Soren: "You ready for the trip?"
Shaun: "I am. But tell me—who gave you permission to visit me directly without prior notice?"
Soren: "What? Didn't we become partners that day?"
Shaun: "Does being partners mean you can just show up uninvited? I thought we were secretive partners."
Soren: "Oh, come on. It's not like we can hide our camaraderie forever. People will figure it out."
Shaun: (narrowing his eyes) "You're such a bad actor."
A knock at the door. Jim enters, bowing slightly.
Jim: "Master, as per your request, I've arranged for a carriage. No driver."
Shaun: "Good."
Soren: (eyeing Jim with amusement) "Oh? You—the monster I almost slayed that night. Do you remember me?"
Jim: (stiffening slightly) "No. Absolutely not. But sir… you are giving me a very unsettling vibe." (glances at Shaun)"Master, may I leave? Miss Rosie has assigned me some chores."
Shaun: (waves him off) "Go."
Jim exits swiftly.
Shaun: "You fought him in his monster form and won? Impressive. Even I would've struggled a little."
Soren: "Struggled? A tiny bit. But I'm good at putting down mad animals—it helped."
Shaun: (leaning back) "So, did you only come to pick me up, or is there something else?"
Soren: "Discuss what, exactly? The uproar you've caused in the empire? First, Count Heron—then Count Wells. A mysterious new organization wiping out every thug gang, militant force, and information chain in the nearby regions overnight. A single county suffering a catastrophe of unknown origin. Baron Eldric suddenly gaining authority over multiple regions, plus a few extra territories handed over by Countess Redwood. And let's not forget how you're quietly reaping massive profits from the Baron's mining business." (leans back, smirking) "You really are something, Shaun—causing all of this, yet sitting here like an outsider. Amazing. Bravo."
Shaun: (calmly) "Was that sarcasm or an actual compliment?"
Soren: "A little of both. Anyway, I came to discuss our trip itinerary."
Shaun: "Itinerary, huh? Go on."
Soren pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat and placed it on the table, tapping it with a finger.
Soren: "Read this carefully. First, we'll be stopping at a town on our way north to acquire a few necessities and hunt down some information agents. After that, we'll continue toward the north, secure a place near our target dungeon, check off a few things on our bucket list, and handle some necessary tasks. Once that's done—rock and roll. We strike our target, clear our objective, and take what we came for. Afterward, we move on, meet our next potential ally, and use him as planned."
Shaun skimmed over the paper before raising an eyebrow.
Shaun: "You're terrible at management, aren't you?"
Soren: "You get the gist of what matters. That's all that counts."
Shaun: (glancing at the highlighted notes) "Got it… But what's with these warnings? 'Butcher of the North,' 'Duke Ferranius,' 'Council Meeting,' and 'Beastmen'—care to explain?"
Soren leaned back.
Soren: "You really don't care about the world you live in, do you? How out of touch are you?"
Shaun: (shrugging) "That's why I teamed up with you, didn't I?"
Soren: "Alright, listen up. The Council Meeting is a gathering of the highest officials in the royal court—four dukes, sixteen counts/countesses, and a handful of specially invited individuals. It's a huge event for the empire's internal affairs. Sometimes, even the Emperor and Archduke attend, though not this time—fortunately."
Shaun: "Meaning our actions will attract a lot of attention, and we'll have to stay completely under the radar."
Soren nodded in agreement.
Soren: "Exactly. Now, Duke Ferranius—he's the ruler of the North. We'll be operating in his territory, and we need to be gone before the Council Meeting begins. That means no delays."
Shaun: "And the beastmen?"
Soren: "They live in the forest near our target dungeon. They're part of the empire, but they have their own governance. If we don't want unnecessary problems, we stay away from them—unless absolutely necessary."
Shaun: (exhaling) "Easier said than done… And this 'Butcher' you mentioned?"
Soren's expression darkened slightly.
Soren: "Ever heard the stories of heroes? The 'Chosen Ones'—individuals granted power beyond normal limits, shaped by the will of the world itself? Well, this world happens to have eight of them. Each represents a different spectrum of power identified by diffrent color."
Shaun: "And the Butcher of the North is one of them?"
Soren: "Yep. His real name is Izumrud, holder of the title 'Hero of Red.' Infamous for his methods earning him the name butcher of north."
Shaun: "Leader of the group?"
Soren: (shaking his head) "Nope. They don't have a leader. Red is just the most feared. Not because he's the strongest, but because of his reputation."
Shaun: "What, does he not do his job?"
Soren: "Oh, he does it too well. He's a man obsessed with justice—so much so that he gives the worstdeaths imaginable to anyone he deems an 'evildoer.' He once wiped out an entire church because they were hiding criminals. He didn't just expose them—he executed everyone inside, including the high priest."
Shaunraising an eyebrow
Soren: "That wasn't the only time. He's done things like that many times, earning him both his title and a long list of enemies. In fact, there's an entire faction dedicated to hunting him down for revenge. I don't have all the details on his past crimes, but trust me—he's not someone we want to deal with."
Shaun stared at the paper for a moment before setting it down with a sigh.
Shaun: "Yeah… couldn't agree more."
A black carriage stood waiting at the entrance, its polished frame reflecting the pale light of dawn. Soren stood at the front, casually settling into the driver's seat, reins in hand, looking far too amused for someone taking on such a mundane role.
Behind him, Jim and Perditius moved efficiently, hauling the luggage into the carriage. Jim, ever meticulous, ensured everything was secured in place, while Perditius—stronger and less concerned about finesse—simply tossed the heavier crates inside without a care.
Shaun stood by the carriage, his sharp eyes scanning his new subordinates.
Before he could say a word, Rosie stepped forward, her expression composed but firm.
"Take care of yourself, Master. Return safely."
Before Shaun could reply, Soren from the driver's seat, cutting in smoothly.
"Oh, don't you worry, my lady. I'll take very good care of him. I'm going to teach him a lot on this trip."
Shaun shot him a sidelong glance. "Yeah, yeah. We'll see about that."
He turned his attention to Jim and Perditius, his tone commanding.
"Do the job exactly as I instructed. No mistakes." His gaze sharpened. "Follow Rosie's orders—she's your superior from this moment on. Handle everything I assigned to you, and report to me immediately if anything happens."
Jim bowed slightly. "Understood, Master."
Perditius gave a slow nod.
Shaun then looked back at Rosie. "Use them however you see fit. They're still new, so drill them properly—don't hold back. Treat them like tools capable of any task—cleaning, guarding, laundry, whatever. Got it?"
Rosie chuckled, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Understood, Master. I'll make sure they learn their roles properly."
Jim subtly tensed, while Perditius let out a deep exhale, as if already regretting what was to come.
With a final glance at them, Shaun climbed into the carriage, settling into the cushioned seat.
Soren snapped the reins, and with a jolt, the carriage began to roll forward, cutting through the morning mist.
As the town faded behind them, Shaun leaned back, closing his eyes briefly.
The journey had begun
The moment Izumrud passed fifty meters into the forest, the slaughter began.
A single arrow, honed to perfection, tore through the air, whistling toward his skull.
He caught it. Effortlessly.
His fingers closed around the shaft inches from his face, eyes gleaming with something far removed from fear. Excitement.
Then, the heavens darkened.
A tidal wave of arrows—hundreds of thousands—blotted out the sky. The sheer magnitude could have buried an army beneath its shadow, death falling like an inescapable rain.
But Izumrud was no ordinary man.
He moved.
A single step, and his sword was in hand. A second, and the steel sang.
Faster than sight. Faster than thought.
Each slash blurred into the next, an unbroken rhythm of destruction. His blade carved through the storm, shattering wood and iron mid-flight. Splinters rained down, but none found flesh.
By the time the last arrow hit the ground, he was untouched.
Silence hung for half a heartbeat before it was broken by the roar of men charging.
Fifty master swordsmen.
Mages flanking them, their hands crackling with power.
They came in waves, blades flashing under the blood-red morning sun. Spells surged—fire, ice, lightning, raw death itself—each conjured with deadly intent.
Izumrud did not move.
He let them come.
The first swordsman lunged. His blade never reached.
A sidestep. A whisper of steel. A spray of crimson.
The second cultist came from behind, slashing in a wide arc.
Izumrud parried with the barest flick of his wrist. His counter was effortless. Efficient.
The man fell, a neat line carved across his throat.
Then the real carnage began.
He became a blur—a hurricane of steel, blood, and motion.
Each step carried him deeper into the fray, each swing of his sword cutting down another. He was not merely faster. He was beyond them. His blade wove between their strikes as if he had seen them before they happened. His footwork was divine, his timing cruel.
Steel clashed against steel. Sparks scattered like fireflies.
The mages unleashed their spells—searing flames, bone-chilling ice, arcs of raw lightning.
None touched him.
With a single twist of his sword, he split a fireball in two. Ice shards shattered harmlessly against his aura. Lightning coiled around him before dispersing, rejected by the sheer force of his will.
The ground was already littered with bodies when the survivors faltered.
He stood among them, breathing steadily, eyes sharp.
"Is this it?" His voice carried through the carnage. "I expected more."
Then the land trembled.
The spirits arrived.
Towering behemoths of earth and water, their forms shimmering with raw elemental power.
The Earth Spirits struck first.
They conjured a magic circle, sealing the battlefield. The soil cracked, shifting unnaturally beneath his feet, turning into a pit of sinking stone.
Then came the boulders—each one the size of a house, thrown with enough force to flatten a city block.
Izumrud did not flee. He ascended.
He ran up the falling rocks as if they were mere steps, his body moving with supernatural grace. His sword flashed, and stone split like rotten wood. Dust clouds swallowed the battlefield, but through them, he remained visible—untouched, unstoppable.
Then the Water Spirits struck.
High-pressure jets, sharp as blades, crisscrossed through the air, tearing through stone and bodies alike.
Izumrud sneered.
His aura flared, forming an invisible shield. The water jets slammed into it with a deafening crack—only to be repelled entirely.
Then he moved.
A single leap shattered the earth below. He soared, sword raised high, his form outlined against the crimson sky.
And then he fell.
With one mighty swing, he bisected the Water Spirits. Their forms shuddered, then evaporated into mist.
The Earth Spirits howled, lashing out in desperation.
Too late.
Still airborne, Izumrud summoned spears of pure energy, their edges gleaming with lethal intent.
A flick of his wrist.
They shot forward like shooting stars.
The spirits collapsed—bodies riddled with holes, their cores shattered.
Sixty Earth Spirits. Fifty Water Spirits. Gone.
And the killing had only just begun.
By the time his feet touched the ground, he had vanished.
The cultists panicked.
One moment, he was standing in the midst of their fallen comrades. The next, he was everywhere.
A mage in the gardens gasped as something cold pressed against his throat. A gloved hand. A whisper of steel.
Then nothing.
On the rooftops, archers screamed as a shadow moved between them. A severed arm hit the ground. Then another. Then heads.
Blood painted the estate. The walls. The floor. The trees.
He moved like a reaper, unseen until the moment death arrived.
Master swordsmen rallied. A final stand.
They died first.
He fought them with his fists.
A punch collapsed a man's ribcage, sending him flying. Another crushed a skull like a fruit.
A Grand Mage raised his staff. He was too slow.
Izumrud caught his leg, swung him like a hammer, and shattered another mage's spine with the impact.
Spells rained down—fire, lightning, dark energy capable of erasing men from existence.
They did nothing.
He tore through them like a force of nature. Bodies broke. Limbs scattered. Blood soaked the earth.
The doors shattered.
And then he stepped through.
The Hero of Red Izumrud has finished his job
A survivor, crawling like an insect, eyes wide with terror.
Izumrud loomed over him, blade dripping, breath steady.
"Where is he?"
A stammered answer. A name.
Useless words.
The greatsword moved.
The last cultist's head hit the ground.
And with that, the forest fell silent.