We rolled past the final stone markers of the Town Carcaka borders, leaving the last remnants of civilization behind as the horses plunged into the thick, suffocating darkness of the deep forest. The canopy overhead was so dense it choked out the twilight, casting the winding dirt trail into deep shadow.
Suddenly, the trees cleared into a massive, hidden clearing. Deep within the heart of the forest, the flickering orange glow of campfires illuminated a sprawling criminal stronghold. Several rough canvas tents and makeshift wooden guard posts were scattered across the area. This was the rendezvous point… the exact location of our high-stakes deal.
A collective, predatory tension shifted through our convoy. Under Don Anthony's silent, commanding hand gesture from the front seat, our drivers executed a flawlessly coordinated tactical maneuver. The 10 heavily loaded carriages split apart, their wheels churning up dirt and dead leaves as they rolled into a massive, overlapping perimeter. They completely circled the criminal camp, locking the buyers inside a ring of hidden firepower.
Then, with the synchronized groan of wooden brakes, all 10 carriages came to a complete stop.
I sat perfectly still on the lead bench, my single green eye tracking the movements of the forest bandits as they emerged from their tents to greet us. The trap was locked in place. Surrounding me were 100 syndicate soldiers clutching their bootleg Tommy guns, completely unaware that just a few wagons back, ten crates of high-end dynamite were humming with the latent power of my blood manipulation magic.
I let my hand rest casually near my lap, my fingers hovering just inches away from the definitive snap that would ignite the clearing. The target was right beside me, the buyers were right in front of us, and the final act was about to begin.
I stepped down from the lead kalesa, the stolen wooden Tommy gun slung tightly across my shoulder. Beside me, Don Anthony adjusted his heavy cloak, gripping his ornate cane as he descended with a smooth, regal authority. Several of our highest-ranking elite enforcers stepped off the carriages with us, forming a tight, protective phalanx around the kingpin as we walked into the center of the clearing.
Under the harsh glare of the campfires, our syndicate guards immediately went to work. They hauled the heavy wooden crates off the back of the transport wagons, lining them up in the dirt between the two factions.
My single green eye panned across the clearing, meticulously scanning the terrain and counting the opposition. The total population of this forest camp was well over 50 hardened bandits, all heavily armed and eyeing our cargo with greedy desperation. I ran a quick mental diagnostic on the tactical theater. If a conventional firefight broke out right now, I wouldn't just be dealing with our own men… I would be facing a combined force of 150 hostile combatants.
It is relatively simple, all of you dums-dums knew the math, the syndicate vanguard was 100 men all with their tommy guns, and the forest bandit camp was 50 men and my enemy was more than 150 targets.
A direct assault was still mathematical suicide. But a cold, vicious smile remained tucked beneath my hood. The ten crates of high-end dynamite I had invisibly woven with my blood manipulation magic were currently being stacked right in the dead center of the camp. The upcoming explosion would be so immensely catastrophic, so violently intense, that it would instantly vaporize over half of the entire 150-man vanguard in the first millisecond of the blast.
Playing the part of the compliant apprentice to perfection, I walked over to one of our carriages, picked up a reinforced crate containing Maine's toxic tear gas formulas, and carried it forward. I set it down directly at the feet of the enemy leadership, stepping back into the shadows beside Don Anthony.
From the largest tent in the center of the camp, a tall, heavily scarred man in fine, dark leather armor stepped into the light of the fire. He looked down at the crates of chemical weapons and automatic firearms, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction.
"I am Reggie Moe, leader of this sector. I trust the delivery matches the 20 gold pieces we agreed upon?" the man said, his voice booming through the quiet forest. He stepped forward and extended a gloved hand toward our boss.
"Every single piece is a masterpiece, Reggie," Don Anthony replied smoothly, stepping forward to meet him.
The two criminal kingpins shook hands firmly in the center of the clearing, cementing the dark alliance. They stood directly in front of the hidden, blood-imbued explosive payload. The deal was officially sealed, the product had been transferred, and the 20 gold was about to change hands.
And yet…
The name Reggie Moe struck a sudden, unexpected chord deep within my memory banks. Before I was the feared executioner, back when I operated under the name Roxy in Town Allure, I had briefly leveraged my Inspect skill to run a modest appraisal stall in the bustling merchant district. I remembered him vividly now… he had been one of my regular customers. He had walked up to my stall panicking, begging me to check his stats because he feared he had been drugged.
Back then, I had warned him out of professional courtesy, sending him sprinting toward the town hospital and earning a few copper coins for my trouble. A cold, dark thought crossed my mind beneath my hood:
"If I had just kept my mouth shut back then and let the snake venom do its work, my job today would have been a hell of a lot easier."
But there was no room for regret in a flawless tactical simulation. I stuck rigidly to the plan.
Reggie Moe turned back toward his inner camp, his voice echoing with ruthless authority.
"Men, bring out the gold."
A group of heavily armed forest bandits emerged from the main tent, carrying a reinforced iron lockbox. They popped the heavy latches, revealing the contents under the flickering firelight. Just looking at the neatly stacked, polished bullion sent a ripple of absolute greed through the surrounding syndicate members. It was an absolute fortune. Twenty solid gold pieces was equivalent to a staggering 2,000 silver coins. To put that into perspective, the global bounty on my true identity… the feared, blood-sucking winged demon… stood at a massive 16 gold. Don Anthony and his men had only spared the real Luke because he was a walking bounty worth 10 gold himself. This single transaction was worth more than all of our heads combined.
Don Anthony's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as his enforcers stepped forward to secure the lockbox. At the exact same time, Reggie's bandits stepped up to haul the final sets of cargo… the ten heavy wooden crates containing the high-end military dynamite.
They lifted the crates, carrying the blood-imbued explosive payload directly into the absolute epicenter of the combined 150-man camp. The alignment of targets was mathematically perfect. The bandits, the syndicate vanguard, Reggie Moe, and Don Anthony were all standing well within the fatal pressure-wave radius.
I took a slow, deep breath, pulling my hood slightly lower as the final crates were positioned. The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, dramatic shadows through the deep forest trees. This was my chance.
I raised my right hand, slipping my thumb over my middle finger in plain sight of the two oblivious criminal kingpins.
Snap.