The man looked wretched. His clothes were scorched, torn in several places. His skin was blackened and charred, cracked like parched earth split by drought. From the fissures, blood seeped slowly, leaving sharp red stains against the dark surface.

Each step he took was unsteady, as though a mere gust of wind could topple him. Yet his eyes still blazed with grim resolve, radiating a hatred so thick it could not be denied.

In his hand he clutched a sword. The tip trembled, for its master could barely hold up his own body.

Riven observed the sight with a cold expression. He glanced slightly toward the wagon, then spoke in a voice that was deep and laden with seriousness.

“Melly, whatever happens, stay inside the wagon. Do not come out, and…”

His words faltered. Riven clenched his teeth, as though choosing words that weighed too heavily to speak. A few seconds later he continued, his tone heavier.

“…please, cover your eyes and ears.”

Melly, sitting inside the wagon, widened her eyes. Her brother’s words sounded strange, stirring her curiosity all the more. Her heart pounded, and her hand even moved toward the door, tempted to see what Riven was looking at.

But his voice came again, rougher now, heavy with pleading.

“I beg you, Melly. A beast is walking toward us. Please close your eyes and ears. Promise me.”

The tone was different. It was not a harsh command, but a plea born of urgency and despair. Melly froze. She knew the excuse of a “beast” was not the full truth. If it were a beast, there would be no need to shut her ears. Yet from the weight of his voice, she understood her brother truly needed her obedience this time.

Her fists tightened on her lap, her body trembling slightly. Then she spoke in a taut voice.

“All right. I promise.”

She shut her eyes tightly, pressing her palms against her ears. Even so, her heart hammered as though ready to burst. She trusted in one thing alone: her brother would never ask her to do this unless it was for her own good.

Outside the wagon, Riven exhaled heavily. He began walking away, leaving Melly and the injured woman inside. His steps were steady though the wet earth squelched under his boots.

And there, before him, stood the white-haired man—Dyrtose. His breathing was harsh, each gasp rattling from a chest full of wounds. His body seemed unfit to remain standing, yet his eyes had not dimmed in the slightest.

Riven watched in silence, until at last a voice rasped from the man’s cracked lips.

“Where… is the woman?” Dyrtose’s words were broken, hoarse, nearly drowned beneath the sound of his labored breath. Each syllable was forced through a parched throat.

Riven stood rigid. His fingers drifted unconsciously to the hilt of the sword at his waist, still wrapped in rough cloth. A dark intuition crept through his mind, a warning that he would soon be forced to draw it.

“I do not know what woman you mean,” Riven answered flatly, though inside he was on guard.

Dyrtose staggered forward, blood dripping from his wounds. His crimson eyes glowed in the night’s shadow, piercing Riven as if to strip away lies. “Do you want to die? I know she is in that wagon… with your sister.”

Riven cursed inwardly. The man looked as though he could collapse at any moment, yet the aura emanating from him was far more threatening than the three thugs Riven had slain earlier. Those wounds did not weaken him. They proved he was no ordinary human. A normal man would have been long dead, yet this one still stood, sword in hand.

Riven doubted he could win in a fight against him.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Riven asked in a flat voice, “Very well… I do not know if she is the woman you seek, since you gave me no description. So tell me, what do you intend to do to her?”

Dyrtose’s face hardened, his eyes blazing with boiling hatred. He dragged his feet through the mud, each step like the toll of a funeral bell. “I will… kill her,” he swore, his voice steeped in vengeance. “Do not stand in my way, or you too will die by my hand.”

Riven fell silent. The words struck like a hammer to the skull. There was no room for negotiation. Only two choices remained: protect the woman and face this dying yet dangerous man, or let the stranger perish at his hands.

If it had been his former self, he would have chosen the second option without hesitation. The woman had nothing to do with him or his sister. But now… he remembered the promise he had made to his sister, that he was sick of living this way.

Riven clenched his fist and spoke in a cold voice. “Fine. Kill the woman. But promise me one thing, do not touch my sister in the wagon. I told her to close her eyes and ears.”

Dyrtose paused for a moment, staring with blood-darkened eyes. Then he stepped forward again, swaying but unyielding. “Agreed.”

He walked past Riven without slowing.

Riven held his breath. His heart pounded. He was exhausted. He did not want to fight anymore, especially not for someone he did not even know.

Yes, that was the wisest choice. The woman’s life was not his responsibility. There was no reason to sacrifice himself for a stranger. Not if it meant killing this man to save her. That was what he repeated in his head, over and over, as if to convince himself.

Yet his hand moved on its own. In silence, he drew the small dagger tucked at his waist. If the man truly passed him, he would drive the blade into his back.

But before the dagger left its sheath, Dyrtose suddenly turned. With lightning speed, his sword rose and slashed toward Riven’s spine.

Riven barely reacted in time. Instinct hurled him sideways, breath caught, heart shattering in his chest. The strike nearly tore through his back. He rolled into the mud, then scrambled up with wide eyes.

“Why did you attack me?!” Riven shouted, his breath ragged.

Dyrtose halted, turned, and his face twisted with pain as he spoke. “I feel… you will stand in my way.”

Riven’s teeth ground together, fury and fear colliding in his chest.

The man had gone mad, no longer capable of clear thought. His mind was consumed by only one thing: to kill the woman, and to destroy anyone who dared stand in his path.

There was no escape.

Riven’s trembling hand seized the hilt of his sword. He tore away the cloth shroud. In an instant, the blade caught the moonlight—gleaming white like ice, etched with golden runes that pulsed faintly, as if breathing.

He raised the weapon, his body taut, his breath heavy. He could no longer run. If he wished to survive, if he wished to keep his promise to his sister, then he had to fight.

At once, he stepped forward and struck at Dyrtose.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep