After escaping the casino, Oren gripped Irina’s hand and sprinted down the moonlit streets. The crescent moon climbed slowly, casting cold light into every corner. The world slept. Only a gentle breeze stirred, and an occasional dog barked at Oren’s footsteps. The deserted streets lay utterly silent.

But soon, the clatter of hooves shattered the quiet. From a side alley, several Harilan barbarians on horseback charged out. Spotting Oren and Irina, they nocked arrows and loosed them in unison.

*Thud!*

Before Oren could react, arrows pierced his chest. As he gasped and crumpled, Irina raised her hand. Silvery rays shot forth like lasers, slicing through the riders’ arms. Men screamed, tumbling from their horses.

*Why no incantation?* Oren wondered, watching Irina. He forced himself up, hurling his cavalry saber at the nearest foe. The blade struck true—*crack!*—piercing the man’s chest before he could turn. Oren yanked his horse close and ripped the arrows from his flesh.

“Get on!” he yelled, swinging onto the saddle. Irina leapt up behind him. Once she was settled, Oren snapped the reins. The horse surged forward. But the barbarians quickly circled ahead, weapons raised.

“Hold tight!” Oren shouted over the thundering hooves as he charged straight into their formation. The riders roared in a guttural tongue, raising bows.

Irina simply lifted her right hand. With a crackle of magic, a silvery longsword materialized in her grip. She swung.

*Boom!*

Every arrow exploded midair in a burst of light. Oren plunged through the smoke, straight into the heart of the enemy ranks.

*Clang!*

His saber cleaved the first rider in half. In the same motion, Oren snatched the falling axe from the corpse. He dropped the saber, grabbing the reins with his left hand.

A hammer whistled toward his head. Oren yanked the reins—the horse pivoted—but the hammer crushed its skull. The beast collapsed without a sound.

The hammer-wielder scanned the empty saddle. Then a voice cut from above:

“Look here!”

The barbarian looked up. An axe split his skull. Black blood geysered. Oren stood behind the dying horse, driving the axe deeper. Confirming the kill, he wrenched it free and kicked the corpse away. Hooves trampled the body into a stain of dark gore.

Oren mounted the riderless horse. Black-clad warriors closed in.

“Back off!” he roared, hurling the axe. It spun, embedding in a chest. The falling body tangled others. Oren spurred his horse forward.

Ahead, a barbarian charged with a saber. Oren drew a spare blade from his saddle and threw the axe.

*Thud!*

It buried itself in the rider’s chest. As the man shrieked, Oren slashed his neck. A head flew skyward. Blood bloomed like a crimson fountain. Oren burst through the encirclement, Irina close behind.

“You’re impressive,” Irina said, glancing at the dismembered barbarians. “Worthy of a knight’s blade. My family once gifted loyal knights with peerless swords—dragonhide grips, magically forged, quenched in dragon’s blood, blessed by bishops.”

“Hah… really?” Oren forced a grin. Dizziness washed over him. He swayed, dropping the reins. *Thud.* He hit the ground.

Irina reined in. “Hey! Are you alright?”

“Ah… probably.” He tried to stand but collapsed again. Irina dismounted, kneeling beside him. Her eyes locked on the arrow wounds.

“Paralytic toxin,” she murmured. “Harilan brew. Used for surgery in peace. In war? Coated on arrows to cripple foes.”

*Just poison. Why twice in two days?* Oren thought as she helped him up.

“It’s nonlethal. Wears off soon. Rest here.” She dragged him into an alley, laying him down. “I’ll search the bodies for the antidote.” She sprinted off.

Oren closed his eyes. Then—footsteps. Left side. He gripped his saber, struggling upright. *One strike. Must kill.*

The shadow neared. Oren lunged—his legs buckled. He crashed into the figure, pinning them down.

*Damn it…*

His face pressed against something small but soft. He looked up.

Lea Rodni glared down, jaw twitching.

“I *did* want to find you…” Her voice was flat. No blush. Only fury. “But have some decency!”

Her fist slammed into his face. The blow sent his limp body skidding meters before he slammed into a wall.

—

Across the street, a figure lowered his telescope. Clad in black robes, he wore a silver mask carved like an old man’s face. Elven ears pierced the night air behind it.

*Kill the Dragon Slayer and the girl.* The Crimson Dragon’s command. The elf raised his hand. Behind him, rows of robed figures shed their cloaks—revealing goblins, ogres, orcs in armor, weapons drawn. He drew his sword.

“We fight not flesh and blood!” he thundered.

*Boom!*

“But tyrants who wield power!”

“You are the darkness ruling this world! The evil festering in high society!”

Orcs raised their weapons. Goblins shrieked. Black mist thickened the air. Whispers of weeping drowned out crickets and night birds. Only ravenous howls remained.

Amidst the voice thick with resentment, the Elvenfolk pointed his sword at the street where Oren stood and shouted loudly,

"Therefore, the all-knowing gods have bestowed upon us sacred armor and the shield of faith!"

The sound of weapons being drawn echoed across the hillside in an instant.

"With these, we shall surely extinguish all the fiercely burning fires of evil!"

Then came the thundering stomp of boots on the ground—like the hurried march of a vast army.