Clara pulled out the bounty notice she always kept on her and quickly compared the figure on the paper with the man standing in the clearing. The only thing that matched was the same vicious glint in his eyes.

  She knew that look far too well. It was the gaze of someone born with cruelty in their bones—those whose souls were void of empathy. Such people felt no guilt after killing; on the contrary, they derived excitement and pride from it. Some were social outcasts, others were masters of disguise who treated human beings like test subjects—reckless, fearless of death. And if caught, they’d confess without hesitation, patiently explaining every gruesome detail just to flaunt their cleverness and mock the authorities.

  People like that often attracted fanatical followers—those who admired their twisted worldview, mistaking it for individuality or rebellion.

  The three henchmen by this man’s side were exactly that—mindless devotees.

  The returning band of mounted raiders had neither loot nor pride to show. Worse, two of their own had been killed, and three horses were lost.

  They’d set out twenty strong to ambush a large merchant caravan, only to discover the caravan had hired the top escort agency in Willowridge County. The escord tried using coded phrases to verify the other—but not a single one matched. Tensions snapped, and blades were drawn.

  Outnumbered and overpowered, the bandits tried to retreat. But greed flared—their leader wanted at least a slice of the spoils, which only provoked the caravan guards into a brutal counterattack, killing two and seizing their horses.

  Merchant convoys usually didn’t pursue fleeing bandits, which is how this ragged band managed to limp home.

  Along the way, some of the men considered deserting, unwilling to face punishment. But their leader sneered, “Run? You think you’ll escape today and tomorrow?”

  Fleeing was death. Staying might still grant survival.

  So they returned—filthy, shirtless, and kneeling before the mountain cave, awaiting judgment from their King Howler.

  The man who stepped out of the cave didn’t look like a bandit at all. Tall, well-featured, wearing a scholar’s robe with a seductive woman in his arms and three hulking brutes flanking him, he looked more like a courtier than a killer.

  Just the sight of those three bodyguards sent chills down one’s spine.

  “Two men lost, three horses gone. Five lashes, five fingers. Settle among yourselves and come forward for punishment,” said the scholarly bandit leader, with a sigh as if reluctantly fulfilling a duty he didn’t wish to carry out.

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  The three henchmen immediately stepped up, unsheathing whips and blades. One of them snarled, “His Lordship shares his wealth, his women, his wine with you all, yet you dare shame him like this—costing lives and losing horses! Have you no shame?”

  The team leader lowered his head and crawled forward. “Thank you, King Howler, for your mercy!”

  Five lashes and five severed fingers—for their group of eighteen, that meant just ten men needed to bear the punishment.

  Compared to past penalties, this was lenient—likely due to past contributions by the leader.

  He felt a rush of relief, comforted by the thought that he still held favor in King Howler’s eyes. His eyes grew moist with devotion. “I will accept one lash and one finger!”

  King Howler nodded approvingly. “I knew I wasn’t wrong about you. You’ve got spine.”

  He turned away then, fiddling with the hairpin of the woman in his arms, not bothering to watch the grisly scene unfold.

  Screams rang out as whips cracked and fingers were severed. The dismembered digits were placed in a bowl and respectfully presented to King Howler, whose companion trembled uncontrollably and bit her lip to suppress her cries. Her forced smile collapsed entirely.

  “Scared?” King Howler asked with mock concern.

  She shook her head, trying to turn away. But he grabbed her chin and forced her to look.

  The terror on her face twisted her features into something almost unrecognizable.

  “Ugly,” he sneered, then grabbed her by the neck and flung her toward the punished man. “She’s yours.”

  Still sweating from pain, the team leader caught the woman and dragged her off toward the huts. “Thank you, King Howler!” he cried. “Next time, I’ll bring back more gold and more women!”

  The woman screamed for help. But all around her, laughter erupted.

  “Calling for help in a bandit den? How naive!”

  But what no one expected—someone was indeed listening.

  Clara scowled in the darkness above. This bandit leader wasn’t just violent—he was a manipulator. A master at controlling people, feeding their delusions and loyalties.

  She folded up the bounty notice and tucked it away. Shrouded in shadows, draped in branches and leaves, she slipped like a ghost into the cluster of tree huts.

  Inside one, the woman sobbed, curled into herself. “Please… my father has money—lots of money. Let him pay for me, please…”

  The man was binding his wounded hand. He snorted. “Your father wouldn’t spend a coin on a useless daughter. Please me well, and I might find you a decent buyer. Otherwise, I’ll sell you to a brothel.”

  He sneered. “His Lordship has high standards, huh? Well, lucky me.”

  Despair spread across the woman’s face as she realized no one would rescue her. She fell silent.

  Outside, bandits grew impatient. “Hey, what’s taking so long? You bedding her or not? If you’re slow, we’ll take over!”

  The woman’s terror surged again. She cast a panicked glance toward the shadow by the door.

  The man, now fully bandaged, snarled, “Piss off! She’s mine!”

  Then he turned—eyes gleaming, menace thick in the darkness.

  Though the hut was pitch black, the woman saw the bloodlust in his gaze. A nauseating blend of medicine and blood filled her nose. She screamed and rolled aside, desperate not to give up her last shred of hope.

  But a large hand seized her ankle and dragged her back. Sharp rocks tore into her back, but she didn’t stop fighting. Her hands scrambled in the dirt, searching for something—anything.

  She grabbed a stone—but it was kicked away. A sharp slap sent her reeling, dizzy and helpless.

  Outside, laughter roared. They assumed their comrade was having his way.

  Then—silence.

  But inside that hut, the man’s breath froze.

  Because something cold and metallic was pressed to his throat.

  (End of Chapter)

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