Riven’s blade clashed hard against his opponent’s.

Clang!

The impact rang in his ears, sending pain through his palms as if his bones themselves had been struck. The vibration of steel coursed up his arm, rattling his shoulder and chest. His breath hitched, but instead of letting go, the pain only made him grip his sword tighter, terrified that the blade might slip if he loosened his hold even for an instant.

His enemy roared and shoved forward with brute force, driving Riven half a step back. Their eyes met for a brief moment—the man’s gaze blazing red with fury, while Riven’s eyes were sharp, cold, and fueled by adrenaline.

Another strike came almost instantly. The sword swung from the side with devastating power. Riven managed to block, but his guard wavered.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The clash of blades echoed through the house. Sparks flared at every impact, mixing with the dim flashes of lightning from outside. Riven stumbled backward step by step, his movements quick but unrefined, betraying the fact that he had rarely fought men in true combat. His opponent, on the other hand, wielded his weapon with the confidence of someone used to swinging steel to kill.

Riven’s breathing grew ragged. His heart raced, yet his head stayed clear enough to realize one thing. If this dragged on, he would exhaust himself and death would come swiftly.

The man pressed harder, each swing of his blade like a hammer pounding against a fragile wall. Riven’s retreat ended abruptly as his heel struck the wooden table in the room.

Crash!

The table flipped, but Riven had no time to care.

The enemy’s sword slashed again. Riven ducked in time, the blade barely missing his skull. He kicked a chair toward his foe to create distance, but the man shattered it with a furious swing, his rage burning hotter.

Riven had lost momentum. His breath faltered, his shoulders burned from the pressure. He kept backing away until his back hit the wall beside the doorway. The next push from his opponent forced him stumbling out of the house.

The storm swallowed him whole.

Cold rain poured down, drenching their clothes and hair. Blood dripping from Riven’s sword mixed with the rainwater, streaming into the muddy ground beneath their feet.

They fought now beneath the storm-lashed night sky, thunder cracking above them.

Clang!

The clash of blades rang louder in the open air. Their ragged breaths mingled with the pounding rain. Riven tried to parry another strike, but the force of it shook his knees.

The man slashed at his chest. Riven stumbled back, but his foot slipped on the slick ground. His body toppled.

Thud!

He crashed into the mud, cold filth smearing his face and hands. His sword nearly slipped from his grasp, but with desperate strength, he clung to it.

His opponent saw the opening. With a vicious glare, the man raised his sword high, ready to drive it straight into Riven’s chest.

But desperation took hold of Riven.

In one raw, instinctive motion, he swung his blade upward through the curtain of rain. The strike missed the man’s torso, but instead slashed clean through his raised arm.

Slash!

The man’s right hand severed at the elbow, flying off into the mud. Blood burst out in a hot stream, instantly washed by the rain.

“Aaaaaghhh!”

The man’s scream pierced the storm. His face turned ghostly pale, his sword slipping from his severed arm and clattering into the mud.

Riven wasted no time. Summoning the last of his strength, he surged to his feet and tackled the staggering man. They crashed into the ground, rolling in the muck until Riven pinned him down, knee driving hard into his chest.

Riven pressed the point of his sword against the man’s throat, the cold steel biting into skin.

The man thrashed weakly, his remaining hand pushing against Riven’s chest, but his strength was already draining with the blood that poured from his wound.

Riven’s eyes blazed. His voice was hoarse, breath heavy as rain and blood dripped from his face onto his opponent’s.

“Answer me,” he hissed, pressing the blade until it drew a thin line of red across the man’s neck. “Who are you, and why did you come for me?”

The man gasped, body trembling between agony and fear. His mouth opened, but instead of speaking, he only glared up at Riven with desperate, hateful eyes.

Riven pressed harder, the sword’s edge pricking deeper into his throat.

“Speak,” Riven growled coldly. “You have one chance before I cut you open right here.”

The man spat at his face. Blood-mixed saliva streaked Riven’s cheek, only to be washed away by the rain.

“You think if I talk you’ll let me live?” he rasped. “You’ll kill me anyway… so what’s the point?”

The words struck Riven like a truth he couldn’t deny. The man was right. He had no way out. Even his answer would only buy him death. There was no bargaining, no compromise, only the inevitable end of a sword.

Riven’s grip tightened. He studied the man’s face, reading the quick turns of thought in his enemy’s mind as he searched desperately for a chance to strike back. Riven knew he couldn’t allow it.

“It was Jacky who sent you, wasn’t it?” Riven’s voice was quiet but sharp, slicing through the roar of the storm.

For a fraction of a second, shock flickered in the man’s eyes. His gaze widened, lips parting ever so slightly. That tiny reaction was enough for Riven. He had his answer.

And he knew the danger of hesitation.

As expected, the man’s hand shot to the side, snatching up a rock the size of a fist. With a strained shout, he tried to smash it against Riven’s head in one final, desperate move.

But Riven was faster. His blade plunged into the man’s neck, ripping through flesh and tearing his voice away.

Blood gushed hot against the cold rain, spilling down his chest and soaking the ground.

The man convulsed violently, eyes bulging wide with a cocktail of rage, fear, and regret. His breath came in choking spasms, as though an invisible hand was crushing his throat.

Riven’s stare was merciless, unflinching. He watched the light in his enemy’s eyes dim, flicker, and finally vanish.

The storm raged on, heaven itself bearing witness to the death at his hands.

When the man finally went limp, Riven didn’t move. He kept staring at the lifeless face, ensuring the soul within had truly left. His expression was cold, but deep inside, something fragile cracked.

His hand trembled. The sword in his grip felt impossibly heavy now, burdened with the weight of every life he had taken.

Slowly, Riven rose to his feet, gasping for air. His blade still dripped blood, the rain washing crimson into the mud below. He tilted his head upward, letting the storm wash his face clean of blood and sweat.

Today… was the worst day of his last six years.

Five lives. Five men dead by his hands in one night. Too many, especially for someone who had always tried to avoid killing whenever possible.

A single face appeared in his mind.

Jacky.

Riven shut his eyes, letting the image sharpen in his thoughts—Jacky with his insincere smile, his calm but calculating demeanor. They weren’t close, but they had crossed paths often enough that Riven never considered him dangerous. He had even trusted him.

All of that was meaningless now.

Riven could see it clearly: he had left a shop, and Jacky had ordered someone to follow, to uncover his hideout.

But why?

Jacky wasn’t a fool. He only acted if there was something to gain. What benefit was there in sending men to kill Riven? It wasn’t worth the profits Riven had brought him through selling plunder.

Could it be Jacky had discovered Riven had stopped selling exclusively to him? Even then, it wasn’t reason enough.

Riven’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding in anger and confusion. He couldn’t understand. None of it made sense.

Beneath the pounding rain, he tightened his grip on his sword. His face was pale, his body trembling from cold and exhaustion, yet his eyes were sharper than ever. As if the storm that tore the earth apart that night had also stripped away his doubts, leaving behind nothing but grim resolve.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep