Chapter Twenty-Three
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Crax was in a restless mood.
Not angry…
but not calm either.
Something in between—like a silent pressure weighing on his chest.
He remained where he stood, listening to his subordinate's report without real interest. He had already heard all that mattered.
Then he gestured lazily:
"You… come here."
The girl stepped forward.
Slowly.
Fearfully—trying to hide it.
She stopped behind him and placed her trembling hands on his shoulders.
But… she couldn't move them.
His muscles were solid like stone, so tense that her fingers felt as if they were touching a wall, not a human body.
The subordinate continued speaking.
And Crax… smiled.
Then—suddenly—
He grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her toward him.
She fell violently into his lap.
She screamed.
Not just from surprise…
but from pain.
Her body struck him as if she had collided with hard ground—not flesh.
Seconds passed.
Then she realized.
Her shoulder… was dislocated.
Her screams turned into hysterical sobbing.
Crax looked at her for a moment.
With mild surprise.
Then… with disgust.
"Ah… commoners."
He sighed.
"I always forget… how little it takes to break them."
Then he shouted:
"Be quiet. I hate noise."
She tried.
She tried with everything she had to suppress her voice.
But the pain… was stronger.
A broken, muffled whimper escaped her.
Crax threw her off his lap without care.
"Take her."
He said it coldly.
"No use for broken toys."
The subordinate glanced briefly at the woman, then at his lord's irritated face. A faint tightening crossed his brows before he stepped forward and took her.
He dragged her by her dislocated shoulder.
Her screams filled the place.
Her apologies… even more.
She apologized without reason.
Without understanding.
Without meaning.
As if apology… were instinct.
---
Outside…
He stopped.
Gently lowered her.
Looked at her.
With eyes that held a trace of… pity.
But a pity without power.
Without value.
---
"Ahhh!"
Her scream tore through the night.
Then—
The old man appeared.
Running.
A knife in his hand.
His voice shattered:
"I'll kill you!"
The subordinate did not move.
He simply… waited.
---
The old man collided with him.
But the attack… was no attack.
It was desperate.
Weak.
Broken.
In a swift motion, the man caught the old man's wrist and twisted it—the knife flew away. He pushed him lightly, and the old man fell to the ground.
"Father!" the girl cried, trying to run to him.
---
"Why?"
The subordinate spoke calmly.
"Why don't you stop… and live whatever remains of your life? Or for your children… or your grandchildren. Don't throw your life away for nothing."
The old man looked at him—
with eyes full of hatred.
"You don't understand!" he shouted.
"You don't feel!"
The subordinate fell silent for a moment.
Then said… sincerely:
"Old man… why don't you let go of your pride? Go back to your other children. Learn from what happened to your daughter. I'm sorry… truly. But please… step aside. I have to do my duty."
He paused.
"I can't change this world… I'm just—"
"You damned bastard! What do you know about compassion or feelings?! Don't pretend to be righteous! Don't pretend you pity me!"
The old man was shouting, his breathing ragged.
The subordinate looked at him with genuine pain.
"I'm sorry… I'm just a first-level Qaz Lord. I'm not important. I have no real influence. I can't help you. And I can't stop this…"
The old man lunged again—not to kill, but to collapse to his knees before the man. He cried. He cried like a child, striking the young man's chest weakly.
Once.
Twice.
Until his hands bled.
And the subordinate… did not move.
"Give her back… give me back my daughter… she's all I have… my wife died two years ago… she told me to protect her… I failed… I failed…"
The girl was crying behind him, trying to stand, but her dislocated shoulder held her back.
The man looked at them. At the broken old father. At the injured daughter.
He sighed.
"I'm sorry."
He raised his hand.
Slowly.
With real sorrow.
The old man lifted his head, saw the hand—and understood.
But he did not run. Did not retreat. He turned quickly instead, spread his arms, and pulled his daughter into his chest.
His back faced the man.
That old, bent, fragile back.
Until—
The old man embraced his daughter.
Crying.
Trying to protect her.
---
The subordinate stepped closer.
Slowly.
With genuine regret.
"I'm sorry…"
"Close your eyes, little one… don't look…"
The motion lasted no more than an instant.
His arm pierced through the old man's back—
and did not stop.
It emerged from his chest…
and struck the girl behind him.
Piercing her as well.
They fell together.
---
The man stood still, breathing heavily. His gaze was empty. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from something else.
He whispered, barely audible:
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"
---
In the forest—
On a thick branch of a giant tree, Karso lay back, his spine resting against the trunk. He calmly circulated his aura, and before him sat a small bowl filled with herbs and a white mixture.
He opened his eyes.
Looked at the mixture.
It was fermenting—small bubbles rising, cracks forming on its surface.
"It's ready."
He picked up the bowl with one hand and drank it in three gulps.
---
At the edge of the forest, Vargas dismounted his black horse. Strapped to his side was the old sword—the one Ained had given him. He looked at the dense forest ahead, then turned to the soldiers.
"Wait here."
A returning reconnaissance team approached. They were exhausted—but relieved when they saw him.
"Sir! We're back. We didn't find—"
"I've seen the reports. Thank you. Return to the barracks."
The soldiers exchanged looks. One of them stepped forward:
"Sir… let us accompany you. We can help search and contain—"
Vargas shook his head.
"My mission is mine alone. Thank you."
He walked on.
Alone.
His steps cutting into the darkness of the forest.
---
The mixture settled.
Karso placed the clay bowl aside and closed his eyes.
He waited.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then—he felt it.
Warmth.
Not ordinary warmth—but waves of heat spreading from his stomach into every part of his body. Like a dry river suddenly filled again.
He opened his eyes.
Looked at his right hand—the one that had been dead for hours.
He moved his fingers.
Slowly.
Then clenched them.
The pain was still there—but different.
The pain of life, not death.
The poison had not completely vanished.
But it was no longer capable of killing him.
He stood.
His body felt heavier than he remembered—but he could stand.
One step.
Then another.
I'll need hours to fully recover. Perhaps a day. But now… I can fight.
He looked up at the sky through the branches.
The moon had begun to lean westward.
Karso smiled—a cold smile.
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Chapter Twenty-Four (Refined Version)
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He slid off the branch and landed lightly on the ground. He looked around. The forest was silent—but he knew silence never lasted.
There was movement…
Karso stood still, sensing.
Hours ago, dozens of presences had been moving toward him.
Now… all of them had withdrawn.
He began analyzing:
This encirclement style… highly advanced in hunting and containment. Was it "Val"—the one known for Val's method? Could he be from the Empire? Or no… this resembles… the Seven Kingdoms?
Conclusions and strategies crowded his mind, but one thing was certain:
It doesn't matter who devised the method. What matters is that this sudden withdrawal… has a deep tactical and strategic reason.
—
At that moment, Vargas took his first steps into the forest.
But he did not head toward the most likely location of Karso.
Instead, he turned in another direction—the one where his men had been before retreating.
It was not a matter of distrust.
He simply wanted to see the Lord of Threads' traces himself.
To read the battlefield… before reading the man.
—
Karso felt it.
A presence entered his sensory range… then suddenly shifted, heading the opposite direction.
…Hoh.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
This man… a true Qaz Lord.
Third level? No… definitely third level.
Questions rose:
Do I face him now?
Set traps?
Or retreat?
One question mattered most:
In my current state… even if I've neutralized the poison and restored part of my aura… I'm still not fit for a prolonged battle against a powerful Qaz Lord.
Even if I win in the end… the risks are too high.
Traps.
Ambushes.
Other Lords interfering.
One mistake… could cost everything.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
I'll retreat.
He opened them again.
Took a step back.
Then another.
And then—without a sound—
He vanished into the shadows of the trees.
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