometimes solid, sometimes blurring. A friendly yet piercing smile. Two dark hollows for eyes in a pale face.
"You are interesting, human," the voice came, a soft whisper from a great distance. "Very interesting."
The cloaked man didn’t answer. He simply stood there, his face calm, his hands at his sides. He hadn’t reached for his sword yet.
Morbis’s smile widened—a smile that never reached those hollow eyes. "Not one for talking? Fine. I like the quiet ones."
Morbis drifted forward. "You know, I’ve been watching you since you entered. From the very edge of the woods. I thought you’d die at the hands of those beasts."
The man didn’t move.
"But you didn’t." Morbis shook his head slowly. "You aren’t even wounded. Except for... ah." He pointed to the man’s left arm. "That was my doing."
The man glanced at his arm. A thin scratch. The blood had already stopped. It didn’t hurt. It felt like nothing. He looked back at Morbis.
Morbis chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Alright then. I’m bored of talking."
He moved.
Faster than a shadow. Faster than anything a normal human could perceive. His translucent body surged forward, leaving a trail of swirling mist. His long, poisonous claws—black, sharp, and glistening—lunged for the man’s throat.
The man didn’t panic. He didn’t flinch.
His hand flew to the hilt.
Fwusssshhh!
The crimson blade ignited.
The first collision. Morbis’s claws struck the blade. A high-pitched ring echoed, like two swords clashing in a vacuum. Sparks of red and violet erupted, illuminating the mist around them.
Morbis backed off a step, his smile still wide. "Good."
He attacked again. Left. Fast.
The man parried. The red blade cut through the air, knocking the black claws aside.
Right. Faster.
The man spun his sword, the crimson blade rotating on his wrist to catch the blow from the other side.
High. The man raised his blade horizontally over his head. Morbis’s claws scraped against the energy, sliding off and narrowly missing the hood.
Low. The man crouched. The red blade swept toward Morbis’s legs. Morbis leapt back, dodging the strike.
Every attack was faster than the last. Morbis wasn’t playing anymore. But the man met every movement. His red sword spun, parried, countered, and pressed. He wasn’t as fast as Morbis, but he was more precise. There was no wasted space. No opening.
Morbis realized something. He couldn’t win this easily.
It wasn’t that the man was faster or stronger. It was the sword. That crimson energy blade was... different. Every time Morbis’s claws touched it, he felt a burning sensation. Not heat. Not fire. Something deeper. Something that burned the very essence of his being.
Morbis retreated. He stared at the man and smiled. "You are fun. Truly fun."
The man said nothing. The red blade hummed in his hand.
Morbis drifted backward, his form beginning to dissolve into the mist. "But I don’t have the time to deal with you right now."
A smile. Then he was gone.
In the control room, Dalgor sat before the panel. He hadn’t slept. Ever since that red dot vanished, he couldn’t find peace. Every flicker of the screen made his heart race.
But now, the screen was calm.
He sighed, reaching for his coffee—cold for over an hour now.
Beep.
Dalgor tensed. The screen flickered.
At the very edge of the map, right at the five-kilometer limit, a red dot appeared. A single dot. It didn’t blink. It didn’t move. It just stood there.
Dalgor scrambled to his feet. His chair clattered to the floor, but he didn’t care. He stared at the display.
"Is this... him?"
He didn’t wait. Dalgor bolted from the room, his shoes screeching on the obsidian floor. He nearly slipped in the corridor, his hand catching the wall to steady himself.
"Mister Dayat!" he screamed.
In The Heart of Logic, Dayat stood by the window with Dola. Dalgor burst in, gasping for air.
"The red dot... it’s back. Five kilometers away."
Dayat didn’t ask questions. He headed straight for the door. "Lunethra."
Lunethra stood up. "Yes?"
"Watch the children. Don’t let them out. No matter what happens."
"Where are you going?"
"To meet our guest."
Dola was already at Dayat’s side, her white cape fluttering. Her blue eyes were glowing brighter than usual.
They stepped out of the main gate. The black iron doors opened automatically and silently.
In the distance, about seventy meters away, a man stood.
His long black cloak was drenched in blood. His face was a mystery, veiled by his hood and the shifting mist. At his waist hung the ancient hilt. The blade was already ignited—a blood-red energy, humming low. He didn’t lower it. He didn’t raise it. He simply held it at his side, ready.
Dayat raised his HK416, the silver-gold barrel leveling with the man’s chest.
Dola raised her hand. A thin energy shield manifested before them—hexagonal, transparent, and buzzing. Blue light gathered at her fingertips.
Dola’s expression changed. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t surprise.
It was rage.
Her eyes turned so bright they were almost white. She felt something within that man—an energy she recognized. An energy that made her want to kill. An energy from her past. From the betrayal.
The man stood still. His red blade hummed. He didn’t move forward. He didn’t move back. He just stood there.
Dayat didn’t fire. Dola didn’t attack.
They simply stared at one another.
The wind whistled. The mist rolled between them. The blackened trees swayed in the distance.
A few seconds. Only a few seconds. No one spoke.
But everyone knew—it was only a matter of time.