John Shield was a minor noble in Cesecity.

He ran a decades-old mining operation there.

Though occasional riots flared, John’s iron-fisted suppression kept major chaos at bay.

He commanded several Ironclad warriors and mages. John himself held the Bronze Rank as a warrior.

Professionals were rare. Many spent lifetimes stuck at Ironclad.

Only those whose innate talents perfectly matched their professions climbed higher.

John’s own talent, "Stalwart," synergized flawlessly with his warrior path. His greatsword danced like a storm, striking terror into enemies.

Lately, however, the mine troubled John.

Reports claimed slaves kept vanishing—undetectably, irretrievably.

John knew a professional aided them. And if unchecked, his workforce would evaporate.

So for months, he stationed twenty professionals nightly inside the mine.

John believed not even a Bronze Rank Rogue—renowned for agility—could escape such a net.

Once caught, a male rescuer would be "gifted" to his perverted subordinates. After they tired of him, he’d be flayed alive before all slaves as warning.

A female? Dragged to John’s private basement for "lessons," then shared among guards until she died publicly. That’d crush escape hopes.

Yet strangely, since the guards arrived, not a single slave vanished.

John’s men groaned—night shifts wore anyone down.

No wonder. Kaelxi wasn’t foolish.

She valued her life. Even rustling leaves jangled her nerves. A mine suddenly crawling with patrols? Unthinkable.

Besides, the slavers were already dealt with. Beggars sold here had been returned to West District. Saving the rest? She lacked funds and shelter.

If freed slaves were recaptured… death would be a mercy.

But John soon wouldn’t worry about escapes. Nor would Kaelxi fret over rescues.

Mine patrols, once razor-alert a month ago, now slacked off.

Now, those professionals huddled together, staring in horror at the blood-soaked figure sprinting toward them.

They’d witnessed Witt’s clash with the foreman. None dared provoke this walking death.

The nearest mage frantically raised a mana shield. But under the low-tier "Haste" spell, Witt moved too fast.

Before the shield fully formed, Witt’s fist smashed into the mage’s jaw.

This punch differed from the accidental one that hit Kaelxi in the alley.

This was Witt’s full power—a Bronze Rank warrior’s fury.

"*Bastards!!*" Witt roared.

The mage’s jaw shattered. Teeth exploded. His nose caved inward. He flew three meters high before crashing down, half-dead.

A nearby warrior froze, then fumbled to draw his sword. He lunged for Witt’s neck—activating the warrior skill "Thrust."

Witt charged *forward*. His hands clenched. A deep-blue mana greatsword materialized—his second talent, "Mana Construct."

Witt thrust his own unenhanced, yet endlessly practiced "Thrust."

Blades clashed. The warrior’s sword flew away. Witt’s construct shattered.

The warrior stumbled back, hands trembling. Ignoring his own numb arms, Witt conjured another sword and drove it straight through the guard’s chest.

"*Dying this quick? Too kind for you.*"

Witt hoisted the impaled man high. The body slid slowly down the blade. Blood pooled beneath them. Struggles and screams faded.

The warrior glared with venom, face twisted by slow agony.

Witt dispersed the sword. He hurled the corpse down and crushed the skull underfoot.

He scanned the remaining eighteen professionals. None met his gaze.

It happened in seconds. To them, it was pure slaughter.

Witt’s suicidal fury and death-defying eyes broke them. He stepped forward—they retreated.

He advanced again—they scrambled back.

When Witt sprinted, they fled.

Facing him meant dying in exquisite torment. Even if attrition worked, who’d be first to volunteer?

So the mine witnessed a grotesque sight:

Witt, roaring alone, chased eighteen professionals across the grounds.

They tired. Witt didn’t. His lungs burned, but he pushed harder.

"*For Kaelxi’s justice—you all die here today!*"

His shout sparked fear—and confusion.

*Who’s Kaelxi?*

*The slaver? That’s not his name!*

Witt caught the slowest—a mage, weak of body.

The man collapsed, waving hands desperately.

"*Mistake! All a mistake! Please, don’t—*"

Witt’s boot pressed slowly on his chest.

The mage’s face purpled. He choked.

"*Mistake?! Listen! This death’s too gentle for scum like you!*"

Witt lifted his foot—then stomped down. *Crack.* Arm bones shattered.

Shoulders. Knees. Elbows.

Finally, a punch to the chest—still not ending his brief, agonizing life.

"*I waste no words on trash like you.*"

He writhed like a maggot in the dirt.

This was Witt’s first deliberate execution. Then the second. The third…

He broke limbs. Shattered organs. Crushed bones. Turned groins to pulp.

But never killed them quickly.

*Their pain is less than a ten-thousandth of Kaelxi’s!*

*Not enough! Not enough! NOT ENOUGH!*

*Death? Worthless!*

Fireballs seared him. Swords pierced him. Blood slicked his body. He never slowed.

Weapons brought swift death. So he used none.

He’d grant these monsters the slowest, most hopeless demise imaginable.

The mine echoed with wails. Eighteen broken forms writhed on blood-soaked earth. Only Witt stood.

He conjured a mana staff to prop himself up.

He was gravely wounded. His deliberate cruelty gave guards openings.

His left eyeball had been pierced during the thirteenth execution. Blood blinded his right eye.

His left hand was gone—severed at the wrist during the fifteenth kill. Bandages leaked crimson.

A fireball scorched his chest and throat during the eighteenth. Each breath now tore like knives. Countless other wounds throbbed.

*Clap. Clap. Clap.*

John Shield strolled over, applauding. "*Magnificent. Your name, commoner?*"

"*I am Witt Moonlight!*" His voice rasped, throat burned raw. "*Blood of the Kingdom’s first nobles! Heir to House of the Full Moon Knights—the original justiciar!*"

He swallowed hard.

"*You own this mine?*"

"*Indeed,*" John nodded, weighing Witt’s claim.

"*Then you’re all guilty.*"

Blood-matted hair hid Witt’s ruined left eye. His right eye blazed with fury.

"*Arrogant. Vile. You trample lives. Enslave. Rape women. Defile my wife!*"

*Forgive me for calling you that, Kaelxi.*

*It might… be the last time.*

Witt locked eyes with John. His scorched throat unleashed a beast’s dying roar:

"*PEASANT! LOOK AT ME!*"

"*I find you guilty!*"

"*ALL SENTENCED TO DEATH!*"

Witt’s house had fallen. He was no noble. No rightful judge.

He did this solely for Kaelxi.