Corvus and Zarqa moved silently through the darkness of the night. The streets, once bustling during the day, had turned into mere shadows of their former selves; the stone-paved roads, dilapidated wooden buildings, and dim torches revealed just how ruthless life was in this part of the city. The wind howled like a muffled lament through the narrow alleys, while in the distance, the laughter of a drunken man mingled with the voice of a prostitute.

  Corvus tightened his grip on the black cloak draped over his shoulders. His eyes, blending into the pitch-black night, scanned the shadows between the taverns. The people who lived here—the members of the Golden Fang gang—were cunning enough to sense danger. But tonight, those who thought they were the hunters would realize they were actually the prey.

  Their plan was clear. First, they would eliminate all the gang members they could find, and in the end, they would reach the gang’s leader. There was no need to rush. Fear was the strongest weapon to break an enemy’s spirit, and tonight, they would move like a nightmare emerging from the shadows.

  The Golden Fang gang had their own inns. These inns had been built to protect them from the attacks of rival gangs. From the outside, they looked like ordinary taverns or cheap lodgings, but inside, only gang members resided. No one here was a stranger. Every face was familiar. For an outsider to enter was, in itself, an act of defiance.

  However, tonight, what they believed to be their safety would become their grave. Their numbers meant nothing against the two shadows that had come for them. Corvus and Zarqa were unmatched warriors. These gang members weren’t trained soldiers; they were ruthless, yes, but undisciplined men who had built their lives on banditry. They thought they were strong, but they were about to learn what true strength was.

  When Corvus and Zarqa pushed open the door of the first inn, a wave of hot, stifling air hit them. The mingling stench of alcohol, sweat, and rotten meat filled their noses. A few men were sprawled across the tables, caught in the haze between sleep and drunkenness. However, one of them, eyes narrowed with suspicion, looked toward the entrance. At that moment, he realized that Corvus and Zarqa were not ordinary men.

  But it was too late.

  Zarqa moved like a shadow. Before the man could reach for his weapon, warm blood trickled down his throat as he collapsed. The others didn’t even have the chance to wake up and react before Corvus and Zarqa had finished their work.

  Corvus didn’t even need to unsheathe his swords. He twisted the wrist of a man who lunged at him, throwing him to the ground, and pressed his knee against his throat until he lost consciousness. The rest tried to flee in terror, but Zarqa struck with the precision of a butcher among a flock of sheep—silent, swift, and merciless. The dying men’s choking gasps merged with the sharp whispers of steel.

  However, Corvus did not allow all the gang members to be killed. His goal was not just to cleanse the city. The Golden Fang gang had preyed upon the weak, and now Corvus was doing the same. He destroyed the weak but spared the strong. The ones with rank in the gang, the ones who had proven their strength, might still be of use in the future.

  He had promised Belisarius that he would wipe out the gang. But cleansing did not always mean complete annihilation. A wise warrior did not discard useful men.

  Most of the captured gang members were taken alive, sustaining only minor injuries. As Corvus and Zarqa advanced, the five warriors accompanying them secured the captured gang members, tying them up and hiding them in the shadows of the narrow city alleys. It was risky to take the men all at once, and they had to accompany Corvus and Zarqa, so they would collect the captives later.

  This was no mere massacre—it was an operation conducted with the precision of a surgeon. They sowed chaos and terror, yet left no trace behind.

  As they vanished into the darkness of the night, all that remained behind were blood-stained stones and rapidly cooling corpses. When the city awoke, the Golden Fang gang would be nothing but history. But in Corvus’ mind, this was only the beginning.

  The Golden Fang would be eradicated, but some of them would become part of a new order.

  The next target was the gang leader’s house. Though calling it a “house” would have been an insult. While the ordinary gang members lived in filthy, damp inns reeking of rot, their master, Varos, resided in a mansion. And not just any mansion—this one resembled a small palace. The garden alone was as vast as an estate, surrounded by tall, thick stone walls. Armed guards patrolled every corner from the gate onward.

  Yet these guards were nothing like the thugs they had just slaughtered. Their movements were disciplined, their shoulders squared, their gazes sharp. Their armor gleamed under the dim torchlight, and they held weapons forged by the hands of master blacksmiths. These were no mere bandits—these were real soldiers.

  Corvus paused for a moment, his eyes fixed on the mansion. The grand structure behind the high walls shimmered faintly in the torchlight, like the gleaming eyes of a predator lurking in the darkness. This was the lair of a tyrant. And tonight, this lair would be drenched in blood.

  Sneaking inside did not seem too difficult, but this time, Corvus had no intention of being subtle. There would be noise, there would be blood, and everyone would know exactly who had come. But this was not just about launching an attack—it was about leaving the right kind of traces behind.

  Corvus’ warriors were trained assassins, silent killers who dispatched their enemies without a sound. But tonight, they would not be assassins. Instead of precise dagger wounds, they would leave brutal gashes from axes and swords. Tonight, they were not executing a covert assassination; they were staging an invasion.

  With that in mind, Corvus and Zarqa cast off their cloaks. The five warriors accompanying them did the same, revealing their true identities. They sheathed their daggers and instead drew their heavy swords and axes. Now, they appeared not as mere infiltrators but as Rhazgord warriors. That way, if there were any survivors—if any at all—the story they would tell would be of Rhazgord warriors, not assassins.

  Corvus’ gaze drifted not to his warriors’ weapons, but to their eyes. This was foreign land, and their presence here had to remain a secret. But the warrior within Corvus could already smell the blood.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, a slight challenge in his voice.

  The five warriors responded not with words but by tightening their grips on their axes. Zarqa, as always, remained silent. He was always ready.

  Corvus turned toward the iron gate of the estate. The guards tensed the moment they saw the group emerge from the shadows.

  “This is Varos’ estate! Who are you, and what business do you have here?!”

  Their voices held a mix of fear and authority, but their hands were already reaching for their weapons.

  Corvus did not answer. Instead, he gathered the energy of the Lightstone. Power surged through his body as he quickened his pace. Just as the guards drew their swords, Corvus slammed his foot into the gate.

  BOOM!

  The iron gate shattered as if it were made of paper. The guards standing behind it were thrown backward before they even realized what had happened. One of them barely had time to rise before an axe came down upon his head. Another tried to scream, but his cry was cut short by a swift sword strike.

  “Kill them all.”

  Corvus’ voice rang out like a death sentence in the night.

  The five warriors charged forward without hesitation. The guards, recovering from their shock, roared and rushed into battle. But the Rhazgord warriors were far faster.

  The moment of the first clash, axes spun through the air. A guard barely had time to react before the sharp edge of a sword cleaved into his chest. Another tried to strike but realized too late that his opponent had sidestepped—only to feel an axe sink into his stomach as if breaking a wooden beam.

  The white daisies decorating the garden turned crimson with blood.

  Corvus and Zarqa walked steadily through the chaos of battle. Five warriors behind them carved a path of corpses, ensuring no one could get near them.

  A guard lunged at Corvus, slashing downward with his sword. Corvus took a step back, caught the man’s wrist with his right hand, and before the guard could react, Corvus’ left fist smashed into his face. The man’s nose shattered under his helmet like a crushed fruit, teeth scattering in the air. Corvus grabbed the guard’s helmet and slammed his head onto the stone ground, leaving only a twitching corpse behind.

  Zarqa, on the other hand, cut down every soul that dared approach Corvus. Rather than attacking recklessly, he moved methodically, circling within two steps of Corvus and eliminating every threat that got too close.

  When they reached the mansion’s grand wooden doors, Corvus didn’t hesitate. The same foot that had shattered the iron garden gate now targeted the ornate oak entrance.

  BANG!

  The door split apart with a resounding crack, flying inward.

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  Inside, the guards at the end of the corridor recoiled in shock. They had heard the sounds of battle, but they hadn’t expected such an entrance. Drawing their swords, they braced for a fight—but Corvus wasn’t looking at them. His gaze was fixed on the upper floor. A faint wave of energy in the air… He could feel the power of Light Stone. Weak, but present. Varos was upstairs.

  Corvus strode toward the staircase, issuing his final command:

  “Their leader is above. Clean this place up and follow me.”

  Zarqa didn’t reply—he was a man who spoke through battle. The moment Corvus finished speaking, he dove into the waiting guards like a storm. His sword danced in the air, blood splattered, and screams were silenced.

  Corvus was already ascending the stone stairs, his steps firm and unwavering. As the shadow of the falling night deepened, it came to claim Varos’ fate. The dim corridor lights cast flickering shadows upon faded tapestries hanging on the walls. The scent of ancient stone mixed with the silent approach of death.

  As Corvus advanced, he could hear the hurried movements at the end of the hallway—doors creaking open, drawers being pulled frantically, the rustling of coins hastily stuffed into bags…

  Varos had heard the commotion.

  At first, he had assumed the attackers were another gang, nothing to be too concerned about. But when he rose from his bed and peeked through the heavy curtains, the sight outside froze his blood. People were writhing in agony in his courtyard. His men were falling one by one. Amidst the screams piercing the night, the warriors’ boots echoed against the stones.

  Realizing the scale and severity of the attack, Varos’ eyes widened in terror. And when he saw the man leading the slaughter—the one now marching toward him—cold fear gripped his soul. He didn’t know who they were, but he could sense the ruthlessness of the one approaching.

  It was too late to run.

  When the door burst open, Varos dropped the sacks of gold in his hands. The metallic clatter echoed in the room, swallowed by the silence that followed.

  His eyes locked onto the figure stepping inside.

  Corvus emerged from the shadows like an angel of death. His crimson eyes glowed like embers in the flickering candlelight. His armor bore the marks of battle, and his twin swords rested on his back, a cold promise of death.

  Varos instinctively stepped back until he reached the head of his bed.

  Corvus drew one of his swords and pointed it at him.

  “You’re the one they call Varos?”

  Varos swallowed hard.

  For a moment, he took in the young face before him. Too young. His gaze shifted to Corvus’ weapons and posture. A voice in his mind whispered that he could take this man down. After all, he had managed to buy a small amount of Lightstone with his wealth and could use its energies. He had barely sensed any Light Stone energy from Corvus.

  Maybe he had a chance… His hand shot toward his dagger. But in that instant, an unseen force gripped his body, locking him in place. A searing pain burned through his organs, turning into a bone-crushing pressure. The Lightstone energy in his veins ignited, making his knees tremble. He tried to lift his head but couldn’t move. His breath hitched, and even his jaw refused to obey. The only sound he managed was a strangled groan of pain.

  Corvus stepped closer, his eyes cold as ice. Then, suddenly, he withdrew his power.

  The suffocating force vanished, and Varos collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, clutching his throat. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. His legs trembled as he crawled backward. His back hit the hard wooden headboard of his bed, and he realized he had nowhere left to run.

  And in that moment, he finally understood who stood before him. The young, crimson-eyed warrior. The twin swords. Corvus Tiamat.

  A few days ago, he had heard whispers of this man—news that had reached him from a senator he worked with. That senator had warned him to be careful, to stay out of sight, because Corvus had arrived in the region. But now… now, it was far too late.

  Varos raised his trembling hands, his voice shaking.

  “Hey, you… You’re Corvus, right? The prince of Rhazgord! You’re looking for the Rhazgord scum working for me, aren’t you?! If you spare my life, I’ll give them to you! Let me send word to my men—they’ll bring them right away! And if that's not enough, I'll pay you a fat pay packet!”

  Corvus slowly shook his head twice. A slow, deliberate motion. He had already found the men Varos spoke of. And in Rax, there was hardly anyone left who worked for Varos.

  Corvus walked over to the corner of the room, where a lavish glass bottle sat on a table. He picked it up, observing the dark amber liquid inside. Pouring himself a glass, he took a sip—but his brow furrowed slightly, unimpressed. He was used to the harsh, bitter drinks of Rhazgord. These extravagant bottles and expensive liquors did not suit him.

  His eyes fixed on Varos, who was still kneeling on the floor, trembling. His voice carried a threatening calm.

  “If you're going to pay me well, Varos, relax. Get in front of me and let's talk business.”

  Varos hesitated, but quickly gathered himself. Forcing his shaky legs to move, he stood up, taking a deep breath. He tried to suppress his fear as he sat down across from Corvus, rubbing his sweaty palms against his clothes. His eyes searched Corvus’ face for any hint of mercy, but the young warrior’s expression was as cold as stone.

  “We Rhazgords are living off mercenary labour, you know that, Varos?”

  Corvus’ voice echoed through the room. In the dim candlelight, only the flickering shadows danced across his sharp features, emphasizing the menacing glint in his eyes. Varos’ heart pounded like a hammer in his chest. His throat was dry, words refusing to come out. All he could do was nod quickly.

  Corvus smirked faintly, pouring another glass and pushing it toward Varos. His eyes, however, were locked onto the scattered gold at their feet.

  “Somebody paid to have your name erased from history, and I jumped at the chance. No offence, it's all business.”

  Varos' chest began to tighten. Corvus's voice was relaxed, but he had the composure of an executioner. Varos looked at the drink in the glass, but hesitated because his hands were shaking.

  “But like I said, it's just business. I'm always open to new offers. For the right price, I can even make someone look dead.”

  Varos took a deep breath. He immediately understood what Corvus was implying. This Rhazgord barbarian was here for money. He had accepted his possible death from the very beginning, but now, suddenly, a way out had appeared. With trembling hands, he grasped his cup and downed its contents in one gulp. As a warmth spread through his chest, he quickly gathered the gold pouches scattered on the floor and piled them onto the table. Corvus let out a slight chuckle at the sight.

  A sense of relief washed over Varos. Yet, deep in his mind, a question lingered. Corvus had mentioned being hired for this job by someone. Now that he was certain he wouldn’t die, Varos calmly poured himself another drink and, without breaking his composure, asked:

  “If you tell me who hired you, I’ll give you a fortune.”

  Even though a fortune already lay on the table, Varos’s generosity piqued Corvus’s interest. The amount of money this man had accumulated through plundering and murdering thousands of innocents was more than Corvus had expected. He leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow.

  “Nice offer, but I don't remember who my employer was, Varos. Some old bloke in the palace just whispered, 'time to put a useless dog to sleep'”

  Varos’s face tensed. He immediately began to think. He knew Corvus was a political guest in the city of Rax—it didn’t make sense for him to create such a commotion. But if he had support from the palace, that was a different matter entirely. Corvus could use the Rhazgord fugitives under Varos’s command as an excuse to get away with this. But the worst part dawned on him.

  The person Corvus mentioned had to be his partner, Senator Frankus.

  “Frankus…” he whispered, narrowing his eyes as he carefully studied Corvus with the experience of years in the underworld. A plan was already forming in his mind. Suddenly, he gestured toward a painting hanging beside his bed.

  “There’s a safe behind that painting. It’s all yours. But if you help me get my revenge, I’ll give you even more.”

  He reached for the bottle again, but this time, Corvus was faster. He grabbed the bottle and poured Varos another drink. At that moment, Varos was convinced—his life had been spared, and the deal was sealed.

  “I’ll give you documents proving Frankus worked with me. If you deliver them to the king, that bastard’s head will roll. Make me disappear, hand over the documents, and I’ll make you rich, Corvus.”

  Corvus raised his glass with a broad smile. The flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows on the stone walls as the sound of clinking glasses echoed in the room. At that moment, the door swung open violently, and Zarqa entered. His entire body was covered in fresh blood. Dark red stains dripped from his shoulders, staining his armor and clothing, while blood dripped from his hands onto the stone floor, forming small, dark spots. The metallic scent filled the room as Varos flinched briefly but quickly regained his composure.

  Corvus glanced at Zarqa out of the corner of his eye, then turned to Varos with a mocking grin.

  “We cut up a few of your men, but I don't think you'll mind that too much, do you?” he said, his tone relaxed, even amused, as if engaging in a friendly conversation.

  Varos nodded cheerfully. The flickering shadows danced across his face, and the corners of his lips curled slightly.

  “You’d be surprised if you knew how many men I have out there, Corvus.”

  Corvus said nothing. He swirled the drink in his hand, then downed it in one go. Moving slowly, he stood up, squared his shoulders, and stared at Varos.

  “The city guards will arrive soon, Varos. Give me my money and my documents so I can leave.”

  A brief hesitation flickered across Varos’s face, but he quickly composed himself. Leaning over the table, he pulled the key hanging from his neck and unlocked one of the drawers. He pulled out a stack of parchments and scattered them across the table with a grand gesture. Meanwhile, Zarqa was gathering the pouches of money, the sound of gold and silver coins clinking against the wooden surface filling the room.

  Corvus’s five warriors lifted the large painting beside the bed, revealing a heavy iron safe hidden behind it. Inside, it was almost entirely filled with gold. As the light struck, the coins gleamed brilliantly. Without wasting time, the warriors began stuffing the gold into their bags.

  Corvus picked up one of the parchments and carefully unrolled it. Thick lines of ink covered the page, and at the bottom, he noticed a seal—Frankus’s seal. The document ordered that certain merchants’ caravans were to pass through the city without inspection. Corvus’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. He picked up another parchment. It contained only a list of names—all individuals who had opposed Frankus and had been eliminated by the Golden Fang gang.

  He lifted his head and looked at Varos.

  “You were well prepared, Varos.”

  Varos chuckled lightly as he pulled out the final parchment, but fury burned in his eyes.

  “I knew that old bastard would betray me.”

  As the warriors finished collecting the documents and money, Varos took one last deep breath and downed another glass of liquor. With a mocking smile, he spread his arms wide.

  “So, what happens now?”

  A cold, merciless gleam appeared in Corvus’s eyes.

  “As I said, Varos. You die.”

  Varos’s eyes widened for a moment, but he had no time to scream or run. A warrior struck him with a heavy blow to the nape of his neck, sending his body collapsing onto the floor. The wooden planks trembled from the impact.

  Corvus glanced briefly at Varos’s lifeless form before turning to Zarqa.

  “Take this wretch with the others. What he knows may still be useful to us.”

  Zarqa nodded. Corvus turned to one of the warriors in the room.

  “Find someone who resembles Varos and bring him here. Then burn the estate.”

  The warrior gave a sharp nod and quickly left, heading toward the corpses downstairs. Corvus slung the bag of documents over his shoulder and, alongside Zarqa, left the estate. As they stepped into the darkness of the night, they made their way swiftly toward the location of the three Rhazgord fugitives who had once worked for Varos.

  Before long, Varos’s estate was engulfed in flames. The fire consumed the walls, spreading like a beast swallowing its prey. The stone walls crumbled from the internal explosions, while sparks scattered onto the stone roads.

  By dawn, Corvus, Zarqa, and the three fugitives had reached the Adler Palace. As the mist over the city slowly dispersed, the grand silhouette of the palace loomed before them.

  At the entrance, Belisarius stood with his arms crossed, waiting for them.