The air in the tent was thick with the scent of cheap soap and steam from a small, heated basin. Vincent’s entrance had been silent, a ghost stepping through the flap, but his plan shattered in an instant.

  The mercenary wasn’t sleeping. He was standing before a small, polished steel mirror, razor poised at his throat, his face half-lathered. For a heartbeat, their eyes met in the distorted reflection—Vincent’s and the mercenary’s wide with startled confusion.

  Time stretched, then snapped.

  The man’s lungs filled, his chest swelling not for a breath, but for a roar.

  “ALAR—”

  Vincent moved.

  He didn’t lunge with his sword—it was too long, too slow for the close quarters. Instead, his left hand snapped forward, clamping over the man’s mouth, crushing the cry into a muffled "MMMPH!" of hot, wet panic. The straight razor clattered to the ground.

  Vincent drove forward, using his weight to slam the man against the tent’s central pole. The canvas shuddered violently. The mercenary thrashed, elbows jabbing backwards, fingers clawing at Vincent’s arm.

  There was no time for silence. Only speed.

  With his right hand, Vincent brought his short sword up and around. There was no elegant thrust, no clean strike. It was a brutal, sawing pull across the exposed throat.

  The sound was a sickening "Shhluck!"—a wet, tearing gasp.

  The struggle ceased instantly. The man’s body went rigid, then slackened, held up only by Vincent’s grip and the tent pole. For a moment, the only sound was the frantic thump of Vincent’s own heart against his ribs and the soft, horrific drip… onto the rug between the mercenary’s boots.

  Vincent held on, listening with every fiber of his being, waiting for the camp to erupt.

  Silence.

  The cry had been cut short. For now, he was still a ghost.

  But the clock was ticking faster now. The next tent over would have heard the scuffle, the thud against the pole. The hunt was about to become a battle.

  *Alright, between five to seven left. Two probably just woke up. They're next.*

  Vincent burst from the tent. His gaze snapped to the right.

  There.

  A single tent glowed in the distance, a lantern-lit beacon in the sleeping camp. Against the canvas, two silhouettes moved—large, agitated, and rushing for the entrance.

  No time for stealth. No time for thought.

  Vincent’s left eye squeezed shut. He thrust out his right hand, index finger aimed like a blade at the tent’s flap. His open eye— obsidian colored—shone with an inner, frigid light.

  The air crackled. Four shards of ice, jagged and glistening like miniature glaciers, coalesced before him, humming with lethal potential.

  He kept the glaciers up, waiting for an opportunity to strike

  The flap flew open. Two men spilled out, armed and blinking into the darkness.

  *Fwip. Fwip. Fwip. Fwip.*

  The ice shards shot forward.

  The mercenaries’ eyes widened. A shout died before it was born.

  Thuk. Shnk. Thuk. Shnk.

  The impacts were wet and final. One man clutched at the spike buried in his throat. The other stumbled, a shard through his eye and another in his heart. They crumpled together, a tangled heap of extinguished life.

  Silence rushed back in, broken only by the drip of melting ice and fresh blood.

  Vincent’s scan of the camp ended at the largest tent, parked conspicuously near the heavy wagon.

  The leaders. The veteran and the one-eyed bastard. They could wait.First, he had to clear the board.

  His mind, a map of memorized routes and shifts, tallied the remaining threats. Only two groups were unaccounted for:

  A lone lookout, perched high in the limbs of a massive, gnarled oak.

  A duo patrolling the northern tree line.

  The patrol was on a fixed loop. He had time—thirty, maybe forty minutes—before they circled back to meet the western team that would never arrive.

  But the lookout… Vincent enhanced his vision by focusing mana into his eyes and looked upward.The man was still climbing, his silhouette a dark beetle against the moonlit branches. He hadn’t reached his perch. He hadn’t seen the carnage below.

  Yet.

  The scout’s warning cry would turn the camp into a hornet’s nest. The duo on the ground were a problem for later.

  The man in the tree was a problem for right now.

  *I could pick him off from here* Vincent thought, *a single icicle to the throat. Clean. Simple.*

  But his mind, ever tactical, rejected it. These three were the last obstacles before the leaders. Chaos was a better weapon than silence now.

  His gaze locked onto the massive oak. A tree that size wouldn't just fall; it would scream.

  His obsidian eyes began to glow, signifying his use of magic. Deep beneath the roots, the earth grumbled.-

  Vincent didn't wait to watch. The moment the first tremor shook the ground, he was already moving, a phantom sprinting toward the northern patrol.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Behind him, a deafening CRACK split the night air—the sound of a giant's bone breaking. It was followed by a terrified shout from the scout, cut short by the splintering roar of the tree crashing through the canopy.

  The duo on patrol spun toward the noise, their backs now to the approaching darkness.

  They never saw him coming.

  As the taller one gaped at the falling giant, the earth at his feet erupted. A sharpened spike of stone punched upward, piercing through his jaw and into his skull with a wet *thuk* .

  His partner had a half-second to turn before Vincent’s short sword whistled through the air. The blow was brutal and efficient, cleaving through his neck. The man’s head toppled before his body even knew it was dead.

  Silence descended, more profound than before, now broken only by the distant settling of the fallen tree.

  Now, it was Vincent and the leaders.

  And so he started walking towards his last targets.

  ****

  A deafening CRACK—like the sky itself splitting in two—rocked the earth beneath their feet. The tent poles shuddered; a cup of wine tipped over, staining the maps dark red.

  The mercenary leader shot to his feet, his single eye wide with a shock so profound it stole his breath. "What in the actual FUCK was that?!" he roared, his voice barely a fraction of the thunder that had just spoken.

  His gaze snapped to his aide. The veteran’s face was a mirror of his own disbelief, all the color drained from his scarred features.

  No shouts came from the guards. No alarm. Only a silence that was more terrifying than the noise.

  Wordlessly, moving on pure, hardened instinct, they lunged into action. There was no time to fasten straps or buckle plates. The leader snatched his notched axe; the aide grabbed his broken spear and a shield. They barreled out of the tent into the chilling night, not as commanders, but as soldiers bracing for a war they couldn't yet see.

  They stared into the space where the great oak had stood, their minds struggling to process its absence. The landmark that had anchored their camp was simply gone, replaced by a jagged stump and a void in the canopy.

  No cries of alarm echoed through the night. No frantic shouts from their men. Only a silence, deep and absolute, broken by the sputter of a dying torch.

  Then, a new sound carved through the quiet.

  *Crunch.

  *Crunch.

  *Crunch.*

  The slow, systematic rhythm of boots on dry leaves. It wasn't a hurried approach; it was a leisurely, terrifying promenade. Their eyes locked on the source—a silhouette emerging from the gloom, each step bringing it into sharper focus against the torchlight.

  They didn't need to speak the truth they both knew. Whatever this was, it had already dealt with their comrades. This was the architect of the silence.

  *Crunch.*

  Another step. Another few inches closer. The waiting was an agony, stretching seconds into eternities, their nerves fraying with every measured footfall.

  Finally, the figure stepped into a pool of faint light.

  The man’s attire was a paradox—the ghost of expensive tailoring haunting a frame of pure neglect. A dark brown, hooded surcoat of unmistakably fine, thick wool was now stained with road grime and frayed at the hem. Beneath it, a gambeson padded with imported cotton and raw silk—a lord’s armor—was now scarred and splattered with old blood.

  His boots, well-constructed of the finest leather, were scuffed beyond recognition and caked in dried mud. The final touch of irony was his weapon belt: a master-crafted piece of tooled, dark leather with a tarnished silver buckle, now holding a simple, brutal short sword.

  He wore his wealth like a forgotten secret, too lazy to maintain its shine but unable to completely shed its foundation. And in the shadow of his hood, they could feel his gaze upon them.

  When the man reached a distance of five paces, he stopped. His voice cut through the night, flat and cold as river stone. “My name is Vincent. This unfortunate encounter is the result of a single foolish decision you made.”

  His gaze swept over the empty camp before returning to them. “You know you’re dead men. Answer my questions, and I’ll make it painless.”

  The aide found his voice, a forced bravado rasping in his throat. “You’re awfully cocky for a boy.”

  Vincent’s eyes shifted to him. Though his voice never wavered, the man’s darting eyes betrayed the fear beneath the bluster.

  “A group with your reputation,” Vincent said, as if the man had never spoken, “why resort to human trafficking?”

  The leader held his ground, his lone eye narrowing. “Would you believe me if I said we were betrayed?”

  Vincent’s lip curled. “I’ll play along.”

  “By His Holiness himself.”

  A low, almost mocking sound escaped Vincent’s hood. “His Holiness? Why would he need mercenaries when he has a nation of zealots who would die for him?”

  “Because we were a force he couldn’t control. So he tricked us. Broke us.”

  “Let’s say I believe this… blasphemy,” Vincent conceded, his head tilting toward the wagon. “Then answer this: how did you manage to capture high elves?”

  The two men exchanged a hurried, nervous glance. “How did you—?”

  “I can feel the disturbance in the mana around them. Only high elves resonate with such power.” Vincent took a single, deliberate step forward. The air grew colder. “You don’t just stumble upon high elves. How?”

  The leader’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. “After the betrayal… after the executions… a stranger approached us. He offered a deal: deliver a certain noblewoman to him, and he would provide us with the means to find and capture the elves.”

  “Why did he want the woman?” Vincent’s voice sharpened, losing its flat affect for the first time. “Who is he?”

  “We don’t know. We didn’t ask for motives, and we never saw his face. He wore a robe that hid everything... but you could tell he wasn't ordinary.”

  “Not ordinary?” Vincent’s voice was a blade of pure skepticism. “Elaborate.”

  The leader’s lone eye grew distant, haunted by the memory. “His smile… you could feel it. Even from across the room, it was like frost forming on your skin. And his height…” He swallowed hard. “For a moment, when he turned, his hood shifted. I saw…”

  He trailed off, the words failing him. His aide finished, his voice a trembling whisper. “His face was too long. Stretched. And in the shadows… it wasn’t just one set of eyes looking back. It was more.”

  “Well, that’s… an interesting thing to hear,” Vincent murmured, his mind racing to place the unsettling description.

  It was the aide who broke the silence, his voice frayed with a desperate need to understand. “You said we made a foolish decision. What was it?”

  Vincent looked at him, annoyance flickering across his features before settling into cold consideration. “I suppose you deserve to know before you die.” His obsidian eyes locked onto the man’s. “That noblewoman is my sister. And you forced me to come out here and retrieve her.”

  “Valerie Village is your sister?” the leader breathed, his single eye widening in genuine shock.

  Vincent’s expression didn’t shift to pride or concern. Instead, a flicker of pure, unadulterated annoyance crossed his features—the look of a man reminded of a tedious and unpleasant task.

  “My men… my company… were wiped out over her?” the leader gasped, the absurdity dawning on him. “You did all this for some spoiled-”

  “Don’t,” Vincent’s voice cut in, low and dangerously calm. “Finish that sentence. I’m not here for her. I’m here because my parents have, once again, tasked me with dragging her useless carcass out of the fire she so gleefully jumped into. A fire, I see, that was lit by my former best friend, Solicias.”

  Vincent then noticed the shift in their posture, the foolish hope dawning in their eyes. He sighed, a sound of profound weariness. “This conversation is over.” One hand rested on his sword belt, the other gestured dismissively toward the ground. “Kneel. Let’s make this quick.”

  The two mercenaries shared a glance—a silent pact of desperation. They stepped closer, their weapons lowering as if in submission, their bodies coiling for a final, futile gamble.

  They did not kneel.

  In a burst of simultaneous motion, the leader lunged with his axe while the aide thrust the splintered remains of his spear.

  Shhhk—Thump.

  The sounds were not of weapons striking home, but of earth itself betraying them. Two sharpened spikes of stone erupted from the ground beneath their feet, punching through leather, muscle, and bone to pierce their hearts.

  Their faces froze in identical masks of shock—eyes wide, mouths agape in silent disbelief. The legendary Diamond Fiends, who had survived kings and wars, met their end not in a glorious battle, but in a swift, inglorious execution. They were put down not by an army, but by a single, bored-looking nobleman, as if they were nothing more than rabid dogs.

  Their weapons clattered harmlessly to the dirt, followed by the heavy thud of their bodies.

  Vincent’s gaze cut toward the wagon. A sharp, irritated "Tch—hhh!" escaped him—the sound of a man bracing for a conversation that would only sour his mood further.

  *My day ruined. My time wasted. All for another one of Valerie's spectacularly stupid messes.*

  A cold resolution settled in his chest. *But this will be the last one. No more clean-up. No more tantrums.*

  With that final, silent vow, he started toward the wagon.