The night was still pitch-black when Bastian returned to the road, riding his horse after taking a brief rest beneath a tree. His body was battered, his muscles screaming with every movement, but at least his mana had recovered and the worst of the exhaustion had eased.
His gaze cut through the trees and quiet road ahead. He urged the horse forward at full speed, as if racing against time itself and the spirits that might be chasing him.
Hours passed. The sky faded from deep black to violet, then to pale orange, before the sun finally showed its washed-out face above the horizon. Its weak light swept across the plains and touched the cluster of buildings in the distance.
Fairfield.
A modest town, no different from many market towns scattered across Iskandrite's inland territories. But now its wooden walls had been reinforced, watchtowers stood at every corner, and banners of the Great Stag, emblem of the Kingdom of Iskandrite, fluttered in several places. Fairfield had transformed into a critical military outpost, headquarters of the Western Guardian Legion.
The Kingdom of Iskandrite...
Blessed with fertile lands at the heart of the continent, yet cursed to bleed endlessly. Ruled by a Queen branded "mad" after slaughtering her entire family for the throne. A land so rich that it became bait for the starving kingdoms surrounding it.
To the south lay Arendise, full of exotic culture and winding intrigue. To the west, beyond the fearsome Ancient Forest, stretched the barren Mordune, home to barbarians who knew only the language of steel and blood. To the north stood Rosendell, cold and severe, a land cloaked in near-eternal frost. And in the east, the vast Morning Star Sea, a mystery in itself.
This war, the one that had shaped Bastian's life for the past five years, ignited the moment news of the Mad Queen's death spread. Other kingdoms believed Iskandrite would crumble without its tyrant. But they were wrong.
His exhausted horse approached Fairfield's main gate. Three guards in light armor, faces drawn from a long night shift, tensed as they saw the lone rider speeding toward them.
"Hey! Stop! Identify yourself!" one of them shouted, raising a hand.
Bastian did not slow down. Not even a little.
"I said stop! That's an order!"
His horse thundered forward. And when Bastian's face came into view, with the harsh scar tissue forming a grotesque smile on his cheek and those sharp, fearless eyes, the guards finally understood who they were about to confront.
In less than a heartbeat, all three guards froze.
"The Smiling Knight…" one of them whispered, voice trembling.
They leaped aside just in time as Bastian shot past them. The wind from his passing slapped their faces, leaving them breathless and wide-eyed.
"Is that lunatic… back from the dead?" one muttered, staring at his fading silhouette.
Bastian did not look back.
Inside the town, the early morning bustle turned into waves of murmurs. Soldiers filled the streets, some groggy, some training, all stopping to stare as the tall, imposing rider sped past. His ruined face was unmistakable.
"That's… the Mad Dog?"
"He survived?"
"His entire battalion was wiped out…"
"How many times has it been now?"
"Look at his saddle… what is that? A head?"
"He was gone for four days. Where did he go? Ran away?"
"That lunatic probably abandoned his men to die."
"…"
The whispers slithered through the streets like serpents, full of venom, fear, and curiosity.
Bastian ignored them all. His focus locked onto a single building at the end of the main road: Fairfield's town hall, now serving as the command center of the Western Guardian Legion.
As soon as his horse halted at the foot of the stairs, Bastian dismounted.
A filthy bundle was tied to his back, and in each hand he held a severed head. One belonged to an older man with a square jaw and white hair matted with blood. The other was grotesque, with a long severed neck—the head of the Necromancer's monster.
The stench filled the air instantly.
Two guards at the door gaped in shock and crossed their spears in front of him.
"Stop right there!" one shouted, voice wavering. "The Legion Commander is in an important meeting!"
Bastian kept walking. His steady steps pushed against the spear shafts, forcing the guards backward.
"Even if you're a battalion commander, you can't just—" the second guard began before choking on his words.
Bastian looked at them with empty, hollow eyes that were somehow far more terrifying. The eyes of a man with nothing left to lose.
Their hands shook. Slowly, they lowered their spears. Bastian passed them and entered the main hall.
The room was wide, filled with morning light pouring through tall windows. Seven men sat around a round table cluttered with maps, documents, and wine glasses. High-ranking officers and noblemen, every one of them wearing a look of practiced arrogance.
All heads turned toward the door as it swung open. Their expressions shifted from focus to shock, then to anger and disgust.
But Bastian's eyes found only one man—the one seated directly across from the entrance.
A tall, disciplined figure in a black uniform trimmed with red, his shoulders bearing high-rank insignias. His neatly cut black hair framed a handsome, sharp face, and his expression remained calm.
General Kaelen Valobry.
Commander of the Western Guardian Legion.
Brother of Edgar Valobry, Supreme Commander of all Iskandrite forces.
Bastian's direct superior.
The first to speak was a young nobleman in a dark red cloak.
"What is the meaning of this? You barge in without permission, without greeting, and you bring… that?!"
"Look at the stench and filth you bring with you," another officer scoffed. "Typical for someone born from common mud."
"What heads are those, Sir Bastian? Have you taken up bounty hunting?"
"And where is your report? Your entire battalion was annihilated, and you vanished for four days without a word! You have a great deal to answer for!"
Bastian said nothing. His eyes never left Kaelen.
Unlike the others, Kaelen did not look angry. He simply observed the heads in Bastian's hands. His cool gray-blue eyes narrowed, as if trying to piece the story together.
"Enough," Kaelen said quietly, yet with the kind of authority that froze the room.
He stared at Bastian. "It seems Sir Bastian has something urgent to report to me in private. All of you, leave us."
"Commander, but—"
"Leave."
There was no room for argument.
One by one, they filed out, muttering and glaring at Bastian, but none daring to push further.
The door closed. Silence fell.
Kaelen rose from his seat and approached Bastian, stopping at a safe distance. His eyes swept over Bastian from head to toe.
"You look filthy, Sir Bastian. And you smell," he said, his voice flat, almost clinical.
"Where have you been for the past four days? And why did you send no reports?" His gaze dropped to the severed heads. "And these… How did you obtain the head of Grayson Berk, Commander of Mordune's 3rd Legion? And what creature does the second head belong to?"
Bastian stood silent. The stillness between them grew heavier.
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it time you spoke, Commander of the Sixth Batta—"
SHINK.
A flash of steel. So fast that even Kaelen's trained eyes almost failed to catch it.
Before the final word left his mouth, Bastian's blade slashed into Kaelen's open mouth.
Plop.
Kaelen's tongue split and fell to the floor like a piece of raw meat.
His eyes bulged. Pain exploded through him, shock stripping him of breath. He tried to scream, to call the guards, but only bubbling, choking noises spilled from his broken mouth.
Bastian did not stop.
Before Kaelen could react, before his mind could process the horror, Bastian's sword flashed again.
Swish.
He severed both thighs just above the knees. Kaelen collapsed, crashing onto the floor as blood sprayed across the wood.
Terror flooded his eyes. The pain was indescribable, unbearable, consuming.
Through the haze of agony, one stunned thought formed in Kaelen's mind: How... Impossible... Bastian… my subordinate… a common-born dog… attacking me in my own office… Is he truly insane? Has he no fear of consequences?
But when his failing vision focused on Bastian's face, leaning over him, he understood. He had gravely underestimated the madness of the Smiling Knight.
Kaelen trembled violently. Primitive fear, long forgotten, seized him more savagely than the pain.
Bastian flipped his sword, then drove the point into Kaelen's shoulder, pinning him to the wooden floor. Kaelen writhed, trying to scream for help, but only wet, bloody sounds escaped.
"Stop acting like you're the victim," Bastian said, voice steady but trembling with restrained emotion. "Traitor."
The word widened Kaelen's eyes further, filling them with confusion and disbelief.
Bastian leaned closer, their faces inches apart.
"Now answer my question." His voice dropped to a cold whisper. "Were you involved in the incident five years ago? The one that nearly killed her?"
Kaelen shook his head frantically, trembling uncontrollably. He wanted to say no, to lie, to scream that he didn't even understand what Bastian was talking about… but only blood and wet sounds came from his throat.
Bastian pushed the sword deeper, forcing Kaelen to thrash helplessly.
"Answer me," Bastian repeated, his tone emotionless. "Because of you, this war happened. Because of you, she almost died. How dare you… do you know how long I've been holding myself back from chopping you into tiny pieces?"
Kaelen screamed silently, tears mixing with blood. And he could only curse inside his mind—How the hell am I supposed to answer… when you already cut my tongue out?