Alric narrowed his dark eyes, his seasoned gaze sweeping over the surrounding fish stalls, the heavy iron hooks dangling menacingly from the wooden eaves, and the rusted chains coiled like iron serpents across the docks.
"You're right. It makes him infinitely more dangerous," Alric said. "You won't hear the metallic ring of drawn steel. You won't catch the glint of a drawn blade in the moonlight. Because he turns his entire environment into a slaughterhouse. He improvises. And right now... we are standing in a maritime village absolutely overflowing with lethal implements."
As Alric continued to meticulously scrutinize the dark alleys, Annie pushed her mind to its absolute limits.
"He's gone..." the psychic whispered, her voice hollow and distant. "That suffocating void... it just vanished. It lasted for exactly three seconds, and then it was entirely erased. The immediate area should be clear."
Emily still refused to lower her blade, but she tightened their defensive circle, pulling everyone back-to-back. They strategically positioned Nicolas in the dead center of the formation. "What's the play now, Alric? Are we still heading to Thidrik's galleon, or do we leave these corpses to rot and run for our lives?"
Alric's mind raced through the lethal permutations. His heavy gaze shifted from the expanding lake of blood on the cobblestones to the increasingly narrow, pitch-black alleyways of the village. If the Akrans found these three slaughtered guards here, no amount of logic or deduction about an invisible, weaponless phantom would save them. That savage, drunken mob back at the tavern would wrap the Law of the Docks around their necks in seconds.
The precious grace period Thorleif had granted them until dawn had expired the exact moment the Guard Leader drew his last breath.
"Sheathe your swords," Alric commanded. His tone was absolute, radiating a sub-zero authority that brooked no argument. "We aren't fighting tonight. We are erasing the evidence."
Emily hesitated, her eyes widening in disbelief as she slowly lowered her blade. "Are you out of your mind? We're going to try and escape while dragging three massive corpses behind us?"
"We aren't escaping. We are going to the Silent Revenge," Alric replied grimly. He gestured toward the butchered meat on the freezing stones. "Alex, you take the guard with the shredded throat. Emily, Nicolas—grab the headless one together. Hoist him up by the shoulders and the legs."
A violent wave of nausea slammed into Nicolas. His violently trembling hands finally managed to guide his sword back into its scabbard, but his stomach churned at the sight of the gore. "You have to be joking... That man doesn't have a head, Alric! He's still bleeding out!"
"If you want to survive this night, boy, you had better get used to bathing in blood! Now grab him!" Alric roared.
Forcing his own massive frame into action, Alric dropped into a deep crouch beside Thorleif. The colossal Akran commander was as heavy as a full-grown grizzly bear. Gritting his teeth in sheer, raw exertion, Alric hooked his thick arms under the dead man's armpits. With a grueling, superhuman surge of strength, he hoisted Thorleif's lifeless, armored bulk directly over his own broad shoulders.
His joints popped and his bones groaned in protest under the immense, crushing weight, but the veteran Holy Knight's posture did not break.
Alex could no longer maintain the chilling, sociopathic detachment he had wielded during his forensic analysis at the tavern. The moment his hands clamped around the slaughtered guard's arms, the dead man's still-warm blood instantly soaked right through the sleeves of his jacket. He swallowed hard, feeling the bitter, acidic burn of bile rising in his throat. But he forced it down, biting his lip and shouldering the dead weight without uttering a single word.
A few paces behind him, Emily and Nicolas hoisted the headless corpse, each grabbing an end of the butchered giant. Nicolas's face was the color of chalk. With every agonizing step, the boy lived through the sheer, visceral terror of the sticky, congealing warmth clinging to his trembling fingers.
Annie, however, carried no physical burden. She simply walked alongside them, her hollow eyes sweeping the darkness. Her mind expanded outward, blanketing every corner, alley, and rooftop of the village like an invisible radar. She stood absolute guard, her psychic senses dialed to their absolute limits to catch the faintest crunch of a boot or the slightest ripple of hostile intent.
"Total silence until we hit the docks," Alric commanded, his voice a breathless but ironclad whisper. "The freezing wind and the salt will freeze and scatter whatever blood trails we leave behind. When we reach the galleon, we tie the heavy mooring stones to their ankles and sink them into the abyss. The sea keeps every secret."
And so, the group of five began their grueling march through the pitch-black streets, bearing the heavy, rotting burden of death on their shoulders.
It was as if the brutal, freezing gale of Akrafjall was actively conspiring to help them; Cheyra's Breath howled viciously at their backs, violently swallowing the desperate, ragged sounds of their footsteps and their heavy breathing. At every intersection, they halted, holding their breath and melting into the shadows. They only moved when Annie gave the silent, psychic signal that the path was clear.
By the time they cleared the village center, Alex's arms had gone completely numb, the lactic acid burning through his muscles. Nicolas, meanwhile, was wheezing, struggling just to pull the freezing air into his lungs.
After a torturous twenty-minute trek that felt like an entire, agonizing lifetime, the biting scent of dense ocean moss and rotting, salt-cured wood intensified violently.
The docks were right in front of them.
At the very edge of the sprawling wooden pier, mercilessly battered by the crashing black waves, a colossal galleon loomed over the water. Its hull was painted a bruised, pitch-black, camouflaging it almost entirely against the night sky. Its massive masts reached up like the skeletal fingers of a giant, while faded, salt-eaten letters carved into the bow of the ghost ship proudly declared its name:
Silent Revenge.
The moment their boots hit the heavy wooden planks of the pier, Alric let Thorleif's massive, armor-clad corpse slide from his shoulders. The giant hit the docks with a sickening, heavy thud. Alex, Emily, and Nicolas instantly dropped their own gruesome burdens, collapsing to their knees on the frozen wood, gasping desperately for air.
Scattered all across the pier were thick, tarred mooring ropes, massive rusted iron rings, and heavy, jagged blocks of ballast stone used to weigh down the trade ships.
Without even bothering to wipe the freezing sweat drenched across his forehead, Alric immediately reached for one of the thick, tar-coated ropes.
"Alex, Nicolas. Get up. Tie those ballast stones to their ankles immediately. Be quick about it," Alric barked, his voice grinding with gritty, survivalist pragmatism. "Emily, Annie—spread out and keep watch. We have to finish erasing this mess before we breach Thidrik's ship."
Alric yanked the rope tight around Thorleif's boots, his jaw clenching in raw, unfiltered frustration. "Where the fuck is Ronan? Look at the absolute slaughterhouse he's dragged us into."