Mentu watched me return to camp, utterly broken.

He’d been in Baha Balm awhile, yet never seen the Strategist so defeated.

But sharp-eyed Mentu spotted the ash container in the Strategist’s hand.

He’d already guessed what happened.

Not knowing how to comfort anyone, Mentu simply let the Strategist be alone.

*[I hope the Strategist pulls through.]*

Clueless about what truly happened, Mentu could only silently will strength into him.

Firelight flickered nearby. A caravan crept toward our wagons from the darkness.

Instantly, every guard snapped alert. Mentu shifted into a fighting stance, squinting at the shadowy figures.

"Strategist," he murmured, "that’s a slave convoy."

"A slave convoy... huh."

A wild urge surged in me—to ambush them. Free every slave.

Maybe just to vent this poison in my chest.

The thought startled even me.

But...

Mentu could solo that entire convoy.

Still, it was reckless. This was Tren territory. Attacking openly would draw the Imperial Army’s wrath.

*Utterly irrational.* That’s how I judged myself.

*Breathe. Calm down.*

My fingers brushed the cold ash container against my chest.

Old Fee... he wouldn’t want this.

*Pull yourself together, Sas.*

Calm returned, thoughts sharpening. The dark urge didn’t vanish—it just waited.

Nearly a thousand slaves marched ahead.

*You dare parade this evil before my eyes and expect to walk away?*

If the capital’s fools won’t crush this filth, I will.

"Mentu," I ordered, voice low. "Shadow that convoy. When they’re deep in the dark, pick them off. One by one. Free the slaves."

"Understood!"

Mentu hadn’t expected such boldness from the Strategist—but he obeyed instantly. Slave traders made his blood boil.

"Go. Any slave wishing to follow us to Baha Balm, bring them. The rest... let them survive on their own."

*Cruel? Maybe. But true.* Even freed, their shackles would doom them. Other slavers would recapture them by dawn.

"Orders received!"

Mentu melted into the shadows.

---

Inside a gilded carriage at the convoy’s heart, boisterous laughter mixed with the crack of whips.

A fat nobleman in silk robes toyed with a long whip, his bloated belly straining the fabric. Grease slicked his face.

Beneath his feet lay a female slave.

Her body was a map of raw welts, not an inch of unbroken skin. She trembled, clothes shredded—abused in every way imaginable.

"Hah! Toss this broken one back. Bring me a fresh one."

"Aye, sir!"

A lackey grinned, dragging the broken girl away. *His turn to enjoy her after the boss...* The thought painted his face with lewd delight.

Perched in a tree, Mentu’s veins throbbed.

His night vision pierced the poorly draped carriage window. He’d seen everything.

*Enough.*

Mentu drew his longbow. Released the arrow of fury.

No need to aim for gaps—he knew exactly where the fat pig sat. He shot straight through the carriage wood.

The iron arrowhead punched through, impaling the nobleman against the cabin wall.

Outside, the convoy marched on, oblivious to their master’s death.

Silence thickened. An unnatural chill seeped into the night.

"Hey... you feel like our numbers are thinning?" one lackey whispered.

"...Yeah," his partner gulped, shivering.

A silent arrow flashed. Both men dropped, one shaft through two throats.

Mentu hunted from the trees. No wasted motion. No sound.

To him, they were all prey.

The silent slaughter ended swiftly.

Not a single slaver lived.

No blood scent tainted the air. Only eerie peace remained.

Mentu landed before the freed slaves.

"You’re free."

No joy lit their hollow eyes. Only blank stares.

Seeing their broken spirits, Mentu’s chest tightened. He’d saved their bodies, not their souls.

"Follow me if you wish. Or go your own way."

He shattered their chains, waiting.

Confusion hung heavy among the crowd.

"Take me with you."

A voice like a lark’s song cut through the silence.

Its owner was a girl.

Silver hair framed a face with stunning, terrifying crimson eyes.

Mentu felt it—a flicker of killing intent radiating from her.

*Impossible.* A slave girl? Never seen battle? He must be imagining things.

Her courage sparked others. Voices rose in agreement.

But in the end, only two hundred chose to follow Mentu.

When they returned, I sent men to clean the scene. *Don’t tempt the Imperial Army’s wrath by leaving corpses.*

I scanned the two hundred refugees, already weighing how to shelter them back in Baha Balm.

Then I saw them—

A pair of crimson eyes.