"Captain, he must have died, right?" An Oathkeeper wielding a bow asked. Deep furrows lined his brow—a reflection of the unease that boiled within him.

  Ewan Fraser, Captain of the Oathkeepers, stood at the edge of the escarpment, a somber look etched in his eyes.

  Another Oathkeeper sheathed his blade and interrupted in a bold tone, "But of course, Hugh. That's hardly a matter worth discussing. The pertinent question is—how will we retrieve his body? Or can we at all, Captain?"

  Ewan Fraser turned his head and replied, "Outnumbered, wounded, and in a trap of your own making—yet one of you was sliced in two, and he still escaped. He'd rather take his chances with death than give us a shot at victory."

  He paused briefly to calm his turbulent emotions before continuing, "If Corvus is dead, we'll have to wait until daybreak before we can descend. By then, the coyotes will have made him their dinner. And if he is alive by some miracle, then he'll have to take the road again, eventually."

  Ewan gestured for everyone to follow as he moved toward the woods. "We'll wait on the road for a week. If there's no sign of Corvus by then, we return to Shardmarch; in failure," his words echoed through the forest as he walked away.

  Far below the Oathkeepers, the plateau gave way to a snowy expanse. Sprawled on the ground, a young man covered in snow was groaning in pain. He tore a piece of fabric from his cloak and wrapped it around his bloody abdomen.

  The young man was Corvus Ashford. A victim of his acts and others' greed.

  Corvus, gazing at the moonlit sky, felt bitter at having been betrayed. From a very tender age, before he even knew what was right or wrong, he had been wielding a blade. Along the way he participated in countless battles, and reaped hundreds of lives. Yet his blade never wavered, for he knew it was all part of a system.

  The system of power, ambition, wealth, desire, and whim.

  This system by the very virtue of its design, fed on people's lives. It treated them as no more than firewood fuelling a stove. Corvus had long accepted his role in this design, that of a soldier—of a warrior. And on this night, he too became a casualty of this vicious system.

  By all rights, Corvus should have accepted the Oathkeepers' treachery and his fate, no matter how deplorable, like he had accepted his victims' death. Yet he could not.

  Writhing in pain, he dreamed of exacting his vengeance, but in the process his mind drifted to the captives back at Thornridge that he and his platoon had slaughtered.

  Slowly, the realization dawned on him—that he too was an object of someone else's vengeance. He could not chastise the Oathkeepers any more than he could blame himself.

  Stranded in the midst of his inner turmoil, Corvus did not know how to calm down, alone.

  Gradually, fatigue and drowsiness from blood loss took over, pulling him into the embrace of a peaceful slumber, away from the harsh realities of the world. Navigating the chaos of his mind would have to wait for another day.

  Shrouded in the silver light of the moon, splinters of Kharos shone ethereally a few feet away from him. And sleeping on the glistening snow, Corvus—clad in blood-stained black cloak—appeared akin to a fallen demon.

  Splendid as the sight was, it did nothing to deter nocturnal predators from approaching him. The scent of blood carried by the winds drew some figures toward him.

  Oblivious to the impending threat, Corvus kept on sleeping.

  "Hey, geezer, I'm telling you you're too easy on them—they need to be punished more sternly, or they will become like Soraya and Lucien," Corvus apparently said to a figure resembling Elric Ironbough.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Sitting on a lavish sofa twice as big as Elric's, he felt proud.

  He leaned, and asked, "Cedric, where's my food?"

  Out of nowhere, a figure appeared: "Here, Vice-Captain, apologies; Felix had requested my help, so I was occupied there."

  Taking a bite of the food, Corvus replied, "If it was Felix then it's alright. You may leave."

  Finishing his food in the blink of an eye, Corvus set the plate aside.

  "Zuberi, check if those two rascals are doing their tasks properly—I don't want them slacking, at all," Corvus said.

  A Zuberi-like figure silently nodded and left, disappearing into nothing.

  "Good grief, nobody here can do a thing by themselves. How do they expect to function with me in Glaswold?... Glaswold?"

  The space began to flicker, then something very strange occurred: Elric started licking Corvus's face.

  "Knock it off geezer... Haha... C'mon, I'm serious, Cap," he tried to shove Elric away, but strangely he could not. Then Elric's tongue reached his eyes, forcing them open.

  Suddenly the warm, resplendent room and ambience were replaced by cold, snow and darkness—his dream had been shattered and along with it all the imaginary creations of it. Yet one thing remained the same, the licking.

  Corvus's face and abdomen felt slimy and tickled. Focusing, he noticed a white wolf in front of him and another one that was licking his bloody abdomen.

  What the—

  He quickly tried to push himself away, but the wolves' reflexes were sharp—one sunk its canines deep into his shoulder, while the other gnawed at his leg.

  Letting out an angry hiss, Corvus poked the wolf's eyes with fingers, making it stagger back.

  He tried to kick the older wolf biting his leg, but could not shake it off. Instead, the wolf only tightened its grip. Stretching himself, Corvus picked a large splinter of Kharos and stabbed the wolf's nape, then forcefully rotated the splinter to make the wound deeper.

  Hungry for my blood? Well, taste your own first, white dog.

  Corvus saw three more white wolves rushing in his direction. Quickly rolling on the snow, he grabbed a broken blade of Kharos which was still attached to the handle.

  This will have to do for now.

  He backed himself against the cliff wall to prevent the wolves from encircling him.

  The three wolves arrived, joined by the wolf he had poked earlier. Glowering at him, they bared their incisors, threatening to rip him apart the moment he betrayed any sign of weakness.

  However, Corvus was no novice in the art of hunting. He spread both his hands apart, making himself appear larger. Even with one hand mangled—between the Oathkeepers' arrows and the wolf's canines—he forced it to move.

  He maintained short but steady eye-contact with each of the four wolves, never breaking it for more than a few seconds.

  In the background, intense shrieks rang as the stabbed wolf wailed—unable to reach the back of its neck despite all its rubbing and rolling.

  The wolf's moans distracted no one, neither its brethrens nor its perpetrator, for they knew the one to look away first—the one to blink first—would die.

  A few heavy moments passed, but the impasse prevailed. The wolves adamant to shred the human in front of them, growled menacingly. Corvus incensed at the world, had found the perfect culprits to unleash his wrath upon; those who dared disturbed his sleep.

  I really wanted to know what tasks I had assigned to Soraya and Lucien.

  Finally breaking the stand-off, he switched the blade to his injured hand. He turned backward and nimbly took three steps on the mountain before pushing himself off it. Mid-air, he removed a knife from his boot, twisted himself, and hurled it at a wolf below him.

  Caught by surprise, the wolf could not react and the knife pierced its head, killing it on the spot.

  Landing near the other wolves, Corvus swiftly switched the blade to his healthy arm and swung at a wolf, slicing its snout open. The other two tried to maul at his arm and neck.

  He somehow managed to keep the wolf from reaching his neck with his leg, and focused on the one attacking his arm.

  He headbutted the wolf at his arm, making its jaw open by a few inches. Before the wolf could close it, however, Corvus slipped the blade inside the wolf's throat.

  The wolf suddenly disengaged and fell on the ground writhing in pain. The more it moved the more damage the blade did to its insides. In the end, the wolf moved a lot.

  Turning back, Corvus kicked at the wolf clawing his back, trying to reach his neck. The wolf pushed back. Its strength easily surpassed an injured Corvus's, making him fall back.

  Pouncing on him, the wolf again tried to bite his neck. Hurriedly grabbing a handful of snow, Corvus flung it at the wolf's eyes.

  The wolf eased its weight off him, as it shook its head to remove the snow. Using this brief window of opportunity, Corvus dragged himself a few paces back and plucked his knife from the dead wolf's head.

  Immediately, the wolf again pounced on him. Corvus instantly buried the knife into the wolf's neck.

  He took the knife out and again stabbed the wolf. Then again. Repeating the attack well after the wolf was dead. At last, Corvus saw his own reflection drenched in scarlet in the wolf's lifeless eyes.

  He screamed in rage—without making any sound.

  Rising out of the bloody puddle, he looked beneath the fabric wrapped on his abdomen. "Shit, it's getting worse."