"It's Thousand Strings!" the man screamed, his voice carrying over the entire camp. "The Feeble Soul is here! Run for your lives! He is going to slaughter us all!"
Chaos erupted.
It was an instant, total collapse of three thousand hardened criminals. Survival instincts completely short-circuited their brains.
A huge bandit eating breakfast dropped his boiling wooden bowl of porridge directly onto his own lap. He did not even flinch from the second-degree burn. He just stood up and sprinted away with hot porridge dripping down his legs.
Two thugs who were violently punching each other in the dirt over a stolen pair of boots instantly stopped. They looked at each other, screamed in unison, and ran away holding hands in pure terror.
A greedy bandit counting his stolen copper coins panicked so hard he forcefully threw all his money straight into the air like festive confetti. He hoped the flying metal would distract the god of death.
One sleeping man did not even bother finding the exit flap of his tent. He just stood up and ran blindly forward. He sprinted across the open plains at top speed while still wearing his entire tent over his body like a giant, panicking turtle.
Men trampled over each other in a desperate, frantic scramble to escape the plains. They threw their heavy axes and swords into the dirt just to shed weight.
In less than thirty seconds, two thousand nine hundred and ninety bandits had completely vanished over the horizon, leaving behind nothing but discarded weapons and a massive trail of dust.
Only ten men remained. The ten men standing closest to the carriage. They were too close. They knew that if they turned their backs to a Level 8 Adventurer, they would be instantly decapitated by a wind blade or crushed by gravity magic.
The scarred man slowly, carefully released Mirelle's wrist and took a slow, trembling step backward.
Mirelle, unable to process what was going on, simply crawled backward on the driving board and sat down, rubbing her red wrist.
Kian stood in the doorway, completely clueless. He looked at the massive, empty camp.
He looked at the ten terrified men shaking violently in front of him. He had absolutely no idea who these people were or why everyone was running away.
Suddenly, the scarred man dropped to his knees and burried his face directly into the hard dirt.
"Please!" the scarred man begged, crying genuine tears of terror. "We beg for your forgiveness! We did not know she was yours! Spare our miserable lives, Lord Thousand Strings!"
The other nine men instantly dropped to their knees, bowing perfectly in unison.
"Please forgive us!" they shouted together.
Kian stared at them blankly. He did not speak because he did not know what to say. He was just tired.
To the terrified bandits, Kian's absolute silence was a death sentence. The legendary Adventurer was not accepting their apology. He was quietly deciding how to torture them.
"Your... your carriage is dusty, my Lord!" one of the trembling men suddenly blurted out, desperate to offer any value to the terrifying god of death. "I can make it clean for you!"
Kian still remained silent.
Taking the silence as permission, the ten hardened criminals frantically ripped off their own shirts. They turned them into makeshift rags. They ran to a small watering hole near the road, soaked their shirts, and sprinted back to the carriage.
Moving faster than they had ever moved in combat, the ten men aggressively scrubbed the mud and dust off the black wood. They wiped the wheels and polished the windows. They cleaned the metal handles until they sparkled in the sun.
Mirelle sat on the bench, completely speechless, watching ten big, scary men violently clean the carriage while crying.
Twenty minutes later, the black carriage looked like it had just been freshly painted.
"It is already clean, sire!" the scarred man said, bowing deeply again, his bare chest covered in mud. "Can we go, please?"
Kian stood in the doorway. He looked at the clean carriage. Then he remembered his coin purse. He had spent all his bronze and silver coins buying cheap peasant clothes for the orphan in the last town. He only had large gold coins left.
This is a disaster, Kian panicked internally. If I give them a gold coin for a simple cleaning job, they won't have the spare change for it. It will be a huge headache trying to calculate the difference. I really hope they don't demand a service fee.
Wanting to avoid the awkward transaction, Kian simply gave a short, lazy nod.
The ten men gasped in pure relief. They turned and sprinted away across the plains while screaming in joy that they had been spared by the god of death.
Kian watched them disappear. He let out a long sigh, closed the wooden door, and went straight back to his warm blankets to resume his nap.
Mirelle sat alone on the driving board. She let out a massive, trembling sigh of relief.
She looked at the perfectly clean carriage. She looked at the abandoned camp. Three thousand hardened criminals. Gone. Because of bedhead.
Her master had not drawn a sword. Not even casting a single spell. He literally just opened a door in his pajamas, looked mildly inconvenienced, and an entire army scrubbed his wagon while weeping.
He is a monster, Mirelle thought, her eyes widening in pure awe. He makes the underworld do his chores. He is a power figure so influential and feared that those bandits literally cleans his carriage just for a chance to survive his presence.
Thud.
Lexi dropped silently from the trees. She landed perfectly on the driving board next to Mirelle. The pink-haired girl held a tiny woven basket. Inside were exactly six bright red berries.
Lexi looked at the empty plains. She looked at the thousands of discarded weapons, the knocked-over tents, and the massive cloud of panicked dust settling on the horizon.
Then, she looked at the ridiculously shiny carriage exterior.
Lexi blinked once. She reached out and dragged a finger across the black wood.
"They didn't use a dry towel at the end," Lexi noted flatly, staring at a microscopic smudge of dampness on her fingertip. "It's going to leave ugly water stains when the sun bakes it. He hates water stains."
Mirelle slowly turned her head. Her twelve-year-old brain completely short-circuited.
"Lexi," Mirelle whispered, her voice cracking. "Thousands of bandits tried to kidnap me. He woke up. They cried, washed the carriage, and ran away in absolute terror."
Lexi stared at her for two solid seconds. Her deadpan expression did not change a single millimeter.
"I know. But they still did a terrible job drying it," Lexi said. She popped a berry into her mouth. "Drive."
Mirelle swallowed hard. Her throat was completely dry.
It finally clicked. She was traveling with lunatics. To these people, an army of ruthless criminals was completely irrelevant. A slightly damp carriage wheel was the real emergency.
She grabbed the leather reins with shaking hands. She clicked her tongue. The spotless black carriage rolled forward, crushing a discarded spiked club under its perfectly polished wheels.
He wasn't just a lazy jerk. He was a lazy jerk who could conquer a nation without putting on his pants.
---
It was afternoon in the forest, casting long, bloody shadows across the dirt road.
Elian still sat in the center of the defensive circle. His eyes were hollow. The crying from the women behind him had stopped. They had no tears left.
The four-hour countdown was over.
They were in their final five minutes.
Elian looked at the front line. The lead Tanker was swaying on his feet. The heavy, glowing Aura that had protected them all day was flickering wildly, like a candle caught in a strong wind.
The young Swordsman next to him was completely pale, blood dripping from his nose as he forced his empty Mana core to produce just a few more seconds of light.
Elian, the Mages, the Archers, and the Healers all had full Mana. They were not frontliners; they had not needed to maintain the heavy defensive shields. But it did not matter. Once the steel wall fell, a Healer's Mana could not stop a thousand jaws from tearing her throat out.
"I am sorry," the youngest Swordsman whispered.
His Aura vanished. The glowing light died completely. His legs gave out, and he collapsed entirely into the dirt, completely unconscious from extreme Mana exhaustion.
The circle was broken.
A collective, terrifying growl echoed through the trees. The nine hundred and sixty Abyssal Blindhounds stood up from the grass simultaneously. They did not faint this time.
The massive wave of black bodies surged forward, charging the broken line with terrifying speed.
Elian slowly stood up. He drew his twin daggers, his hands trembling. The charismatic leader had no smile, no plan, and no hope. He stepped in front of the sobbing Healer, raising his useless blades to meet the unstoppable tide of teeth and claws.
The slaughter was about to begin.