The woman's heart nearly stopped. She let out a piercing scream.
At that instant, the men who had been chasing her from a distance caught up.
The leader—shirt already half torn off in excitement—lunged forward the moment he heard her cry, claws reaching for her hair.
Before his fingers could close, a hard object smashed into his face with brutal force. The impact sent him flying backward; he crashed to the ground in a heap.
The one who struck was, of course, Ethan Cole, who had stepped out from behind the tree.
The moment he drew his blade and realized the runner he had tripped was a woman, his first thought was that she must be a survivor from the ruined coastal village—and the men pursuing her could only be the same raiders who had carried out the massacre.
Even if they weren't, the scene was damning enough: several grown men laughing and chasing a barely clothed woman through the dark forest at night. No decent people behaved that way.
Ethan emerged fully into the moonlight. He first used the scabbard of his longsword to sweep the legs out from under the closest pursuer. Then he stepped forward, gripped the scabbard in both hands reverse-style, and drove the tip straight into the second man's forehead. The man dropped like a stone, unconscious before he hit the dirt.
The third raider—furious and shocked—yanked an axe from his belt and swung it toward Ethan's head in a wild overhead chop.
Ethan didn't retreat. He advanced instead—lunging forward and driving a plated fist deep into the man's stomach. As the raider doubled over, gasping, Ethan followed with a vicious uppercut. The third man collapsed backward, out cold.
The last pursuer—finally realizing the situation—remembered he was only a lightly armored militiaman in untreated furs facing a fully plated warrior with a longsword. He spun on his heel and bolted.
He didn't get far. In his blind panic he ran straight into a tree trunk, rebounded, and knocked himself unconscious.
At that moment the first man Ethan had floored staggered back to his feet, cursing, and pulled a dagger from somewhere inside his torn shirt. He charged with a desperate stab.
Ethan didn't dodge. He simply stepped into range, gripped the scabbard in both hands, and thrust forward. The blunt end slammed into the man's gut with crushing force. The raider dropped to his knees, retching violently.
"Pathetic," Ethan muttered.
He stepped forward and delivered a single, precise kick to the side of the man's head. The raider crumpled without another sound.
In barely a handful of seconds Ethan had dismantled four armed men—without once drawing blood.
With the immediate threat neutralized, he walked over to the woman, who by now had been gently calmed by Kevin standing protectively beside her.
"Miss," Ethan said quietly, voice steady behind the helm, "it's over. You're safe now. Can you tell us what happened?"
The woman looked up at him—then at the nearest unconscious raider sprawled in the dirt. Something snapped inside her.
She snatched a fist-sized rock from the ground, lunged at the nearest body, and brought the sharp edge down again and again on the man's skull with savage, wordless fury.
After several wet, sickening thuds the man's head was reduced to a pulped ruin. Only then did her strength give out. She collapsed beside the corpse, sobbing uncontrollably.
Ethan made no move to stop her. When Kevin instinctively started forward to comfort her, Ethan raised a gauntleted hand and held him back. They simply stood in silence and let her release what she needed to release.
When the sobs finally quieted to ragged breathing, the woman crawled to Ethan's feet, clutched his armored leg, and begged in a broken voice:
"Please, sir… save my friends! They're still in the forest—those pirates are holding them!"
"Pirates…" Ethan's voice was low. "You're from the village by the sea—the one we just passed?"
The woman froze. Her voice trembled.
"Are… are there still people alive there? In my home?"
Ethan shook his head once.
Her body sagged. The last light seemed to drain from her eyes.
A long moment passed. Then she forced herself upright and spoke urgently:
"Kind sir—please help us! They're camped by the river just ahead."
"How many left?"
"Three. They stayed behind to guard the other captives."
Ethan tapped a finger against the hilt of his sword.
"So these four were expendable."
He walked to the second unconscious raider, placed an iron boot on the man's fingers, and slowly pressed down.
A few seconds later the man woke screaming. He tried to scramble up—Ethan kicked him hard in the stomach, dropping him again.
Ethan crouched, seized the man by the hair, and forced his face upward.
"There's a village about fifteen miles back along the coast," Ethan said calmly. "Everyone in it is dead. Did you do it?"
The raider's eyes flicked toward the woman, then darted away. He opened his mouth—Ethan cut him off.
"Speak clearly." He nodded toward the corpse whose skull the woman had just caved in. "His answer didn't satisfy me."
The man swallowed hard, glancing again at the ruined head.
"Y-yes… Boss Covens ordered it. Said we couldn't let word get out…"
"Are you the leader of this group?"
"N-no… I'm not. Our leader didn't come with us—he's still back at camp…"
"Understood."
Ethan drew his dagger in one smooth motion and drew it across the man's throat in a single deep slash.
The raider's hands flew to his neck, trying to stem the bright arterial spray. It was useless. Within moments he was choking on blood and foam, then he went still in a widening pool.
Ethan wiped the blade clean on the dead man's tunic, sheathed it, and stood.
He turned to Kevin.
"Take my sword. Cut off their heads."
Kevin's voice cracked.
"Cut… them off?"
"Can't you?" Ethan's tone sharpened slightly. "I watched you behead fish cleanly enough. Fish fight back. These won't."
Before Kevin could answer, the fool who had knocked himself out against the tree suddenly lurched to his feet and bolted into the darkness.
Ethan gave a cold snort, drew his longsword, and—with a casual flick of the wrist—hurled it.
The blade spun once and buried itself deep in the fleeing man's back. He pitched forward with a choked cry and lay still.
Ethan walked over, planted a boot on the corpse's back, and yanked the sword free.
He raised it high, aimed carefully at the neck, and brought it down in a single clean stroke.
A severed head rolled free.
Ethan picked it up by the hair, turned back to Kevin, and said flatly:
"Like that. One full-powered stroke. Understood?"
Through the slits of his helm Kevin caught a brief, cold glint in Ethan's eyes. He shivered involuntarily but nodded fast.
"Yes, sir—as you command, sir!"
Hands shaking, Kevin accepted the short sword "Azure Song" that Ethan handed him.
He approached the last conscious (but still dazed) raider, steeled himself, and drove the blade deep into the man's chest. When the body stopped twitching, he—with gritted teeth—mimicked Ethan's motion and took the head.
He glanced back at Ethan for approval. Ethan gave none—just watched impassively.
So Kevin, swallowing bile, beheaded the remaining two.
When all four heads were separated from their bodies, Ethan gave a short nod.
"Weapons are a warrior's life. When we reach water, wash the blades thoroughly and dry them properly. Otherwise they'll rust."
Kevin stared at the four headless corpses, then at Ethan.
*That's what you're worried about right now?*
Of course Ethan wasn't collecting heads for sport. He wasn't a sadist. This was tactical.
While Kevin carried out the grim task, Ethan's face—hidden behind the visor—was pale as death.
Back on Earth he wouldn't step on an ant if he could avoid it.
Yet here, reason had told him it was necessary—so he did it.
No hatred. No pleasure. Just cold calculation.
Even he was surprised by how easily the decision had come.
Was he truly this ruthless?
Or had slaughtering thousands of monsters—humanoid and otherwise—during countless raids in Azeroth quietly rewired something inside him?
He didn't know.
But in this world, mercy to enemies was cruelty to yourself. That much he understood clearly.
Ethan tore strips from the dead men's clothing, tied the four heads together by the hair, and hung the grisly bundle from his belt.
When he straightened, the sight was stark: a tall figure in shining golden plate, four severed heads dangling at his waist like obscene trophies.
Even the woman he had just rescued flinched.
For a moment she wondered whether she had truly been saved—or simply fallen into the hands of something far more terrifying.
Yet when she looked again at the twisted, hateful faces of those heads, a strange reassurance settled over her.
It was an unsettling feeling.
Ethan turned to her.
"Lead us to their camp."
On the way he asked about the raiders' origins.
The woman—still shaken—began to speak.
Her name was Claire. No family name. Just the daughter of an ordinary fisherman.
The little seaside hamlet where she had lived had no official name. The villagers called it "our village"; outsiders called it "the village by the sea."
Though small and poor, it wasn't unclaimed land.
It fell under the protection of House Corbert—a cadet branch of House Horwood—and more directly under the garrison of Rodney Corbert.
"Garrison?" Ethan asked. Another unfamiliar term.
"Ser Rodney protects several nearby villages—including ours. In return we send him dried fish, good shells, and whatever little coin we can scrape together. But he usually stays at his manor in Redstone Village. He rarely comes here. When tax time comes, Uncle Bill and a few others deliver the tribute."
Ethan nodded slowly.
"So he's essentially a guardian knight."
Claire tilted her head, puzzled.
"Knight? What's that?"
Kevin answered quietly from behind:
"Sir, to be a knight one must swear oaths to defend the honor of the Seven Gods—or the Old Gods in the North. So there are no true knights north of the Neck."
*Understood,* Ethan thought. *Northern equivalent of a landed knight.*
"Go on," he told Claire.
She continued her story.
She was nineteen—already considered past prime marrying age—and still unmarried, much to her parents' frustration.
She didn't care.
She had no desire to end up like Aunt Amy: wed to a man she didn't love, raising children, doing endless chores, and taking beatings.
As long as she could work, her parents wouldn't force her out.
Two days earlier a peddler had arrived with several bundles of old, patched fishing nets for sale. No one bought them. He lingered at the village edge for a short while, then left.
That same night a longship carrying more than twenty raiders beached in the dark. The peddler was among them—he had scouted the village for his comrades.
The pirates moved house to house under cover of night, kicking in doors and killing everyone they found. Only a handful of young women—including Claire—were spared and taken captive.
This morning the main raiding party had split off and vanished into the forest, heading inland.
A smaller group—only seven men—remained behind with the captives, finding a sheltered spot near a stream.
When the larger force left, hope had flickered among the prisoners.
After whispered discussion the girls agreed to try escaping under cover of darkness.
They waited through a long, agonizing day.
When night finally fell, Claire seized her moment and ran—chaos erupting behind her.
In the confusion only she had gotten away.
She realized too late that the guards had let her run for sport—chasing her like a hunted deer.
Claire stopped and pointed toward a massive tree more than ten meters tall.
"We're here," she whispered. "Their camp is under that tree."
Ethan peered through the darkness and dense undergrowth.
Nothing visible yet.
He turned to her.
"Find a safe spot and lie low. Don't come out until I call you."
Then to Kevin:
"Take sword and shield. Follow behind me—but stay hidden. Only show yourself when the fighting starts. Your job is to block the path. Don't let any of them escape."
Kevin swallowed hard but saluted with a fist to his chest.
"Yes, sir."
The two men moved forward silently, shadows among shadows.
Under the great tree Claire had indicated, a thin, bearded man with rotten teeth was slowly turning a skewered hen over the campfire.
He muttered worriedly,
"Why isn't Shane back yet?"
A younger man sitting nearby sneered.
"If he ruins that woman, it's not your problem. She's Andy's prize. Let them fight over it."
He turned to a third man—short-haired, silent, clearly the leader of this remnant group.
"Boss, Covins left us here to guard the prisoners. Did he say anything about extra pay?"