"Oh, the slavers want to attack the camp? Well, their roadblock lost over thirty men — they wouldn't just let that go. I'll go take a look."
"Huh? My lord, you killed over thirty of them?"
"That's right. How dare they block the
"My lord, you just arrived — shouldn't you rest first?" Bodfenger hurried after Lorist. The meaning was clear: he wanted Lorist to get a lay of the land first, not act rashly. He didn't know that Lorist had already gathered all the intelligence he needed at the docks and had a plan in mind.
"No need. Better to kill them all quickly and rest after." Lorist said, then ordered, "Dolores, go to the cargo wagons that just arrived and bring me a few bundles of javelins. Stay close to me."
Javelins were still the most convenient and efficient weapon for killing. With internal energy channeled into a throw, they struck like lightning. Forget someone unprepared — even a prepared Silver swordsman couldn't withstand one. Back at the roadblock, the two men who had been pinned to the ground, horses and all, were the product of Lorist's throwing.
"Heh..." Rod Wells, who had been trailing behind Bodfenger, laughed out loud — whether in scorn or admiration, it was hard to tell. "Bod, your lord here has quite the killing intent. 'Better to kill them all and rest after' — he can actually say that with a straight face. Don't forget, the other side has three Gold-rank fighters."
"Yes, and Lord Lorist always delivers on what he says." Bodfenger answered without turning his head, striding quickly toward the camp gates.
Lorist had already reached the camp gates and was giving orders to
His words sent a wave of bloodlust through everyone standing around him. They raised their weapons and roared, "Kill them all!"
The camp gates swung open, and Lorist walked out first, heading straight for the slavers.
The two camps were barely two hundred meters apart. The slavers' forces numbered around two hundred thirty to two hundred forty — they had just crossed the halfway mark, waving their swords and shouting incoherent slogans about revenge and killing them all, marching toward this camp. When they saw the gates open and Lorist step out, they halted. They were still sixty to seventy meters away.
Then they saw more and more slaves pour out of the gates behind Lorist, wielding long spears and crossbows, and the slavers' faces changed.
"Damn it, we shouldn't have stopped the attack a few days ago. Now that they have weapons, they'll be even harder to deal with, and our casualties will go up," said a sallow-faced man at the front, a Gold One-Star badge pinned to his chest, his voice full of regret.
"What good is regret now? It's those roadblock guys' fault for being useless and letting them get weapons into camp. Worst case, we just go all-out and kill a few more — once we scare them enough, they'll crawl back into camp just the same," replied a burly middle-aged man beside him, wearing a Gold Two-Star badge.
"Blaming the roadblock guys won't help either — only four or five of them even got away. The rest are dead. The real problem is none of us expected them to have reinforcements. The roadblock was supposed to keep them from buying grain outside, so we could wait until they were starving and weak before making our move. But now they've got backup. What I'm worried about is whether we've made a mistake — if they really are private troops of the Norton Family or something like that, we'll be in serious trouble." An old man with a Gold Three-Star badge looked distinctly worried.
"Come on, old brother, don't fret. Didn't we already question those cowards who ran back? They said the escort was five Silver-rank knights at most, with maybe a dozen Silver swordsmen besides. They only took those losses because they were ambushed. When you add it all up, we still have a massive advantage. If we don't attack while they haven't dug in yet, how will we pin them down? In another ten days, when the boss and Master Pike get back, they'll be helpless. Even if we can't break in right now, it doesn't matter — we just need to keep them pinned down. Don't let them slip away while they still have weapons." The middle-aged man spoke with absolute confidence.
Lorist had already arrived before them alone with just his sword, fewer than twenty meters away. His first words sent the slavers into a furious rage, cursing without end.
Lorist had said: "So you're the bunch of dog shit blocking the Norton Family's path? Tired of living, are you? If you want to die, kneel down and stretch out your necks — grandpa here will grant you a quick death."
The sallow-faced man was the first to snap. He stepped forward, his voice cold and menacing: "You're the one with shit for a mouth, brat. Once I get my hands on you, you'll regret ever being born—"
"You came out first wanting to die? Then grandpa will grant your wish." Lorist drew his sword and charged.
"Ha ha ha ha..." The middle-aged man behind laughed wildly. "Well, shit, with that kind of talk I thought some Sword Saint had graced us with his presence. Turns out it's just a
Though Lorist didn't wear a
Then the sallow-faced man's sword blazed with brilliant light, and he swung it down at the charging figure of Lorist. But Lorist's rushing silhouette suddenly stuttered, and the glowing blade swept past him by a hair's breadth. Lorist's long sword flipped and pressed down on the sallow-faced man's blade, and in a blur he closed to within a foot.
The sallow-faced man's face drained of color and he tried to back away, but his sword was pinned and he couldn't retreat a single step.
With a sharp clang, Lorist's left hand flashed cold as the short sword at his waist pierced upward from under the man's chin straight through the top of his skull. Lorist's body flickered, the short sword withdrew, and a spray of blood fountained into the air. The sallow-faced man toppled forward, his limbs twitching a few times before going still — dead.
All of this happened in the blink of an eye, so fast that eyes could barely follow. Two figures met and separated, and the sallow-faced man was already dead on the ground.
The Gold Two-Star middle-aged man behind was stunned. Before he could recover, he heard Lorist's cold voice: "Now it's your turn."
Watching Lorist come at him like a howling gale, the middle-aged man panicked and fumbled to draw his sword, channeling Combat Force to defend.
Lorist's sword roared like thunder and wind, its qi trailing like a rainbow, striking in wide sweeping arcs. Clang, clang, clang — a rapid succession of impacts...
With a sharp crack, the middle-aged man's glowing sword was cleaved in two by a single stroke. He froze, almost unable to believe the broken blade in his hand was real. A cold flash appeared before his eyes. "Ahhh—" He screamed in agony as an arm spun into the air.
With a wet thrust, the scream was cut short. Lorist had beheaded him.
"You... you... you..." The Gold Three-Star old man beside pointed at Lorist as if seeing a ghost, stumbling backward. When he saw Lorist turn toward him, his whole body began to tremble.
Lorist broke into a smile — a smile that, in the old man's eyes, was so fierce and so terrifying...
"Old man, time for you to go," Lorist said, smiling.
His low voice and soft laughter sounded like a death knell in the old man's ears. Two Gold-rank swordsmen, gone in the blink of an eye under this young man's blade — something the old man could never have dreamed of. He knew perfectly well what those two Gold swordsmen were capable of. Especially that middle-aged man, whose swordwork was even more ruthless and vicious than his own. If even he had fallen to Lorist's frontal assault, the old man knew that going up himself would simply be suicide.
Now that Lorist had turned his attention to him, the old man was terrified beyond words, not a shred of courage left to stand and fight. He only kept backing away, until he was blocked by the men behind him.
As Lorist closed in, the old man's eyes darted sideways and he shouted: "Everyone, rush him! He's only one man — chop him to pieces!"
The old man ducked and shrank, disappearing into the crowd...
The slavers at the front were still reeling from the shock of losing the two Gold-rank swordsmen they'd relied on. Those behind didn't know what had happened and, hearing the old man's shout, surged forward with raised weapons, dragging the front ranks along with them toward Lorist...
Lorist let out a long laugh: "Come at me!"
His sword hummed in his hand. In that moment, Lorist had discarded all his usual restraint and preference for keeping a low profile. He wanted nothing but a full, unrestrained slaughter. His companions had given up the leisurely, comfortable life in
To win the hearts of his family army, to build the confidence that they were invincible and unstoppable, and to give an answer to the injured Fatty Shi and the old academy students — Lorist had long since made his decision. He would not rest until every last slaver's head was rolling on the ground. The northern campaign, the first battle, would begin right here.
All the internal energy in his body surged. Lorist felt his spirit soar and his strength overflow. Through his heightened dynamic vision, the figures charging toward him with raised weapons moved like slow, stiff puppets. A low tiger-like roar escaped his lips. His sword flashed like a shooting rainbow, his body moved like a swimming dragon, and Lorist plunged into the crowd...
Sword light flickered, flesh and blood flew, cold steel swept horizontally, and blades cut through clothing as if it were paper. Heads, severed limbs, broken weapons, spurting blood — Lorist was a tiger among sheep. Wherever he went, chaos erupted like a pot of boiling porridge. Screams, sword clashes, and cries of alarm filled the air as the crowd surged forward like a tide — but retreated even faster.
When the slavers scattered, they revealed a wide circle in the middle. Lorist stood drenched in blood, his entire body painted red. Around him lay crisscrossing corpses — a rough count put no fewer than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Severed limbs and broken blades littered the ground, and even a head rolled twice before coming to rest...
The entire battlefield fell silent. Everyone stared at Lorist, unable to speak. The slavers' eyes were filled with horror and disbelief. The Norton Family's slave soldiers, on the other hand, were wild with joy and adoration.
Rod Wells and Mons Malek stood frozen in disbelief. Rod Wells, trembling, asked Bodfenger: "He... is he really what you called a Black Iron..."
Lorist wiped the blood that had splattered across his face and immediately spotted the Gold Three-Star old man trying to sneak toward the back.
"Heh heh..." Lorist chuckled. "Old man, where do you think you're going? Stand still and behave, save grandpa the trouble."
The old man bolted...
Chaos erupted wherever he went — those quick enough to dodge aside kept their lives for the moment, but anyone too slow or standing still had their throats cut by Lorist in passing. Another five or six bodies dropped to the ground.
The slavers broke. Wailing and crying, they threw down their weapons and ran for their own camp...
Terman raised his hand. Six lances leveled, and the charge began...
Al led about ten of the old academy students on horseback, flanking from both sides. As he galloped, he bellowed at the top of his lungs: "Norton!"
First the old students answered: "Norton!..."
Then the slave soldiers joined in: "Norton! Norton!..."
...
The old man was clever. He didn't flee to the slavers' camp but skirted around it, heading toward the small town. He believed that once he reached the town, he'd be like a fish in the ocean — that terrifying young man would never find him again.
Gasping for breath, the old man saw the small town just ahead. He stopped and let out a long sigh of relief — he'd made it. Then he looked back, and his soul nearly left his body.
Not far behind him was that terrifying young man, bloodstains still wet, dripping crimson. A smile on his face. Seeing the old man stop, he said cheerfully: "Run. Keep running. I'd love to see where you end up."
The old man felt his legs go weak. He couldn't move another step. He even felt an uncontrollable urge to urinate...
The old man dropped to his knees before Lorist. "I... I surrender..."
"Old man, do you think we're children playing house? You just surrender and that's that? Is it really that easy?" Lorist found this quite amusing.
"I... I'm old. I haven't wanted to do this for a long time. I was forced into it. And... and I never killed any of you. The worst I did was slash that fat fellow a few times during the first attack on your camp — all superficial flesh wounds, nothing serious..." The old man knelt on the ground, muttering in his own defense.
So it was this old man who had injured Fatty Shi.
"Should I thank you for showing mercy with your sword, then?" Lorist said with a smile.
"Never... never..." The old man shook his head frantically.
The sound of hooves — he looked up to see Dolores riding over with an extra horse in tow. Five bundles of javelins were strapped to the spare mount.
"My lord, I'm late," Dolores said apologetically.
"Heh, it's fine. I didn't expect these slavers to be so weak — nothing but chickens and clay dogs," Lorist said with a laugh, then looked at the old man kneeling on the ground. "Old man, whatever else, you should at least have the dignity of a Gold Three-Star swordsman. Shouldn't you draw your sword and face me in a proper, honorable fight to the death? That way, even if you died, it would be somewhat glorious — don't you think?"
The old man shook his head desperately. "That's suicide. I won't do it. I only ask that Your Lordship spare this worthless life of mine."
Fine. This old man was quite the rogue. Lorist pulled out a javelin and hurled it casually. The javelin grazed the old man's clothes and embedded itself over a foot into the ground. The old man shuddered violently and immediately wet his pants — he'd been scared into urinating.
"Damn, old man, you actually pissed yourself. What a disgrace to Gold swordsmen," Lorist cursed.
Dolores beside him couldn't help but laugh.
"I... I've always been a coward. Your Lordship's might was too much — one scare and I wet myself." The old man's face turned red. Pissing yourself was indeed deeply embarrassing.
"Fine. I won't refuse to spare your life. But what will you offer in exchange for that old neck of yours?" Lorist asked.
"I... I... I'll give Your Lordship all my savings — over a thousand gold fordes," the old man said after much deliberation, naming his price.
Lorist shook his head. "Not enough. You're a Gold Three-Star swordsman, and I'm not short on money. For that pittance, I'd rather carry your head around to show off."
"I'll offer my advanced Combat Force manual to Your Lordship," the old man upped the stakes.
"Heh, once I kill you, I'll have those anyway." Lorist smiled and drew another javelin.
"Those things aren't on me," the old man said stubbornly.
"Don't worry. Someone will recognize your head. I'll have them take me to your home — I'll dig three feet underground if I have to, and I'll find everything." Lorist consoled him.
The old man despaired, then shouted: "I... I have a granddaughter. Beautiful girl, only eighteen, still a virgin. I... I'll send her to serve Your Lordship."
"Damn, old man, you're utterly shameless — offering up your own granddaughter just to save your own skin! What a disgrace to your standing as an elder!" Lorist was furious.
"That's different! If I'm alive, my granddaughter will live well — people will respect my reputation and leave her alone. If I die, she'll have no one to rely on, and who knows how miserable her future could be. So I need to stay alive to take care of her." The old man suddenly spoke with righteous conviction.
"Oh? So you've got logic on your side now? But that's still not enough. Kill you and have someone take me to your home, and your granddaughter won't escape my hands either," Lorist said.
"My lord, please — what will it take for you to let me go?" The old man started crying.
"Dolores, what do you think?" Lorist made a few hand signals to Dolores, who understood.
"My lord, this old fellow is rather pitiful. He really didn't do much these past few days and never killed any of our people. Why not let him live?" Dolores began playing the good cop.
"Or how about this, my lord — let the old man sell himself into servitude. He'll serve Your Lordship as a slave for ten years. If he does well, Your Lordship can grant him freedom afterward." Dolores offered a suggestion.
"Would this old man even agree?" Lorist was somewhat tempted, but shook his head again. "Better to kill him cleanly and be done with it."
The old man immediately kowtowed from the side: "I agree! I agree! My lord, I'm willing to serve you. I swear my loyalty with no complaints!"
"Fine. We'll spare him for now. Dolores, tie him up. When we get back to camp, have him sign the slave contract first, then go to his house and bring back the gold coins, the manual, and his family. Don't forget that pretty granddaughter of his," Lorist said.
"Yes, my lord."
...