Volume 4 Chapter 25 Escape from Cyclops Island ②
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
Under the scarlet wash of dawn, Kian stood trapped in a barren canyon, hemmed in by a ring of warrior monks. A sniper lurked somewhere beyond sight, and before him prowled the wolf-headed woman whose strength remained an enigma.
It was, by any measure, the worst possible scenario. Yet Kian’s heartbeat did not quicken.
If anything, the crowding of monks was a gift. With careful positioning, he could block the sniper’s line of fire completely.
Their arrows did not simply fly; they tore the air apart, each impact carrying enough explosive force that even the shockwave could maim. Yet if the sniper held back that force, his bolts could not pierce Kian’s monster-hard defenses.
The real problem was Guria.
She was no weakling, but unlike him, she was still human—cut her, and she would bleed. If he fought recklessly, she might be crushed in the backlash. Nor could she evade every projectile in the storm of monks’ Shot techniques.
Where Linca could maintain her piercing magic indefinitely, Guria’s lightning transformation lasted only moments. Worse, the spell staggered her for a breath before activating. One instant’s hesitation was enough for her to be struck down, unable to phase the attack through her body. At best, she might drag a few with her into the grave.
And though his sense of scale had dulled after trading blows with Isthbaran and the White Bull, these monks were formidable—hard-eyed men forged in disciplined training, not mere rabble.
”Drop your weapons and surrender. I’d rather not hurt you,” the Wolfwoman said again, voice sharp as steel.
Kian turned to ask Talia’s counsel, but behind him Guria cried out, sparks already coiling.
”Haahhh—!”
”No, Guria!” Kian shouted.
”The Crimson Pact!”
Her body dissolved into a crackling mass of blue lightning. But the Wolfwoman, guided by her people’s Future Sight, had already drawn a silver hairpin from beneath her beret, shaping it into a short sword.
From it burst a shockwave—that smashed into Guria’s back mid-charge. The girl convulsed, light shattering from her frame, and slammed into the ground with a wet, bone-snapping thud. She bounced across the dirt like a rag doll before rolling to the monks’ feet.
”The Crimson Pact,” the Wolfwoman murmured clearly.
And that sword—
’Oathbound Misericorde?’ Talia’s voice was low with suspicion. If she named it, it was true. The weapon was the very blade Kian had once given to Linca.
He remembered it from their last clash, before he and Linca had been hurled into Count Cain’s domain. A weapon that guaranteed its wielder’s magic struck home, nullifying absorption, reflection, or ward. Five months ago, its power had allowed them to slay the Thorn Demon.
”Don’t harm her,” Kian said.
He dropped his black scimitar to the dirt and clasped his hands behind his head, sinking to his knees.
”I surrender. This is enough.”
(That suits me, doesn’t it, Talia?)
’Do as you like,‘ she replied smoothly. ‘If you don’t want the girl dead, caution is wise. We don’t know the sniper’s full scope, nor that wolf’s gift.‘
Her voice carried unshakable confidence. With Kian at her side, there was nothing she believed beyond their reach. He felt the same. Glasses had been a good comrade, but with Talia, the trust was absolute.
Over four months together had made her his truest partner—the strongest, the best.
(Besides, to stumble on one of Jibril’s direct subordinates here… that’s fortune itself. Suddenly this fortress on Cyclops Island interests me far more.)
”A prudent choice,” the Wolfwoman said. “Zayn. Abbas.”
Two monks stepped forward, pulling back their hoods. A red-haired youth and a lanky, sharp-featured man. Faces Kian knew well.
Abbas Hashmalik Shakerdoust—the heir he had once seen bound in Châtillon—and his subordinate Zayn. Both stared briefly at him before catching the black rope the Wolfwoman tossed.
”Rubber tubing, mixed from resin and sulfur,” she explained coolly. “Elastic. Non-conductive. Use it to bind her. She won’t change into lightning again.”
”Understood,” Abbas said.
The last Kian had seen him, the boy’s fingers had been severed. Now they were whole. Zayn’s arm had regrown as well.
Together, they strapped the unconscious Guria to a stretcher and hauled her away.
”You get this one,” the Wolfwoman said.
She stepped behind Kian, snapping silver cuffs over his wrists.
”You don’t wear perfume, do you?” he muttered.
”Silence,” she hissed.
Leather skirt, black tights, a beauty of wolfen blood and cold bearing—handcuffed by her, Kian’s mind strayed toward dangerous fancies.
”Sunscreen, then. The scent of it clings to you. This sun bites your skin, doesn’t it? A sweet, gentle fragrance—like you, perhaps,” he said.
The blow landed sharp and brutal.
Her fist cracked against his skull, snapping his head sideways. The burst of ki gouged a crater in the dirt at his feet.
”….”
He wrenched his head back straight, the movement violent, and lifted his gaze to the silver wolf woman.
The warrior monks around them stirred with a low murmur, astonished that Kian had endured such a high-powered Shot with nothing but the strength of his body.
”Speak again, and I’ll kill the woman,” the silver wolf warned.
”What is happening here, Inspector?” a rasping voice asked.
Through the monks pressed the wolfwoman, her face wrapped in white cloth from nose to chin. Though her magic was veiled, Kian sensed the truth from the rhythm of her blood, the surety of her heartbeat, and the dense quality of her muscle—she was powerful even in age. Perhaps one of the highest ranks. Perhaps even the highest.
She halted beside the silver wolf and glanced between the unconscious Guria and the kneeling, shackled Kian.
”And these?” she asked.
Behind her came five attendants in the same white robes, each of them formidable.
”Prisoners, Lady Flora,” the wolf replied.
”That much is obvious. They are no natives. Are they spies of Crete?”
”One of them, the man, is wanted personally by Jibril.”
”Is that so? Lord Jibril promised that though an inspector would watch us, he would not interfere. Even as inspector, you cannot seize prisoners without consequence.”
”The woman is Princess Guria of Crete.”
(Ah, so I was right,) Kian thought. He had suspected as much.
A reckless princess indeed. Yet if she could turn into lightning itself, recklessness was natural. For her, this had been little more than a game. To demand caution from an eighteen-year-old born with invincible power was absurd.
’So that’s why Scipio Crete, that half-elf swine, was always running off—chasing after his troublesome little sister.‘
(Maybe he’s more long-suffering than he looks.)
”I see. Then I shall take custody. You have done your duty, Inspector,” Flora said.
”Wait, Lady Flora. Jibril demands the man—Kian Vahid.”
”Kian Vahid? …! The banished firstborn of the Vahid line? That little boy…”
Her black eyes fixed on him, a glimmer of pity within them. She must have seen him as a child. With her bearing, her escorts, and the weight in her voice, perhaps she was one of the Twelve Divine Generals.
”Very well. He shall be treated with honor until he is sent to the homeland.”
”No. Guria Selda Crete may go with you, but Kian Vahid remains in our custody.”
”We will handle the prisoners,” Flora said firmly. Her gaze slid toward Abbas, the red-haired youth who had until now remained silent.
”And what of the Shakerdoust family, Lord Abbas? You stand for old Mansur here.”
”I defer to Malc’s command. I am but a soldier in this war, General Flora.”
”There you have it, Inspector.”
The silver wolf woman exhaled in irritation. “Damn Jibril. Making promises that only increase my burden,” she muttered.
”Very well, Lady Flora. A warning, though. This Azraelian can use abilities like the legendary vampires. As long as those shackles bind him, he cannot. But if he escapes, do not use spells. Cut him down in close quarters.”
”We will not harm our prisoners. And we are briefed on vampire abilities. Rest easy, Inspector.”
”I hope so. No further mistakes can be allowed. Handle that man with utmost caution—for Malc’s sake.”
The Oathbound Misericorde shrank back into its delicate hairpin form. Sliding it into her tied hair, the silver wolf faded into the ring of monks.
A monk from Abbas’s retinue seized Kian by the collar. “Stand! Walk!” he barked.
(Hmph. True enough—I can’t become mist.)
As he rose, Kian casually tested the shackles, rattling them against each other. Normally silver would sap a vampire’s strength, but it had no effect on him, half-human as he was. This was some other alloy—something crafted to suppress vampire powers.
’So you can’t transform either,‘
(Exactly. Mist Form and shapeshifting are out. Unless it’s a trick for my mind. If you trigger your own ability, though, it might bypass it.)
’And brute force? Could we just snap them?‘
(Perhaps, if I dislocated something. But that’s a dull-witted method. There’s a smarter way. Two, in fact.)
’Understood.‘
The monks prodded him forward. Ahead, at the edge of the plateau, four massive dragonflies appeared, their countless wings thrumming and stirring the air into harsh gusts.
A monk carrying Guria’s limp body barked, “Get on!”
”Don’t shove. Look at me—I’ve no magic left. I can barely stand,” Kian said.
”You… you live,” Flora whispered, watching him mount the creature. Her words rose like bubbles from a fish, nearly drowned by the insects’ roar. “In the north, the Azraelian who slew the Thorn Demon and was named Duke of Dacia bore the same name—Kian. Surely, it is this man.”
”…Is that so?”
”….”
Kian stayed silent. The older warrior monk woman spoke with solemn gravity:
”You have grown. Surely this is the blessing of Lord Azrael,” she said.
Behind them, Guria’s body was set into a carved hollow and bound tightly with rubber tubing.
In Kian’s understanding, rubber resin stank unbearably and crumbled to pieces even when hardened, good for nothing more than children’s toys. Yet it seemed he would have to revise that view.
(Talia, analyze the ratio of resin to sulfur.)
’If you can’t tell by touch, why not just seize it and take it back? Mrs. Camilla can attempt a reproduction. I don’t know if it’ll pass, but a patent application to the Franz Kingdom government under Kian’s merchant guild—’
(Let’s do that.)
”Departure!”
From the foremost seat, Abbas bellowed. Flora, the older warrior monk, and the silver-haired wolf-woman chose not to board the dragonfly with Kian.
Neither did the unseen sniper.
Kian cloaked himself again, searching for the marksman he still could not sense. He scoured the rocky slopes, but even as the dragonfly lifted into the air, the sniper remained invisible.
* * *
Travel by flying monster proved unexpectedly comfortable. The ride was steady, the hollow that served as a seat spacious enough for Kian’s large frame, even with a warrior monk seated beside him to watch him. He felt no sense of confinement.
The return from Gorgon Mountain to the northern fortress took about forty minutes—faster than Guria’s pace, and without fatigue. The rushing air even scoured the last grains of sand from their bodies.
From the morning sky, Kian studied the fortress below, committing its layout to memory.
Dozens of dragonflies and pillbug monsters clustered there. Several barrier generators stood out, clearly meant to shield against enemy grand magic.
Jibril’s men had already hinted at it, but this sight confirmed it beyond doubt: Cyclops Island was no longer under pirate control.
Azrael’s army had been deployed in secret, entrenched within the fortress.
A common scout would have been dead long before reaching this vantage. But Kian, Jibril’s so-called “favorite,” observed the might of the world’s most powerful army from the best seat of all. For that, he felt a rare flicker of gratitude toward his enigmatic brother.
(Unfair to compare, but three thousand Beastmen troops had nothing like this discipline or equipment.)
He gazed down at warrior monks training in the courtyard. Yet these were no true monks of Azrael. They were conscripts, drilled and forged in the style of the order.
The real warrior monks were too costly to train in numbers. To compensate, locals, slaves, and the destitute were pressed or hired into makeshift armies.
The true elites preserved themselves, striking down enemy magicians with surgical assassinations. In a world where battles turned on sorcery, no other army could match such efficiency.
This was why Azrael’s forces were called the strongest on earth.
’Was General Isthbaran’s army truly so weak?‘
(No—the Storm Herd was formidable. But the rest barely resembled an army. Small mercenary bands, each man fighting on his own strength, racing across battlefields in a style more archaic than modern.)
The same held true even in Franz’s royal capital.
Azrael alone commanded unity, speed of communication, swift coordinated movement, and soldiers recruited on demand. That combination simply outclassed all others.
”Disembark.”
The dragonfly descended and settled at the fortress’s western edge. From the northeast rose rows of tents and a training ground, but the west appeared reserved for holding prisoners. In time of war, it could be cut off and obliterated by heavy magic. Nearby thickets served both as monster pens and feeding grounds for swine.
Unlike the Wolfmen, who crammed captives beside latrines, Azrael’s army treated prisoners with striking civility. Perhaps it was pride in their civilization, or strict regulation.
Abbas, Zayn, and the Shakerdoust monks escorted Kian further west. Meanwhile, his pack—containing both the sandblade’s earthen block and Guria—was carried eastward, under Flora’s escort. Guria, it seemed, would enjoy better treatment than he.
”Sir Abbas. Sir Zayn. I had heard you were captured by Châtillon, yet here you stand unharmed. I am relieved,” Kian said to the red-haired youth walking beside him. They followed a dirt road, sea cliffs to the right, thickets to the left.
”Silence,” growled the monk behind him.
”Did you not hear we had already been freed?” Abbas raised his hand to halt the monk and answered himself. “By August, our ransom had been paid in full. Zayn and I were returned by ship to the Shakerdoust family.”
Kian already knew.
The ransom had been paid by Katyusha and Umar—ten thousand gold coins split between them.
Katyusha, Abbas’s subordinate of the black panther tribe, had once tried to incinerate Kian in the Flower Hills of Ramsey with Umar’s explosives. She had raised funds by selling Umar’s blasting powder at high prices to Eleonora of Sunlightland, then trading the resulting bonds to wealthy financiers.
Eleonora, out of desperation, had mortgaged the venerable lands of Sunlightland and even pawned heirlooms tied to the Knights of the Sun in order to secure her debts.
But now, indicted in Izerland for attempted assassination, arson, and sedition, she had no means of reclaiming either the land or the relics. According to Sarah, if those Sunlightland properties ended up purchased by Azrael’s lords or wealthy financiers from the Royal Capital and Castile, the consequences would be disastrous—an open door for foreign influence into Izerland itself.
The government had no funds to buy them back, leaving Sarah in deep concern. At worst, she could turn to Defense Minister Louis for aid, but Sarah trusted neither Louis nor the power of Châtillon. She believed his faction would only become an obstacle later.
Politics, Kian thought grimly, was exhausting.
’It’s just like dealing with the present Kingdom of Crete government, isn’t it?’
(Well, I’ve no intention of meddling in Crete’s politics. I only want to get back to being an adventurer. What matters is making the Intermediate-Rank Adventurer Exam at the end of the month. Becoming an intermediate adventurer is the dream!)
’It’s impossible now.’
Kian, lost in silence, startled when the tall, lean warrior monk trailing behind finally broke in. Zayn’s voice was hard.
”Mr. Kian, what became of Katyusha? She has vanished. No contact at all.”
”I killed her,” Kian said lightly, watching Zayn’s face as the words landed.
The monk’s features hardened instantly, and in the next heartbeat a sharp murderous intent was turned against him. The others bristled the same way.
So, it was clear now. They were all connected to Katyusha—members of the Shakerdoust family.
Though their domain lay in Azrael’s northwest along Dacia’s border, somehow they had sailed down from the northern ports all the way to Cyclops Island. Mansur, Abbas’s father, had already been mentioned. If the Twelve Divine Generals of Shakerdoust were involved as well, this was no mere pirate raid.
’Umar said Jibril’s reach was stretching westward. Perhaps Cyclops Island—or rather, the Kingdom of Crete—is meant to be their bridgehead.’
T/N: 橋頭保 (kyōtōho) = bridgehead, military foothold.
(Well then…)
’Unrelated to the life of an intermediate adventurer, isn’t it?’
She pressed, but Kian ignored her, turning instead to defend himself before Abbas and the others.
”I was nearly killed by Ms. Katyusha. She joined forces with Umar to assassinate me. The ransom for Mr. Abbas and Mr. Zayn was paid from the money she received through that cooperation. In other words,” Kian said, steadying his tone, “she risked her honor to aid her lord and friends—and in doing so, she tried to kill me. I had no choice but to strike back. I never wished for her death. I was the victim here. If you want someone to blame, blame Umar, who seduced her into treachery.”
”Vahid is a curse.”
”Sir Abbas, we should never have saved that dying old man.”
”Katyusha… there was no other way?”
”Enough!” Abbas’s voice rose sharply. The men fell into uneasy silence, their expressions clouded with grief as they turned away.
Abbas exhaled, then asked more gently, “And Umar, what has become of him?”
”Who knows? I’m only a lowly adventurer, with no stake in politics. I assume Sarah keeps him confined. In August, he could scarcely walk. He doesn’t have long.”
In truth, Umar remained locked in Izerland’s Old Renaud Residence. Helpless, unable to move without attendants even to change his soiled clothes, he lingered in limbo—his trial frozen by failing health, his death sentence uncertain against the inevitability of death itself.
”Ms. Katyusha gave her life to free him. If he had only stayed quietly in his homeland, would that not have been better?”
”That is none of your concern,” one of Abbas’s monks said coldly. Zayn remained silent. Abbas, however, wore the faintest smile.
”It might have been best. But neither Lord Jibril nor the age we live in would allow it.”
”As a bottom-ranked adventurer, I wouldn’t know,” Kian muttered.
”No, you wouldn’t. Better that way. I envy you, Lord Kian. Ha… ha…”
”Damn it, to think Katyusha’s sister…”
”Has Azrael’s god shown no mercy?”
Their words curdled with bitterness. Abbas’s own eyes, once sharp and bright, now softened with the weariness of years.
”Don’t fear. You will not be mistreated. Soon, you’ll return to Azrael. Make peace with your brother.”
At the end of the road, the company halted in a lonely clearing dotted with a few tents. Kian was led down the bank and locked inside a reinforced beast cage near a towering bonfire. Abbas secured multiple heavy locks across the bars, as if imprisoning a monster bound for the colosseum.
’So, when will you move?’
(At dusk. Guria may still be unconscious now, and the wolf-woman and the sniper monk are on guard. But the twilight will favor me.)
Night strengthened the vampire.
Until then, he would feign slumber, drawing out his captors’ carelessness.
Settling back, Kian closed his eyes and surrendered to the rare luxury of deep, unbroken sleep.
* * *
When he was a child, ever since he and Sarah swore to become strong warrior monks, Kian had dreamed of slipping deep into enemy territory, carrying out missions with a cool hand and flawless precision.
That was why he studied so diligently in the monastery. Not merely for discipline, but because he admired the work of the warrior monks—their daring, their skill. Admiration alone hadn’t kept him going, but it had been one of his strongest motivations.
Alone.
In the heart of the enemy, cloaked by night, sowing chaos with blast bombs and poison. Amid the confusion, cutting down the enemy’s magicians—striking at their most vital strength.
Even if Kian hadn’t been born with a skewed sense of amusement, he believed any boy would dream of playing spy in such grand fashion.
Playing spy was not so different from playing pranks.
A jab here, a little disruption there—delighting in the startled reaction of the target. Childish mischief at its core. Only, instead of teasing a mother or a school crush, the targets became nations, armies, councils.
The essence remained unchanged.
To shock everyone. To cause an uproar. To stand in the center of attention.
To Kian, the shining work of the warrior monk was simply an extension of craving recognition. Someone, anyone, to look his way. To make the world gasp.
And so, with that same innocent thrill, he planted lethal bombs and poison.
A quiet laugh escaped his throat. “Heh heh heh…”
By dusk, Kian stirred in his cage, shivering with anticipation. Two young warrior monks stood guard, both mid-ranking, their eyes darting toward him. They muttered to each other and laughed in disgust as his soft chuckles went on.
’I like pranks too,‘ Talia whispered with a mischievous lilt. ‘I haven’t done one since childhood.‘
(Me neither. Then let’s begin our game.)
The mission was clear: retrieve Guria and the Blade of Dust, then escape the fortress. But simply slipping away would be dull. He needed to lace the act with mischief.
Would the Twelve Divine Generals Council be stunned by his tricks? The thought pounded in his chest like first love.
”—Sasha. Jasmine.”
Just then, from the eastern Shakerdoust quarters, a tall, gaunt warrior monk approached—Zayn.
A high-ranking monk. Not quite at Katyusha’s level, but still a seasoned veteran.
The two female guards at Kian’s cage bowed formally, greeting their superior.
(Talia.)
’Understood.‘
Even drained of magic, she managed to shape two tiny earthen needles. Kian twisted his wrist with a sly grin and, with abnormal dexterity, began teasing the lock on his shackles.
The cuffs were reinforced with powerful enchantments, but the key itself was plain metal. The silver wolf woman had feared his vampiric abilities, but overlooked his native talent with locks.
If needed, he could always rip off his own hands to escape—but that was hardly elegant.
(Time to show off my finger tricks. This hole feels easier than Linca ever was.)
T/N: pun on “finger technique”—lewd double meaning.
’You’ve been rough with Linca lately.‘
The stubborn lock rattled under his furious twisting—scratch, click, scrape, click—and yielded at last to his lightning-fast fingers.
Outside, Zayn dismissed the female guards, sending them reluctantly into the growing dusk.
Kian’s prison stood against a slope with thickets at its back, a wide white pavilion on the right, and the sea spread out before it.
Escaping alone would be easy—just kill the ten monks guarding the shoreline. But the mission demanded retrieval, not flight.
”—Sir Kian.”
Once the others had gone, Zayn slid his shamshir from its sheath with a hiss.
”Zayn,” Kian said calmly, “what brings you here?”
”One question.” The young man’s voice wavered. “Did you truly kill Katyusha?”
”She was used by Umar. In that sense, Umar killed her. If you consider her heart, then she chose to sacrifice herself to save you and Abbas.”
”That’s not what I asked. Did you strike the final blow?”
Zayn’s voice trembled with rage. The others had reluctantly accepted Katyusha’s death—but not him. He had watched Kian all day, waiting for his turn at the guard post, hatred burning.
He didn’t care for Jibril’s orders. He meant to kill Kian.
”Zayn, I’ll warn you—this is foolish. Your rash act won’t just doom Abbas. Even General Mansoor’s standing will be dragged down.”
”I don’t care!” Zayn barked, low but fierce.
Kian remembered him as the gentle one, always smiling beside Katyusha. Now he stood quaking with fury, a stranger.
It was absurd. A black panther had died—so what? Killing a valuable prisoner over sentiment was lunacy.
”Did you love her?” Kian asked.
”She was family. My family. Abbas’s too. Bound not by blood, but stronger than blood.”
”And she wished for you to live. She wanted Abbas’s return, for the Shakerdoust family to endure. Will you waste her hope?”
”You know nothing,” Zayn spat. “You—abused by Umar, abandoned by Sarah Nakash—you know nothing.”
”I know,” Kian said, standing at last. He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped to the bars.
Zayn’s eyes narrowed. He spun his black curved blade—the shamshir—through the air, raising it beside his ear like an archer drawing a bowstring. His stance spoke his intent: a single thrust meant to pierce Kian’s heart.
”Being abandoned by a lover must be lonely, isn’t it?” Kian said softly. “I know. That’s why, if I send you to Katyusha, you won’t be lonely anymore. Your heart will be saved.”
”…You are a monster, Sir Kian,” Zayn whispered. His lips trembled. “You’re no different from Umar or Lord Jibril. A beast wearing human skin.”
”I hear that often,” Kian replied. “But I try harder than anyone to be human. I don’t know Jibril well, but I’d prefer not to be compared to Umar.”
At the mention of Umar’s name, Zayn’s shamshir shot straight for Kian’s chest. The blade blazed with Impact: Tear, a high form of weapon enhancement. One strike could have erased his upper body.
But in that instant, Kian’s eyes flared crimson. His body blurred, dissolving into dusk like smoke. His form unraveled into black mist.
From the space where he had stood, a pair of unlocked magical shackles clattered against the ground.
”What—!” Zayn choked.
”You truly want revenge, Zayn?” Kian’s voice drifted from beyond the cage. “If that is what saves your heart, I’ll oblige you.”
”Sir—Kian, you…!”
Seabirds cried above the shoreline. When Kian appeared again, three meters away, his gaze fixed coldly upon Zayn. The warrior monk leapt back, animal-fast, widening the distance. Well-trained, Kian thought.
But before Zayn could draw breath to shout, Kian vanished again—reappearing directly in front of him. Two fingers thrust into his throat.
”Ghkk—!”
”Make a sound, and I kill you,” Kian murmured.
”Ghh—cough—!”
”Take up your sword. Seek your revenge.”
Zayn gagged, drooling, his body folding in half. He could only wheeze and spit.
”Sir Zayn?!” Two young warrior monks rushed from behind the tent. Seeing their commander collapsed on all fours, they drew steel and charged Kian’s back.
But Kian only raised his left hand. Blue lightning erupted.
The girls gave no screams—only a strangled gasp, like throats seized in invisible hands—before they fell face-first in the dirt.
”Ah… ahh…”
”Zayn.”
Kian’s voice fell on him again. But the heat of vengeance in Zayn’s face was gone, replaced by the pallor of fear. In the shadowed light of the sinking sun, the once-proud warrior trembled like a child.
And yet, he was a warrior monk. Training dragged him to his feet.
With Leap wreathing his legs, he sprang forward, blade raised.
Kian slipped aside with ease. The difference in ability was absolute. Even the highest monks of the human race could not track him.
In the next heartbeat, Kian was behind him. A kick shattered Zayn’s knee, dropping him to the ground. He thought to ask for last words—then remembered he had already crushed the man’s throat.
Kian plucked the shamshir from the limp grip of one unconscious girl, and approached the crawling, retching Zayn.
Without mercy, he severed his head.
The pain-twisted face rolled into the brush like discarded trash.
At last. The unwanted interruption had ended. Now Kian could return to his mission.
Notes:
• Linca – Jibril’s favorite girl. High-ranking warrior monk woman from Shin, with strong abilities like ignoring attacks and poisons.
• Isthbaran – The High Warlord of the ‘Storm Herd.’
• Count Cain – Talia’s father.
• Abbas – The heir of the Shakerdoust family, a prominent clan within the Twelve Divine Generals.
• Camilla – A woman; the subject of the chapter; her body was used to seal Erynys’ soul.
• Katyusha – A female warrior monk of the black panther race and a follower of Abbas Hashmalik Shakerdoust.
• Louis – Trusted subordinates from the Châtillon family, part of Guy’s elite force.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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