Grey moved from room to room in short bursts, doing his best not to make a sound.
Confidence in your own abilities was a wonderful thing, but overconfidence was a sure path to death.
After personally killing seven people who were higher-level than him, Grey had finally experienced what it meant to possess true power. What a wonderful feeling!
It didn't matter who was right and who was wrong. Only true power determined your worth in this cruel world. If you were weak, you'd be trampled underfoot, no matter how sound your arguments were. But if you were strong, people would have no choice but to listen to you.
For the first time in his life, Grey had experienced what it meant to belong to the latter group.
He had no intention of stopping until he had killed everyone he came across in this building. He would personally rid the city of the cancer known as the Merciful Flame's Cult.
Although Grey understood that his actions were impulsive and poorly planned, he didn't regret them for a second.
Yes, he wanted to blow off some steam. He wanted to kill as many bad guys as possible. He wanted to slaughter them.
However, his main goal went beyond a simple emotional outburst. He wanted to send a message to the entire city.
Yes, a message.
And it wasn't even addressed to the Merciful Flame's Cult, but to every influential figure in Thorn's Cloaca.
Vengeance would find everyone. Evil would never go unpunished.
Those in power could turn a blind eye to the lawlessness perpetrated by the cult, but they shouldn't think their positions were as unshakable as Mount Tai.
Grey understood their way of thinking perfectly.
He knew that the Ashen Shepherd wielded considerable influence in the city and could secure widespread support if he was willing to sacrifice valuable assets in exchange for timely assistance.
Right now, every influential person in Thorn's Cloaca understood the problems facing the Merciful Flame's Cult, yet no one was in a hurry to act and stand up for justice.
They were patiently waiting for the Ashen Shepherd to fall into utter despair and become willing to pay the highest possible price for their intervention.
Grey couldn't allow that to happen. That was why he had decided to stage a public demonstration of strength.
Inspired by Achille's actions, he had come up with a plan to create a new scene, making it seem as though some powerful figure had learned of the cult's deeds and decided to wipe them out completely.
It wasn't all that hard to believe.
After all, it was difficult to imagine that such brutality could have been carried out by nothing more than a group of cornered teenagers or ordinary concerned citizens who possessed neither strength nor political influence.
Once they learned of a dangerous fighter for justice, the influential figures would think ten times before getting involved. They might even switch sides and personally crush the remnants of the cult.
To carry out this plan, Grey only had to fulfill one seemingly insignificant condition: leave no survivors and disappear from the crime scene before anyone arrived to investigate.
At that moment, the other cultists in the building recovered from their initial shock and hurried to the first floor to check what had happened.
The explosions had been far too loud, and no matter how hard Grey tried to remain unnoticed, he knew he didn't have much time left.
Amid the chaos, Grey moved as quietly as he could. He knew how important it was to take advantage of the element of surprise.
He slit the throat of another cultist who had been sleeping too soundly after a drinking binge and hadn't even woken up after such loud explosions.
He encountered the next one when the man suddenly opened a door.
Because of Grey's relatively short stature and dark clothing, the cultist didn't notice him right away, and Grey took advantage of that. Without a word, he plunged his gladius straight into the man's stomach and dragged it upward to reach the heart.
The cultist didn't even have time to make a sound.
The third cultist ran into Grey in a spacious hall and immediately lunged at the intruder without a second thought. His attack might have succeeded if Grey hadn't been holding a revolver in his right hand.
Unwilling to stay a second longer than necessary, Grey immediately turned his trump card toward the enemy and pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through the attacker's shoulder and exited on the other side. The wound was severe but not fatal. His opponent could still pose a threat, so Grey pulled the trigger again without hesitation.
The second shot finished the man off.
Grey knew there should be fifteen cultists in the building. He had reached this conclusion by watching the entrance.
By this point, he had already taken out ten: two at the gate, five in the lobby, and another three while clearing the building. Five remained, and he had only two bullets left in the cylinder.
The room was almost completely saturated with the metallic smell of blood. The gunshot in the enclosed space had left his ears ringing. Only now did Grey experience firsthand the consequences Senior had warned him about, but there was no time for regrets anymore.
He knew it was already impossible to keep what was happening hidden from the others. They weren't mindless sheep willing to walk to their slaughter.
So Grey hurried, trying to make the most of the time he had left.
He reached into his bottomless pocket again to reload his revolver, but at that very moment, another man rushed out from around the corner.
The timing of the attack was impeccable. The man had most likely seen Grey take down his previous opponent, which was why he hadn't dared to act so recklessly. He charged straight at Grey, but unlike the others, he had no doubt that the boy was his true enemy.
The cultist was wary of Grey's strange ability, which had inflicted a terrible wound on his companion from several meters away, so he didn't dare underestimate him.
Even now, having witnessed the entire scene with his own eyes, he still couldn't figure out that Grey was using a firearm rather than mana or a skill.
His conclusion wasn't unreasonable, since mana was the foundation of technological progress in this world. Who in their right mind would bother studying the laws of mechanics when there was a far more effective alternative for achieving the desired results?
Regardless, the cultist took the boy seriously, despite his seemingly weak and harmless appearance.
He had no weapon on hand to attack with, so he decided to use his surroundings instead. He shoved a massive bookcase with all his strength, hoping to crush his enemy beneath it or at least get close enough to land a blow.
The solid wooden bookcase came crashing down like a giant.
Grey didn't dare underestimate its sheer weight and immediately darted to the side to dodge it, but that turned out to be the wrong move.
He found himself pinned against the wall.
The cultist who had toppled the bookcase didn't give him a second to catch his breath and lunged at him to continue the attack.
Grey raised his revolver and decisively pulled the trigger... but the expected recoil never came.
"Misfire," flashed through his mind.
Grey cursed, instantly realizing that he wasn't going to get through today unscathed.
His opponent didn't dare stand directly in front of the strange device that had killed his companion, so he turned his body sideways.
He had no weapon or advanced skills at his disposal, but he was a genuine Centurion and far surpassed Grey in physical strength. Even with a nearly gold-rank sword in his arsenal, Grey couldn't take him down quickly.
The only comforting thing was the sheer fear the revolver instilled in his opponent. Every time Grey tried to aim the weapon at the cultist, the man was forced to dodge, making mistakes in his movements.
Grey cursed again, not because he was afraid of engaging in close combat, but because he knew every second was precious.
He needed at least a minute to finish off his enemy, and the noise had surely attracted the others by now. Without the revolver, the situation was becoming critical.
"Die! Die! Die!" the cultist roared, a crazed gleam in his bloodshot eyes.
After dodging several times without feeling the impact of a single blow, he grew furious. It seemed the boy was toying with him, refusing to use his deadly technique. He felt like a clown performing in a circus.
If Grey could read his thoughts right now, he would have sighed in sympathy.
He really did want to use the revolver, but after the misfire, no matter how many times he pulled the trigger, it simply wouldn't fire.
Having fallen for Grey's bluff once again, the cultist suffered another wound. His eyes grew bloodshot with rage.
He stopped caring about his own safety and charged straight at Grey, determined to land as many blows as possible. Needless to say, it wasn't the wisest decision.
Grey shifted his weight onto his right leg and caught the cultist mid-lunge, driving his sword straight beneath the man's ribs.
At that very moment, the remaining four arrived, drawn by the sounds of the struggle.
"Shit," Grey cursed inwardly, realizing he had nowhere left to retreat.
His back was pressed against the wall. The nearest window was at least ten meters away, and four cultists stood before him, all higher in level than he was. Meanwhile, his revolver refused to work.
Seeing their companion die, they didn't bother asking questions and immediately charged at him.
To improve his chances of survival, Grey had no choice but to throw away the revolver and draw the dagger hidden inside his clothes.
In an instant, the fight grew even more intense.
He dodged a barrage of blows like an annoying fly, harmless but incredibly nimble and irritating. None of them could land a fatal wound.
One shouldn't underestimate the ten years Grey had spent training in the Village of the Abandoned under the supervision of a group of powerful Sky-dwellers.
He had mastered a wide variety of highly advanced movement techniques.
Even in this situation, with no mana left at all and four higher-level opponents surrounding him, he could keep fighting by relying solely on his physical strength and agility.
However, eight hands would always beat two.
No matter how talented a fighter Grey was, he simply couldn't dodge every blow. He had to block some of the attacks with his weapons.
The sword and dagger were vastly superior in durability to the cultists' weapons. Every time their weapons clashed, the latter were left with clearly visible notches.
The cultists' eyes lit up with greed. They understood how valuable the items in the boy's hands were and desperately wanted to claim them for themselves. Perhaps, if they succeeded, they could escape all responsibility for the deaths of the others and even earn praise from the cult's leader.
"Be careful. Don't damage your weapons. Keep attacking. The boy isn't particularly strong and will soon run out of steam. Then all we'll have to do is finish him off. There's no need to sacrifice our weapons when we outnumber him and have the advantage in strength," one of the cultists ordered.
Grey didn't respond, but cursed inwardly.
Senior's incessant complaints continued to echo in his head. He couldn't see any way for Grey to win, and it was getting on Grey's nerves.
However, Grey didn't dare let himself get distracted. He knew the cultist was absolutely right. If the fight continued at this pace, he would be the first to run out of strength.
His breathing was already becoming ragged, and his movements were growing less precise.
Grey felt death breathing down his neck. The realization frightened him.
He failed to dodge two blows, which sliced through his cloak and left deep wounds on his body.
Panic began to set in, but at that very moment, Grey spotted a way to save himself.
On the opposite side of the room stood a massive oak chest filled with books and furs of some kind.
Mustering all his resolve, Grey decided to risk his life and charged straight toward it.
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