He touched his right cheek—the side-beard area , only to find it was bruised , feeling the slight warmth of blood as the sting began to register. Ryke looked toward the direction the arrow had come from. After a minute, his eyes narrowed at a particular spot.

  He opened both hands, palms forward, and his dagger materialized from the air at his summon. Throughout it all, Ryke’s focus never wavered from that same point.

  “Has he seen us?” one voice whispered.

  “No, but you missed,” another replied.

  Ryke glanced down at the man on the ground; he was completely out cold.

  “I don’t think your friends are coming for you,” Ryke muttered, grabbing the man by the left leg and dragging him all the way to the mansion doors.

  “Man, can you lock this guy up?” Ryke called to a passing servant.

  As the servant took the body, Ryke asked, “Have you seen Sherlyn?”

  “Last I saw her, she was with Karl,” the servant replied.

  Ryke immediately changed direction, heading toward Sherlyn’s room. On the way, he ran into Karl, who was also approaching the door.

  “Where’s your sister?” Ryke demanded.

  “The last time I saw her, she went to get some stuff in Hal’thira,” Karl said.

  “The capital?”

  “Yes—but it was a short list. She should’ve been back by now,” Karl replied.

  “Which carriage did she use?” Ryke asked.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “That one,” Karl said, pointing to the approaching carriage.

  Ryke’s gaze fixed on it—the black body, the tinted windows, and the driver whose eyes seemed almost lifeless.

  'That look.' Ryke thought.

  “Go get a weapon!” Ryke shouted.

  Karl hesitated for a moment but trusted Ryke enough not to ask questions.

  Ryke’s eyes stayed on the carriage; by now, it was only meters away.

  “Come out—eight of you!” he barked. “How did you even fit in there? That carriage holds five at most!” He gave a small laugh.

  The doors opened. Eight figures stepped out—no, seven men and a girl in a mask, her long black hair glinting under the light. The girl stayed behind while the men drew their swords.

  “Where’s the girl?” Ryke asked.

  “The girl, she’s—” one began.

  “She’s with the boss,” another interrupted.

  “Maybe she’ll have some fun before he’s done,” said a third, a man with a thick beard and a scarred face.

  Ryke took a slow step forward, his hands feeling heavy—a familiar sensation that came every time he got serious.

  “What did you say? I didn’t catch that,” he said, tilting his head slightly, exposing his left ear.

  The bearded man’s expression flickered with confusion at the movement. “You must be full of yourself,” he muttered, shifting his weight for a strike.

  Before he could move, his head was gone—cleaved clean from his shoulders. Blood burst out like a struck hydrant.

  “That’s a lot of blood,” Ryke remarked, sword slick with red. “Are you all this healthy?”

  “Damn prick! How dare you kill our brother?” one of the others shouted.

  “We’ve got a family,” Ryke replied smoothly. Then, almost casually, “So—who thinks he can survive?”

  “That sword…” muttered one of them, furthest from Ryke, yet his voice carried in the silence.

  “Or this sword,” Ryke said, lifting it slightly. “I call it Hollow—or Whisper, which I also had in mind.” He smiled faintly. “Didn’t know which one to pick, so I went with the first.”

  “You don’t look fazed. Why?” asked the oldest-looking man.

  “I don’t have time,” Ryke replied. “You—last one. You look rational. Mind telling me where the girl is?”

  Before the man could speak, Ryke moved.

  He darted forward, sidestepping a swing, slicing off the attacker’s hand, then finishing with a spinning cut that took his head clean.

  Two brothers down. Five left.

  None dared move.

  “You’re pretty talented,” the masked girl said. “Your ability must be good, because what I’ve seen so far is just swordsmanship.”

  “All I want is Sherlyn. I’d appreciate you telling me.”

  “I’m sorry, but that can’t be done.”

  “Then can I see your face? Seeing it for the first time while you’re dying—it’s just not good enough.”

  Ryke solidified, ready to strike.

  The girl slowly removed her mask, showing the burnt side first before revealing the pretty one. It wasn’t full disfigurement—just the left cheek, spreading slightly beneath her dark blue eye.

  It didn’t matter. Ryke was already lost in those eyes—completely still, unable to move even a finger.

  "The boys wanted to have their fun, so I left them, but I’m also running out of time," she said, walking straight toward him.

  One of the brothers approached Ryke. "He can’t move, right?" he asked the girl.

  "So long as I maintain eye contact, yes," she replied.

  "Then I would like to have the right hand and the head," he said.

  She didn't hesitate to give the "yes," and the man slowly started cutting Ryke’s hand. Just as the situation grew more dangerous for Ryke, Azeya pulled up directly behind the girl.

  "Is that so?" Azeya said, her voice an almost silent whisper in the girl’s ear.

  In a panic, the girl created distance between herself and Azeya, losing focus on Ryke in that critical moment. At the moment of release, Ryke drove his hollow into the man’s eye before kicking him back.

  "See, you got too relaxed," Azeya said, looking at Ryke, who was clutching his bleeding right hand.