Rus leaned in—and Elaina didn't pull away.
In the dimly lit room, his senses were overwhelmed by her scent.
The faint aroma of powder, a whisper of sweat, and that rich, womanly fragrance only found in a mature, voluptuous body.
If Lux was a crisp, green apple, Elaina was a ripe mango, radiating a honeyed, intoxicating sweetness—like the forbidden fruit in Eden that needed no serpent to tempt Adam and Eve.
Their lips met. For a moment, Elaina's dazed eyes flickered with panic. Her hands came up to push him away, but when they touched his chest, they lost all strength—her resistance melted into a soft, trembling caress.
Rus kissed her with wild intensity, devouring her as if to pull her into himself. His tongue parted her lips with expert ease. She tried to stop him—but the wave of masculine heat and scent numbed her resolve. Her feeble struggle became something softer, hesitant, almost inviting.
Their tongues intertwined in the dark like two serpents dancing in water.
Elaina was quickly losing herself. Her skin flushed, damp heat soaked through the thin fabric still clinging to her, and a faint mist glazed her glassy eyes. Her eyelashes trembled. Her legs pressed together, rubbing instinctively, and her toes curled into the soft carpet.
A breathy moan slipped through her lips—part protest, part plea.
But Rus wasn't satisfied with just the kiss. His hand slid down to her silky thigh, slowly moving upward, claiming territory inch by inch.
That jolt of contact snapped Elaina back to clarity. She pushed against his chest and turned her head away, breaking the kiss, gasping for breath.
Rus smiled, licking his lips—savoring the sweetness that still lingered.
She was a blend of shy maiden and seasoned woman. The contrast made the moment unforgettable.
He stood, walked to the wardrobe, and tossed a thick robe to her.
"Thanks," Elaina muttered, avoiding his gaze. The brief encounter had left her legs weak—she could still feel the heat in her skin.
As she pulled the robe over her body, Rus asked, "How did they find you?"
Her room was tucked away at the far edge of the third floor—a quiet, out-of-the-way location. When setting up the trap, Rus had deliberately drawn attention to the warehouse and armory. Her quarters shouldn't have been on anyone's radar.
Elaina heard the implication in his tone. She glanced at the corpse on the floor and answered bitterly, "He came straight to my room."
That single line triggered realization for both of them.
Bailey had known exactly where to find her—someone had told him.
And who knew her room's location? The maids, Old Gordon… and Weston.
"Weston!" Her heart skipped. "Rus, please—save him!"
"Calm down, Aunt Elaina," Rus said. "Weston's not stupid. He wouldn't get caught that easily. He's probably still hiding somewhere."
"Yes, maybe… maybe he's still hiding…" she murmured, then suddenly lurched toward the door.
Rus caught her and pulled her back into his arms. "What are you doing?"
"I have to save my son!"
"You'll only get yourself killed."
Ignoring her resistance, Rus lifted her into a fireman's carry, stepped to the window, tested the rope's stability, and leapt down.
When they landed safely, he set her down. Elaina stood and shouted, "A thousand gold coins! I'll pay a thousand to get Weston out! If that's not enough, I'll pay three thousand—"
Her words stopped short. Blood filled her nose and mouth, and she doubled over, vomiting.
Corpses were everywhere.
Rus didn't throw up, but his jaw clenched tight as he reloaded his crossbow.
The flames roaring through the fortress cast a hellish glow on the battlefield.
Bodies lay strewn at the main gate—bandits and soldiers alike. Some had been bludgeoned to death, others hacked apart. Flesh and fat spilled from torn limbs, bones jutted through muscle.
It reminded Rus of butchered ribs in a supermarket freezer—of slaughtered pigs during New Year back in his previous life.
Torn arteries dangled like snapped wires, oozing thick blood that pooled and mingled into a gruesome red carpet.
One, two, three…
Ten corpses in total—four bandits, six private soldiers. Behind them, three more wounded groaned, missing limbs.
Rus's nostrils flared. He clenched his jaw.
Not in both his lives had he seen this much blood with his own eyes.
His instincts screamed to look away, but his mind forced him to stare. If he couldn't adapt to this hell, he wouldn't survive.
And if it was this hard for him—how were his men doing?
Not much better.
Their faces were pale, their hands shook as they gripped their spears. Some had already vomited; the stench clung to their armor.
But two months of training had forged something solid. Despite the fear, despite the shaking, discipline kept them in formation.
Boom—
The main doors burst open.
Rus saw his troops recoil in brief panic—some even staggered back a step.
But then came a shout from the front line:
"For Lord Rus! Eagle Guard—raise your spears!"
It was Simon's voice.
As if someone flipped a switch, the soldiers snapped back into place.
"For Lord Rus!"
They spread their legs for stability, spears snapping forward as one—twenty-seven points forming a deadly steel bloom.
At its center stood Erik, clad in heavy armor, unmoving as a fortress.
Heavy footsteps echoed. The bandits charged through the blood, weapons raised, howling.
"Kill—!"
Bandit Solarl led the charge with his curved blade. These private troops were far more disciplined than expected—but their weakest point was obvious: their commander.
If he killed Simon, the rest would collapse.
Simon saw it coming. He locked eyes with Solarl, and in that split second, they saw themselves in each other's gaze—Simon, a pale-faced rookie; Solarl, a grizzled killer.
"Thrust—!" Simon roared, lunging forward.
Five other spears moved in unison, following his lead.
Solarl twisted to the side, but three spears still struck his chest and stomach. His armor held, but the force knocked him back into his own men. He fell with a crash.
"Thrust—!"
Simon didn't hesitate.
Six spears came down again—two pinned his shoulders, two stabbed his sides, and the last two pierced his brow and throat.
Splurt—
Blood gushed like a fountain, splashing over the soldiers, painting Simon's once-handsome face into something monstrous.
And they embraced it.
Their breaths quickened, hands steadied, and in their eyes, a glimmer of bloodlust sparked to life.
They understood now—bandits could die.
Stab them first, and you live.
"Aaaah!"
"Mama—!"
"My eyes—!!"
Screams rang out on all sides.
In that chaotic instant, Simon had led the charge and slain Solarl—but two elite bandits had broken through, taking three soldiers with them before falling themselves.
Amid the chaos, one man stood tall and unmoved—Erik, sword in hand, a tower in the storm.
Blood mist clung to his armor, but he remained steady, his gaze locked on the hall ahead.
Heavy footfalls tore at the ruined carpet. In the firelight, a figure emerged—Anderson.
Shrouded in thick, shadowy battle aura, he seemed to disappear into the dark.
Boom!
Anderson surged forward, blood and gore scattering from his boots. His spiked warhammer, empowered by Lesser Giant's Strength, spun like a wheel of destruction, aimed straight at Erik's head.
Erik shifted his stance, pulled the shield from his back, and raised it.
Battle aura surged—his shield lit up, dents smoothing, its thickness increasing by half an inch.
Steel Aura—made for war. A bulwark of living iron.
CLANG—
Hammer met shield. Aura met aura.
A shockwave of black and white energy erupted between them.
Erik angled his shield to deflect most of the impact—but the blow was still immense.
Blood flecks burst into mist. Steel spikes gouged the shield's surface, black aura ripping into the metal.
Crack!
The shield split in half. Even Erik's gauntlet cracked.
But he had withstood the blow—a strike that could have shattered his skull.
His stance didn't break. His breathing remained steady.
And his longsword—already thrusting at Anderson's throat.
Anderson didn't retreat.
He stepped forward, chest bared.
Clang—!
The blade struck his enchanted chestplate. The impact knocked him back two steps—but he didn't fall.
Then he raised two fingers to his lips and whistled—sharp and shrill.
This wasn't a signal for his men.
It was for the beasts.
Six Tier-1 Blood-Eyed Warhorses stirred in the distance. Though unmounted, their sheer mass and armor could crush Rus's lightly armored soldiers with ease.
Anderson had avoided using them before—afraid of wasting precious assets.
But now?
Now, he would do anything to survive.
"Charge with me!" he roared.
Anderson roared again. The bandits, riled and desperate, followed with howls of their own, surging toward the gates to coordinate an attack with the Tier-1 warhorses outside.
But the expected thunder of hooves never came.
Clang!
Rus's hand-and-a-half sword clashed with Anderson's enchanted warhammer. The former bent slightly under the force, but still managed to push Anderson back. Anderson's eyes swept around anxiously.
Where were they?
Where are my horses?!
Whistle. He blew again, the sharp signal piercing the air.
Still no sound. No galloping. No reinforcements.
Hell take them!
"Retreat!" Anderson barked, eyes bloodshot. In the brief moment since the last charge, two more of his bandits had fallen—never to rise again.
Why?!
Rus knew the answer.
Magical beasts were still beasts. If he had returned to retake the fortress, he certainly wouldn't leave such dangerous assets behind.
He hadn't wasted manpower trying to fight the warhorses. He'd used a different method—his crossbow.
Though short in range, it packed enough punch. It couldn't pierce enchanted armor—but against tamed beasts, it was more than sufficient.
Elaina, still pale, approached Rus while covering her nose from the stench. "Rus, please… save Weston…"
Rus replied calmly, "Weston's not an idiot. He—"
"I saw him!" Elaina interrupted, her voice rising, then dropping into a plea. "He's covered in blood, lying in the hall. But he's alive—I swear he's still alive! Please, Rus, save him!"
"Five thousand gold coins," she continued, voice trembling, "and all of my Faidro Company shares. Everything I have!"
Rus met her eyes—and slowly shook his head. "I have a responsibility to my soldiers."
"But he's your brother!" Elaina's voice cracked, eyes brimming with desperate hope. "If you save him—I'll give you anything. Even… even…"
A flush rose to her cheeks, but Rus had already turned away, gaze cold.
In war, the defender always had the upper hand.
He had meticulously set up this battlefield as a trap. But if he rushed in now, the roles would reverse.
The narrow gates limited both sides' numbers. For his soldiers, charging in would mean heavy losses. And these men—they were no longer just recruits. They had seen blood, taken lives. They were the backbone of his future army.
He wouldn't waste them for Weston.
"He's just a bunch of worthless peasants!" a bandit named Singira cried out. "How the hell are we losing to them?!"
Thunk!
A heavy oak mug whirled through the air and smashed into his face, sending him staggering backward with blood pouring from his nose.
Anderson slammed a fist on the table. "Bullshit! They're no peasants!"
In just half an hour, he'd lost ten men—hardened killers, elite fighters forged in the fires of the Bloody Highlands.
They wore forged steel weapons, chainmail worth fifty gold coins apiece—gear far superior to Rus's troops, whose combined equipment was barely worth a single bandit's kit.
Yes, Rus's strategy was clever. He'd baited Anderson in, then let his soldiers seize the high ground.
But even so, this shouldn't have been an even trade!
Anderson had fought noble soldiers before—better armed than Rus's—but they broke easily. Kill a few of the boldest, and the rest would scatter like frightened sheep.
But these men?
They held the line. They didn't break.
"Standing firm, formation unshaken… These can't be Rus's troops. No way. He must've borrowed elite forces from another lord! Even the Snow Maple Legion from the Snowleaf Barony isn't this tight!"
The words echoed through the hall, and the bandits' heads drooped lower.
If they were only facing serfs, there was still hope. But if these were true elites—how could they ever break through?
Hopelessness seeped into Anderson's chest, filling his mouth with a bitter taste. But quickly, that despair gave way to burning fury.
Am I, the infamous Scarface Anderson, going to die like a dog in this backwater hole?!
"Damn it!"
He kicked a chair with violent force—it clattered across the hall and struck something with a yelp.
"AAAGH!"
Anderson's head snapped around. "Who's there?!"
A groveling voice replied quickly, "L-Lord Anderson, it's me! Just me!"
It was Weston, crawling like a grub from the shadows, face twisted in a sycophantic grin.
Shing!
Anderson hooked a curved saber from the floor with his boot and rose, expression blank as he stepped toward Weston.
If not for this bastard, Bailey wouldn't be missing, and none of this would've spiraled so far out of control.
Weston's fat face trembled as he scuttled back like a maggot. "Don't kill me—I can help you escape!"
"I'm the second son of the Claydon family—Rus's brother!"
"Oh? And what good does that do me?" Anderson sneered, the scar on his cheek writhing in the firelight. "Rus left you behind as bait. He never intended for you to live. Why should I?"
Weston's brain spun like never before. "He left me because he wants me dead—but he won't do it himself!"
"Rus's sly. A snake. He hides behind morals and appearances. Even if he wants to kill me, he'll find some excuse to avoid the blame."
"His castle's already under attack—he's ashamed of that. If he doesn't rescue me, he'll be mocked by the nobles."
"Use me as a hostage! Lure him inside. When he enters, you ambush him and take him hostage instead! Those private soldiers of his—they were trained by him. They won't dare harm him!"
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Anderson gave a slow, deliberate round of applause. "Impressive. You nobles really do have a gift for screwing over your own."
Weston beamed nervously. "You're too kind, sir…"
But Anderson's expression turned cold. "There's just one problem—how do I know you're not lying?"
"Words are cheap. They don't carry enough weight, do they?"
Step by step, he closed the distance. Weston's eyes widened in horror as he scrambled backward.
"Don't… please don't…"
Screams.
The sound of flesh splitting echoed through the courtyard as the doors cracked open.
A bloody severed arm was hurled through the gap.
Then Anderson's voice rang out.
"Rus! Your brother Weston is in our hands!"
"HELP! Rus, SAVE ME!!" Weston's shriek filled the fortress—then cut off sharply.
"I won't wait long. That was just one arm. In three minutes, I'll take the other. Three minutes after that—his leg."
"And you, Baron, you noble bastard—you'll just stand there and watch your own brother die? Cold-blooded. Heartless. Pathetic."
All eyes turned to Rus.
Only Elaina held onto hope. Erik and the rest of the soldiers were already shaking their heads. They didn't want him risking himself.
Cursing Weston silently, Rus stepped forward and spoke with solemn righteousness:
"Do not harm my brother. If you have demands—state them."
"Bold!" Anderson barked a laugh. "Very well, Baron. Come inside—alone. If you bring even one soldier, your brother dies."
"You vile bandit!" Rus snapped, throwing his rapier to the ground. "I'll come! But if you harm him again—I swear, none of you will leave this place alive!"
Simon's eyes misted over.
Lord Rus is too kind…
With the battle nearly won, he was still willing to risk everything for that cowardly, useless brother of his.
Simon clenched his fists. From this day forward, he vowed to train harder—to protect his lord at any cost.
Rus walked toward the hall. Erik stepped in his path and shook his head, unwilling to let him go.
Rus patted his steward's shoulder—and discreetly dropped a glowing dagger to the floor.
"The weak point's at the back of his armor," he whispered.
Erik's eyes widened.
And with that, Rus strode confidently into the hall.
Boom.
The doors slammed shut behind him.
Anderson wrapped an arm around Weston, pressing the curve of his saber to the man's throat. "At last we meet, Baron Rus."
Rus's gaze swept the room. He adjusted his collar. "Enough talk. What do you want for my brother's life?"
"Simple," Anderson grinned, giving a signal to his men. "Escort us to safety."
Two bandits moved to flank him. Rus's voice cracked like a whip: "Back off!"
"I'm a noble of the Empire. Even as your prisoner, I am not to be touched by vermin like you!"
He turned to Anderson, eyes sharp as blades. "Release Weston. I'll take his place."
The force of his words made the two bandits hesitate. Even Anderson felt a flicker of admiration.
Calm. Proud. Commanding.
The ideal noble. If he had to lose, at least it was to a man like this.
"Don't trust him!" Weston shrieked. "Grab him—he's a demon! A monster!""Shut up!" Anderson snapped.
His blade pressed tighter, opening a thin red line across Weston's neck.
Traitors were always worse than enemies—and that went double for the ones inside your own ranks.
Compared to this sniveling rat who'd sell out his own mother, Anderson actually found Rus more trustworthy.
"Baron Rus," he said coldly, "I'll agree to your request. Raise your hands—slowly—and walk toward me. It's best for both of us."
"I hope you keep your word." Rus raised his hands and stepped forward, one careful stride at a time.
Anderson swallowed hard, excitement rising.
He'd lost a lot of men today, but if he could capture Rus alive, he could still complete the mission given by Hyde Slate.
With the Slate family's backing, he could recover quickly and rise again in the Bloody Highlands.
But when Rus was just three steps away, his expression suddenly changed. He pointed behind Anderson and shouted, "Mustache! What do you think you're doing?!"
Anderson's heart skipped a beat.
Bailey?! Was he back? Planning to kill me and take command?
He spun around—only to see an empty corridor.
Nothing there.
He snapped his head back—and froze.
Rus had lowered one hand, now holding a cocked crossbow, the bolt glowing with eerie blue light.
His expression was calm, cold, and composed.
Rus pulled the trigger.
Thwip—
The string snapped tight, sending the steel bolt spinning through the air. The three-bladed head sliced forward like a falling star, dark and swift in the torchlight.
Anderson's scalp prickled—not because the bolt was aimed at him.
It was aimed at Weston.
He hurled Weston aside just in time. The bolt embedded itself in the wall with a metallic thunk. Anderson wiped the sweat from his brow, roaring, "Are you insane, Rus?!"
"Tch. Shame I missed," Rus muttered. He holstered the crossbow, turned, and sprinted toward the door.
Yanking it open, he shouted, "The bandits broke their word! Attack!"
Erik smashed through the door like a battering ram.
His sword swept through the air, smashing a bandit aside as he roared and charged straight for Anderson.
Another bandit barely had time to react before the rest of the soldiers surged in behind Erik, spears flashing—impaling him in seconds.
"RAAAVEN!!" Anderson roared, realization crashing down on him.
He'd been duped—played by this self-righteous noble.
All that talk of honor and duty had been nothing but a ruse!
How could I be so stupid?!
Anderson swung his warhammer and charged at Rus—only for Erik to block his path.
He infused his warhammer with battle aura and swung. "Out of my way!"
"Never!" Erik channeled his own aura into his battered sword. The warped blade rang with power as it clashed with the hammer.
CLANG!
Steel aura met dark aura, exploding into a misty shockwave of gray-white light.
Erik's sword bent under the strain, his already-cracked gauntlet shattered—but the impact was so intense that even Anderson couldn't hold on. The recoil wrenched the hammer from his grip, sending it spinning into a nearby pillar with a thunderous crash.
"Yield," Erik growled.
"In your dreams!" Anderson snarled, pulling a curved blade from his belt—another enchanted weapon, judging by the blood-red glint.
He had a spatial pouch hidden on him!
"Die!" he screamed, slashing downward.
Erik, though battered, remained composed. He poured his aura into his armor and raised both arms to block.
He was confident it would hold.
But just as the sword was about to collide, Anderson twisted his wrist unnaturally, the blade curling like a serpent around Erik's block and cutting deep into his left shoulder.
A forbidden technique from the Bloody Highlands—Slithering Fang, said to originate from the serpentfolk tribes.
Shing—
Sparks flew.
Even with steel armor, the blade bit deep. Blood sprayed. Anderson's face flushed with unnatural color.
Enchanted Tier-2 Effect: Lesser Vampiric!
CRACK!
Anderson kicked Erik aside like a ragdoll and charged at Rus.
But Rus had already reloaded.
The crossbow was aimed straight at Anderson's forehead.
Anderson sneered. "That toy can't pierce my armor."
But before he could take another step, a tremendous force slammed into his back.
Erik had risen—barely upright—and locked his right arm around Anderson like a vice.
"Let go!" Anderson smashed his elbow into Erik's ribs. The impact dented Erik's armor, sent blood spraying from his mouth—but he held on tighter.
"If you're dying," Erik gasped, "you're dying with me."
The soldiers closed in.
Anderson knew he was out of time. He buried his head, reversed his grip on his sword, and stabbed backward—right toward Erik's heart.
At this angle, Rus couldn't help him. The bolt would just glance off Anderson's helmet.
But then—
Clink.
A faint scrape behind his head.
Anderson sneered.
Trying to pry off my helmet with bare fingers? Fool.
Shlick.
Cold steel slid into his neck.
Splatter.
Blood sprayed.
Clang.
The blade dropped from his hands.
Anderson staggered forward, wide-eyed, mouth filling with blood.
"Why…?" he croaked.
Rus didn't answer—only raised his crossbow and fired.
The bolt struck Anderson squarely between the eyes.
Thud.
That was the last sound Anderson heard.
The sound of a bolt tearing through his skull.
Erik collapsed with him, gasping for breath. A bloodied enchanted dagger clattered to the ground—his weapon in that final strike.
He had driven it into the weak spot behind Anderson's armor—the nape of the neck.
Every suit of enchanted armor had flaws. This one was no different.
Rus stepped forward, pulled out a healing potion, uncorked it, and poured it into Erik's mouth.
"You weren't worried I gave you fake intel?"
Erik grinned, teeth red with blood. "If you're putting your life on the line, how can I do any less?"
"And besides…" he coughed, "we won, didn't we?"
Rus knew—from this moment on, he had truly earned Erik's unwavering loyalty.
With Anderson dead, the battle quickly ended.
The remaining bandits either surrendered—or were cut down on the spot.
Few survived.
The soldiers showed no mercy. Too many comrades had fallen. There was no forgiveness tonight.
Rus surveyed the hall.
Weston lay unconscious on the ground. He was still breathing.
Rus reached for a fallen saber, planning to end this story permanently—when footsteps echoed behind him.
"Weston!"
Elaina burst into the hall, skirts soaked in blood. Her eyes locked on her son. She rushed forward and pulled him into her arms.
"Oh! My poor brother!" Rus cried out, forcing a tear as he knelt beside them. "It's all my fault! I failed as a brother—how could I let the filthy bandits harm you?"
He gently wrapped an arm around Elaina's waist, caressing her. "Please, Aunt Elaina… don't be too upset. With the Lightbringer's blessing, I'm sure he'll recover!"
Elaina turned her head sharply and slapped his hand away.
Yes, the Church of Light did have resurrection magic… but that was a Seventh-Tier spell.
Seventh tier.
Even if such a high priest could be found, she didn't have the means to pay them.
A single cast could cost hundreds of thousands—or even millions—in gold.
Elaina didn't have the patience to argue.
"Simon! And you—yes, you! Stop standing there like statues! Can't you see Weston's unconscious? Help me carry him to the chapel!"
Simon's expression was cold. "Lady Elaina, we only follow the baron's orders."
"Ha! So you're Elaina, huh?" a captured bandit suddenly cackled. "Baron Rus! I've got something you'll want. Information! Spare me and I'll tell you who sold her out!"
Rus's brows lifted slightly. "That depends on how valuable the information is."
"I know who betrayed her! I know who leaked her location—"