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"Unfair."
"Let's split it evenly."
The bandits froze for a split second before drawing their blades in unison, their eyes locked onto the bloodied, hollow sockets staring at them from the doorway.
The bald bandit tilted his head, as if confused—how dare these mid-tier swordsmen even think of raising their weapons against him?
Then, with a wet thud, he collapsed face-first onto the floor. Blood pooled outward, spreading across the grimy warehouse floor like a creeping tide.
Allen stepped into view behind the corpse, his voice calm.
"Also, I don't recall..."
"...ever calling myself some 'important person.'"
The door swung fully open. He stepped inside, boots splashing through blood and viscera. The midday sun cast a radiant halo around him, his smile disarmingly bright.
Almost infectious.
"Now, now. Let's not spread rumors."
The four remaining bandits blinked, glancing between Allen—who looked utterly harmless—and the mutilated corpse of their leader at the entrance.
Fear. Rage. Confusion. Absurdity.
All these emotions crashed into their minds at once, so overwhelming that they wondered if this was a dream.
For a single, surreal moment, silence reigned.
Piyanz, however, didn't hesitate. Unlike the bandits, the moment he recognized Allen's face, his eyes darted to the gruesome corpse on the ground—and instead of fear, a twisted thrill shot through him.
Revenge.
He snapped his gaze back to Allen, remembering his other identity—Boreas's prodigy swordsman, their so-called "guest." A manic grin split his face as he shoved Black Snake aside, not caring about the blood soaking his shoes, and lunged toward Allen, grabbing his arm.
His lips trembled too much to speak.
Too fucking perfect! His "partner" was finally here! No more groveling to these lowlife thugs!
Kill them all! Make an example of them!
His movement shattered the bandits' daze. They brandished their swords, shouting curses—but every single one of them took a step back, trying to shove their comrades forward.
Their leader was dead. He'd been the strongest among them.
So who was stupid enough to go first?
Didn't matter. Screaming helped.
"You bastard!" "This how you do business?!" "You know Night Lion?!" "Fucking piece of—"
"Shh."
A single, soft sound. Barely audible.
Yet it smothered the noise like a wet blanket.
Allen didn't even glance at the now-silent bandits. He flicked his index finger, as if shaking off something dirty, then raised his other hand from his sword hilt and patted Piyanz's cheek.
"Don't worry. I'm here in good faith."
"Equal splits mean equal splits."
Piyanz blinked in confusion as Allen stepped past him, boots splashing through blood. His fingers left five red streaks on the noble's face.
At the same time, Allen's outstretched index finger twisted, pointing toward the frozen bandits. Sunlight streaming through the barred windows glinted off his fingertip, warped by the trembling air.
His voice never stopped.
"This time—did you see it clearly?"
Piyanz frowned, glancing at the motionless bandits. Before he could speak, a bright, clear voice cut in.
"I didn't see it, but I felt it!"
Piyanz's head snapped toward the doorway—and his pupils shrank.
There, bathed in sunlight but refusing to step into the bloodied warehouse, stood the Boreas family's young lady, arms crossed.
"Advanced swordsmen can project aura beyond their blades," Allen continued, walking toward Black Snake as if lecturing. "You've already achieved that. You've seen the Sword God style's techniques. Now comes the choice."
Black Snake, meanwhile, had been backing away step by step, his expression cycling through shock, disbelief, terror, and utter confusion.
Allen advanced.
He retreated.
The lesson didn't stop.
"Different styles emphasize different aspects of aura control. Choosing one doesn't mean abandoning the others. Many masters excel in multiple styles because they've mastered their own aura to the point of flexibility. Ghyslaine, for example, uses the North God's Four-Limbed Form—a technique suited to beastfolk's natural instincts."
"Since you haven't learned any secret techniques yet, I'll explain the basics so you can choose."
"Sword God style— Focuses on stability and explosive power. Concentrate aura into speed and cutting force for faster, stronger strikes."
"Water God style— Prioritizes reaction. Coat your body in aura like liquid, enabling seamless counters and defense."
"North God's Unorthodox Branch— Balances stability, power, and reaction for adaptability in prolonged combat."
"But trying to master everything at once is foolish. Pick a starting point first."
Before Allen even finished, Eris blurted out:
"I pick yours!"
Allen chuckled. Predictable. She wanted to emulate his style—fitting for her personality and talent.
"Fine. Then you're choosing Sword God style—sacrificing some raw power for maximum speed."
"Yes!" Eris nodded vigorously.
At that moment, a loud bang echoed as Black Snake stumbled against a table, finally cornered. His face twisted in panic as he glanced behind him—then back at Allen, now mere steps away.
Allen leaned in, eyes half-lidded.
"Just to be clear—I wasn't talking to you."
Black Snake's pupils trembled. From the moment the bald bandit's corpse had been tossed inside, Allen's words had wrapped around his mind like fog, stirring emotions at will.
It felt like...
...a dream.
And the "persuasion" wasn't done.
"What I described was advanced aura control for expert swordsmen. Your footing is unstable. Your breathing's erratic. Your heart rate spikes with every emotion. Your body control is pathetic."
Allen's voice dripped with condescension.
"I can tell—you're mid-tier at best. Water God style, right? If this were the Water God's main dojo..."
"You'd have to call me Chief."
A drop of sweat rolled down Black Snake's cheek. His hair was drenched. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
Then Allen leaned in, close enough to whisper.
"He's dead."
A pause.
"What will you do now?"
Another drop of sweat hit the floor.
Allen stepped back, gesturing grandly toward the door.
"Simple."
"Run."
The moment the word registered, Black Snake's legs moved on their own. He bolted, stumbling past his frozen comrades, his frantic footsteps shaking the ground.
Corpses seemed to "shrink" as he passed.
Allen had already swung his blade twice.
One cut silenced them.
The other enforced the "equal split."
Bodies toppled in grotesque heaps.
Then—thud—Black Snake tripped over something. He looked down.
A bisected skull, brain matter spilling out.
His face spasmed.
Something inside him snapped.
He scrambled up, turning toward Eris still blocking the doorway, and screamed:
"MOVE, YOU LITTLE BITCH! GET OUT OF MY WAY!"
Eris tilted her head, eerily calm—just like Allen. She didn't react to the gore around her.
Her eyes locked onto his throat.
Then, without a word, she stepped aside.
Black Snake barreled past her—
And Eris didn't even glance back. She picked up the dead bandit's curved blade and waded through the slaughter, stopping before Allen.
"I've decided!"
Allen smiled.
"Not even checking your work?"
Eris kept her eyes locked on his.
"Watch the sword. Not the corpse."
Allen reached out, resting a clean hand on her head. He crouched to her eye level.
"Good. Very good, Eris."
His gray eyes gleamed.
"Congratulations. You're now a true advanced swordsman of the Sword God style."
"Easy, wasn't it?"
Eris's lips curled, her crimson eyes burning like fire.
"Easy!"
Allen withdrew his hand, guiding her gaze downward with a sweeping motion.
"Remember this, Eris."
Palm up.
"A clear mind. A resolute will."
Palm down.
"I think. I act. I claim."
Eris blinked, then met his eyes again.
In her fiery gaze, her brother's smile burned brighter than the sun.
"The Sword God style?"
"Child's play."
Inside the warehouse:
A mountain of corpses.
Piyanz had fainted in the blood.
Outside the warehouse:
Death basked in sunlight.
Black Snake's head rolled across the ground.
Eris had already sheathed her blade—
—without a sound.
The rest was simple.
Even after the slaughter in the outer warehouse, when Allen opened the inner chamber's door, even he—no stranger to bloodshed—had to resist the urge to facepalm.
He'd expected something, but this?
Eris, meanwhile, just stared.
The filthy, dust-choked storage room had been transformed into a scene straight out of a degenerate's fantasy.
Rudeus lay sprawled on the floor, pants halfway down, arms wrapped around two unconscious girls—one in a red dress, the other in a green sundress.
Burnt rope fragments littered the ground. Apparently, he'd subconsciously used Fireball to free himself in his sleep.
Given that he hadn't slept in two days, his expression was oddly peaceful—even smiling, hands occasionally groping the air, completely unaware he'd nearly been sold as a noble's "plaything."
(Not that he couldn't have escaped or killed the bandits if he woke up, but for now, he was content to dream.)
Of the two kidnapped noble girls, one was still unconscious from sedatives. The other—the sundress-wearing girl who'd once argued with Sylphie—was awake but sluggish, her body limp from the drugs.
When the door opened, she'd been desperately scooting backward, bound hands struggling—
—until she saw Allen.
Tears welled in her eyes like he was some divine savior.
Then, despite her weakened state, she started kicking at Rudeus's hand on her leg.
The sheer absurdity of the scene froze Allen for a solid ten seconds.
What now?
Option 1: Untie the awake girl first? But then she might kick Rudeus awake in shame, causing a scene.
Option 2: Shake Rudeus awake and let him pull up his own pants? But the embarrassment might break him.
Option 3: Help Rudeus dress before waking him? But if he woke up mid-process...
...Allen would never live it down.
For the first time in a long while, Allen was stumped.
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