Chương 76: Chapter XX Verse I — The Rut of Vengeance — Part II

Spying on the Entourage with the Bloody Twilight Galan opened his eyes. Here, at the cliff's edge, the Bloody Twilight was bracing for the chaos to come. The leader and one of its members were resting near the ledge, seated in relaxed lotus positions, unfazed by the night's biting cold. Said member was Lucius, the devil-man Galan had pulled from the criminal underworld, his red tail flicking stones into the ravine.

Beside him was his leader, the young Galan, dressed in a simple Roman cloak and trousers, a smirk still on his lips.

"It's quite the atmosphere," Lucius murmured, watching the camp below through Galan's mindcast.

"It sure is," Galan replied.

"Almost makes me feel bad for wanting to go down there and ruin their party."

"Don't say that," Lucius huffed.

"We can't let you have all the fun now, can we?"

"It'll be a lot faster if I do it myself."

"But we're in this together," Lucius insisted.

"We're not about to sit back while you do all the work." Galan sighed, indulging the stubbornness of his crew.

"Fine, whatever." Behind them, Tiberius groomed his silver fur, an act of devotion to a pride long since hunted to extinction.

"Have you determined who shall live?" the wolf-man asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Everyone but our target and his guards," Galan said casually.

"That's cruel," Lucius said with sarcasm.

"Don't you know they have families too?" Galan rolled his eyes.

"Right. They should have thought of that before exploiting those who seek a better life." Flavia, the elven mage, traced the patterns on her divine staff, her mind flooded with memories of the burning of her grove.

"Actually, why don't we fight them as well?" she suggested with a devious smile.

"It'll show them what the world is truly like."

"Don't let your past cloud your judgment, Flavia," Galan chided gently.

"Some of them are scarred by their past, too. I don't want to make their lives worse." Inside their camp, Aelia, the dwarven demolitionist, stood on a chair, inspecting a terrifying array of bombs with gleeful intensity.

"So when are we going?" she demanded, bouncing on her toes. Behind her, Tranio, the cheetah-man, sharpened his knives with practiced ease, knowing that he'll claim the lives of the men involved in the razing of his untamed glades.

"After they get some rest," he said calmly.

"Can't have a good fight to the death without a full stomach and a well-rested mind, after all." Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators! Aelia pointed a firebomb at him.

"But that's a few hours away!"

"Be patient, Aelia," Galan sighed.

"Just enjoy the romance play for now. Tickets on me."

"You guys do that," Tranio said, sheathing his blades.

"I'll take a nap. Make sure to make everything we need for later, Aelia."

"I was already done an hour ago!" she shot back.

"Then make some more," Tranio said, lying down.

"We have to make sure their last night ends spectacularly."

"Ooh… Right… I'll go make something big then." Aelia grinned, retrieving a large canister before methodically filling it with a volatile blend of gases and liquids through several pinhole openings. Beside her, the rest of the crew relaxed in the heavy silence of the night. Flavia then stepped into Galan's line of sight and spoke in Godlang.

"Sir? Sir?" the voice asked.

"Yeah, what is it?" Galan murmured with his eyes closed.

"Your food is ready." Galan's eyes snapped open.

"What?" The distant clatter of ceramic dishes and the soft murmur of low laughter suddenly flooded his senses. The biting cold of the memory vanished, replaced by the warm, humid air of the restaurant. A waitress stood over him, looking concerned.

"Y—your food is ready," she said.

"Oh, thanks," Galan muttered, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs of the past. As the waitress left, Galan looked down at the feast before him: a bowl of fresh seafood, steaming broth noodles, golden octopus dumplings, and the star of the show, the blood cocktail, gleaming like liquid ruby within the glass. He lifted it, the scent of blood and fruit filling his senses. He took a sip, and his heart raced, his true nature stirring beneath the surface. The taste lingered—iron, sweet, alive.

And then the world gave way. He was back in the forest hours later in the memory, the entourage now fast asleep. He loosened his true nature, letting his invisible aura smother the camp in a waking dream. He descended, pouring Aelia's special oil onto the walls, preparing the stage for the massacre. He returned to his crew. Next to him, Tiberius knelt, axe in hand.

"Ready, Master?" his mind-voice echoed in Galan's head. Galan nodded, a confident smile on his face. But then, movement caught his eye. Down in the camp, Gaius, the apprentice, stepped out of his tent, frustrated by the snoring guards. He passed two guards who were standing watch, crossbows in hand.

"Hey, wait," the first guard said sternly.

"Where are you going?" Gaius glanced back over his shoulder.

"Just getting some fresh air. I'll be near the ridge for a bit."

"Remember your shift is next," the second guard called after him.

"Don't fall asleep on the job, you hear me?"

"I know, I'll keep that in mind," Gaius muttered, continuing on his way. As he headed toward the camp's center, he noticed the dying embers of the main campfire. He approached the large iron pot hanging over it, lifted the lid, and saw that it was still half-full of rich pork soup. And when he glanced back at the two guards, they quickly averted their eyes.

"Seriously? Is it a habit for them to steal pork?" Gaius whispered, closing the lid with a soft clang.

"They're lucky that son of a bitch is a heavy sleeper." He continued walking, leaving the guards and their coveted soup behind. The Bloody Twilight noticed him, tensed and confused, watching the boy leave the outpost to sit on the ridge.

"I'll handle it," Galan commanded through his mindcast.

"Don't go anywhere."