Northeast of Eagle Fortress, nestled in a wooded valley, Rus stood silently, his hand resting on his sword hilt, watching.
Behind him stood Erik, sword in hand, his expression grim. Thirty-two of Rus's private soldiers sat tensely on the ground, anxious and uneasy.
The bandits were wreaking havoc in Eagle Town—and many feared their own families might be in danger.
But no one dared move without orders. Rus had explained his plan to them clearly: use Eagle Fortress as bait—to trap the bandits like rats in a jar.
To make it convincing, Rus had given up the fortress's biggest advantage: its defenses. The gates were left wide open. Even the warehouse full of gold coins—Angel's Tears—was untouched. All to make the illusion real.
Rus never explained all the reasons, but the soldiers understood the truth deep down—they were too weak.
So weak that even with the fortress at their back, Rus couldn't trust them to hold the line. He couldn't believe they could repel the bandits.
At the edge of town, a line of fire lit up the horizon—a torchlit column of bandits storming through Eagle Town and toward the fortress.
The soldiers felt both relief and shame.
Their lord, Rus, was risking his own home and wealth to protect theirs. And they—his sworn fighters—could do nothing but watch these invaders march in unchallenged.
"Lord Rus… shall we move?" Erik asked in a low voice.
As an honorable warrior, he had followed Rus's plan to the letter, but he still found it hard to bear the thought of innocent lives being left behind in the castle.
Rus's expression remained calm as he shook his head. "Not yet."
The time wasn't right.
He knew his men well—he had trained them himself. They were brave, they were loyal—but their lack of experience and poor equipment made them no match for what they faced.
Unless the timing was perfect, he would rather give up the ambush altogether than throw them into a slaughter.
Rus had already activated the Eye of Truth. Through its power, he could see clearly: the bandit force included two Tier-1 supernaturals, each equipped with elite-level gear—both weapons and armor.
Ordinary blades couldn't pierce enchanted armor, not in untrained hands.
He silently thanked himself for not engaging them head-on. Just those two alone could break his formation—and there were sixteen more bandits, armed to the teeth.
"Donald, I'll give you this—you had a noble's foresight," Rus muttered to himself.
Now it made sense why Donald had leased the three territories to different nobles.
On one hand, it would make future reclamation easier for the rightful heir. On the other, it gave the weakened Eagle Territory a buffer zone—more time to detect threats like these bandits from the Bloody Highlands.
The bandits lingered outside the gates. Rus saw one of them stoop down and pick something up. His furrowed brow relaxed slightly as he exhaled a silent breath of relief.
It was the Calydon family's crest, left at the gate on purpose. Just another layer of his deception, designed to allay the bandits' suspicions.
Sure enough, moments later, the horde surged forward with torches in hand, flooding into the fortress.
Behind him, Rus heard a soft clack—the sound of spear tips brushing stone. He turned and swept his eyes over the soldiers, calming their rising tension.
Not yet.
Several more minutes passed.
Then, the lights inside the main keep began to flicker on one by one. Shadows moved within, and faint, eerie screams began to drift through the air.
Now.
Rus exchanged a glance with Erik, then raised his right hand and slashed it forward. He was the first to rise, dashing down the mountain trail like a black arrow.
The soldiers surged after him.
Their hearts pounded like war drums. Their faces flushed red, teeth clenched, eyes burning with fury and guilt.
Their lord—their baron—had to resort to such disgraceful tactics because of them. Because they weren't strong enough. He had emptied his own home and let it be ravaged just to give them a fighting chance.
This shame was not just Rus's—it was theirs.
And it could only be washed away with blood.
They opened their mouths to roar, but no sound came out. Yet Rus, in front of them, could feel the thunderous battle cry in the synchronized rhythm of their pounding feet and steady breath.
The mountain path was a kilometer long—normally a ten-minute run. But under Rus's lead, they tore down the slope in only five.
As they crossed the drawbridge—
Shing! Rus drew his longsword and bellowed, "Kill—!"
Behind him, all thirty-two soldiers roared in unison, "Kill—!"
The cry thundered like a storm through the fortress.
In the hall, Anderson jerked his head around, startled. Through the wide-open gates, he met Rus's eyes—eyes brimming with a killing intent so intense it nearly swallowed him whole.
He didn't need an introduction.
He knew instantly: this was Rus.
"Form up!" Anderson roared, drawing his curved saber. A dim, gel-like shadow of battle aura coated the blade as he twisted his wrist and hurled it at Rus like a javelin.
The saber sliced through the air like a shooting star, aimed straight for Rus's face.
But Rus didn't flinch.
At the last moment, a broad longsword swept in from the side—clang!—knocking the blade skyward. It spun and landed, quivering in the stone.
The man who stepped in front of Rus was solid, unyielding.
Erik.
The soldiers stormed across the bridge behind them, their eyes blazing with righteous fury. That murderous pressure sent a rare shiver through Anderson's spine.
His instincts screamed—close the gate!
He spun and slammed the doors shut with a boom, slamming down the bolt behind them.
Inside the hall, the other bandits were assembling. Anderson scowled. "Where's Bailey?"
The bandits exchanged uneasy glances. "Boss… we haven't seen him."
"Forget him!" Anderson growled. "This Rus's got some brains—used the whole damn castle as bait. But what he forgot is, this fortress has more than one exit!"
"You want to trap us like dogs in a cage? Fine—we'll flank him from the walls and gut him from behind!"
Eagle Fortress was a military stronghold. The first and second floors had direct passages to the side walls, and his men included expert archers. Once they reached the battlements, Rus would learn what it meant to be too clever for his own good.
Giving up the fortress—that was your biggest mistake.
BOOM—
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Four explosions erupted in rapid succession.
Anderson froze. He barely had time to react before one of his men shouted in panic, "Fire! We've got fire!"
Anderson rushed toward the corridor and his face darkened immediately.
At the far end, where the corridor connected to the outer wall, flames burned transparent and wild, racing along the stone in twisting tongues. In moments, they turned bright orange and yellow.
He didn't recognize it—but it was glycerin fire.
And not just in front of him.
Behind him too.
"Damn it, it's a trap!" he snarled, running upstairs. He kicked aside a corpse on the second floor—and saw the same thing. Fire.
It all clicked at once. Cold sweat poured down his forehead.
So cunning. So cruel. So precise.
The badge at the door, the servants and relatives left behind—they were all part of the deception. Every corridor leading to the walls had been rigged, just waiting for Rus to return and spring the trap.
They'd been sealed inside a burning tomb.
"This can't be…" Anderson growled, clenching his jaw. He couldn't believe he had walked into someone else's trap—and from a man they called Little Bee, no less!
In just two months, Rus had built a core of fiercely loyal followers?
And those left behind in the fortress… their danger had been far greater than just marching out. If discovered, the best they could hope for was a quick death.
BOOM—
Another explosion. Then, a scream not even human.
Anderson rushed back down to the first floor and saw Rottooth writhing in the hall, his body engulfed in flames, shrieking as he rolled in agony.
Anderson's face twisted. "What happened?!"
"Boss—Rottooth tried to escape through a window," one bandit said, pale.
Another added, "The moment he opened the door, a fire arrow shot through and hit something in the room—it just blew up!"
BOOM—
Another blast, then more. Anderson's head snapped left to right as doors along the hall began to explode one after another, spewing burning shards and liquid fire.
Every side room beyond the main hall—completely engulfed in flame.
His facial scar throbbed and split slightly, red light seeping from the wound. "Tch. So this is your plan, Rus? Burn us alive?"
"You forgot one thing."
"We're raiders from the Bloody Highlands. Cold-blooded killers. Wolves of the plains, storms of the desert!"
"And you lead a bunch of farmers who've barely put down their hoes!"
"Men! Lift the bolt—we're breaking out! Kill them all!!!"
The chain of explosions rumbled all the way up to the third floor.
Amid the tearing of fabric, Bailey pressed a scrap of silk to his nose and inhaled deeply. A look of intoxicated pleasure spread across his face.
"No wonder you're a baroness," he murmured. "None of the women I've had could compare."
He released the cloth, letting it drift like a butterfly to the floor. Before him, the woman was already nearly bare.
Her sheer nightgown offered no real concealment. Smooth, porcelain-like skin shimmered in the dim, humid air, trembling with fear and tension.
Even with her undergarments still intact, her full figure pushed provocatively against the delicate fabric. A glimpse of her upper curves escaped the veil of her arm, made even more alluring by the soft purple lace.
The translucent gown clung tightly to her waist, teasing with every breath, drawing the eye irresistibly to what lay beneath.
Bailey stepped forward. Elaina stepped back—her bare foot caught in the tangled bedsheets, and with a startled cry, she fell to the floor by the wall.
"Stay away from me!"
The desperate cry held no trace of her usual calm or aristocratic poise—only raw panic and fear. Tears welled in her eyes, her full lips trembled, her chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths.
Her dark, silky hair clung to her flushed cheeks and neck, only heightening the feral hunger in Bailey's gaze.
"Cry more," he said. "I love women like you the most…"
He removed his helmet and set it aside on the bed. Crouching, he seized a fistful of Elaina's hair.
"What a beautiful mouth," he whispered, his face inching closer, eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation.
As a marauder, Bailey had taken countless women. No matter how proud or stubborn they were, once their hair was yanked hard enough, pain would break their resistance.
But in Elaina's eyes, a sharp glint suddenly flickered.
With a sudden lunge forward, she ignored the pain tearing at her scalp and bit down hard on Bailey's lip.
"AAARGH!"
Even as a Tier-1 supernatural, Bailey hadn't trained his face to be blade-proof. Elaina's teeth sank in like knives, tearing into his flesh.
"Let go!" he roared, pulling at her hair—only increasing the pain.
"I said LET GO!"
Smack! He finally struck her with all his strength, hurling her back against the wall. Blood spilled from his ear. His lip was mangled.
"You BITCH! YOU GODDAMN BITCH!"
He was still gripping a bloodied clump of her hair, but it didn't soothe him—because Elaina had lifted her chin and stared him down with defiant eyes.
Then she spat out a chewed chunk of meat.
His upper lip.
"You're dead," Bailey snarled. "You were going to be my prize—but now, I've changed my mind. I'm going to show you what real pain looks like!"
Elaina sneered. "Go on. I'm waiting."
Her words were fearless, but in her heart, she had already let go of any hope. Her eyes drifted to a shattered wine bottle on the floor. When he dragged her out, she would end things herself.
Bailey stepped forward—
Crash! The window shattered behind him.
A dark figure dropped into the room.
"Whew. Just in time." Rus wiped sweat from his brow, casting a glance toward Elaina.
"Aunt, you're not nearly as calm as I imagined."
Elaina shot him a venomous glare—but inwardly, she finally exhaled in relief.
Bailey backed up, drawing his longsword. "Who the hell are you?"
Rus unsheathed his rapier with a faint smirk. "They say bandits aren't very bright. Seems they were right."
"You break into my fortress, try to steal my woman, and now you want to ask who I am?"
"…You're Rus?" Bailey looked him up and down, then sneered.
"So the rumors were true—but not impressive. I never thought a 'little bee' could lead a counterattack. Even more surprising, you actually had the guts to face me!"
Rus raised his blade. "I came because I knew I could kill you."
"Heh…" Bailey grinned and raised his sword with both hands. A faint green aura gathered along its edge.
"Then let's see how you deal with my Stormforce Aura!"
Before the last word left his lips, he lunged.
Two meters was nothing for a Tier-1 Storm Swordsman. He moved like lightning.
But just as he launched forward, Rus's left hand flicked up—and a cold glint flashed.
Thunk! A small crossbow bolt streaked straight toward Bailey's face.
His brow twitched—but he only smirked. Dirty tricks like this were nothing new in the Bloody Highlands. With a twist of his sword, he deflected the bolt aside, spinning his blade straight toward Rus's throat.
Rus, instead of retreating, met him head-on. Their swords clashed—and in that moment, Rus's left hand shot forward, palm aimed at Bailey's chest.
"Fool," Bailey hissed.
Even if Rus's sword was enchanted, his strength and speed were inferior. The clash would shatter his arm—and whatever trick he had in his off-hand would be useless against enchanted chainmail.
Clang!
Their blades collided.
But instead of bracing for the impact—Rus let go of his sword.
His rapier was flung backward, striking his own chest, but in the same instant, his left hand pressed a dagger to Bailey's chest.
A dagger that glowed with a cold, magical light.
Bailey's heart jolted—but he relaxed just as quickly.
His armor was enchanted. A dagger wasn't going to pierce it.
Then came the cold.
Agonizing, bone-deep cold. His body went numb, the strength draining from his limbs like a siphon.
Clatter. His sword fell to the floor.
He looked down at his chest, eyes wide. "No… impossible…"
Hot blood burst from his mouth.
It dawned on him—yes, the armor had been repaired.
But how had Rus found the only weak spot?
Thud. He dropped to his knees, staring blankly at Rus. "Why…"
"Ask the Goddess of Death," Rus said coldly. He kicked Bailey's chest, yanking the dagger free.
A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he quickly deactivated the Eye of Truth.
While active, the Eye allowed him to see supernatural energy flows—and thus, the weak points in enchanted gear. It was how he'd pinpointed Elaina's location in the darkened fortress.
Bailey's armor had glowed faint green—but the spot on his chest had been utterly dull. Exposed.
He'd also seen the flow of aura. Bailey, a trained Storm Swordsman, moved with predictable patterns. Each strike, each motion—Rus had read like a book.
But activating the Eye in combat came at a cost. Even with just a few seconds, Rus felt like he'd been awake for days.
He staggered slightly.
Then turned toward Elaina.
"Oh, lace. Knew it."
He knelt by her side, smiling faintly, eyes tracing the curves of her body. His throat tightened.
Perhaps it was the aftermath of violence, or the lingering adrenaline—but Elaina's eyes were dazed, her breath uneven. Dried blood streaked her lips and chest.
There was a tragic, broken beauty to her that was both cruel and captivating.
Rus leaned in, voice low, fingers gently brushing her lips as he wiped away the blood.
"A life-saving favor like this… I hope you won't mind offering a little something in return."
He moved closer—