Riven carefully set down all the items he had gathered, arranging them into small piles behind the scattered corpses. He made sure the large cloth holding his loot didn’t make a sound as it pressed against the damp, blood-soaked ground.

The night on the battlefield felt suffocating. The wind crept slowly through the bodies and blood-stained metal, carrying the sharp stench of iron and rotting flesh. Riven held his breath, every second stretching out as if time itself had slowed, and he crouched low, slipping behind the bulk of a black-armored soldier lying on the ground.

His eyes were sharp, analyzing every slightest movement around him. The emblem of the Mordune Kingdom was etched clearly across the man’s chest. Parts of his body were charred, skin and flesh blackened like smoldering charcoal.

Still, the man moved slightly. His breathing was weak, almost imperceptible, but enough to keep Riven alert. His eyes were half-open, blinking slowly as though waking from a long, terrible dream.

Riven stayed still, pressing his body close to the ground. Several minutes passed before he was certain the man posed no immediate threat.

Slowly, he crawled closer, brushing the earth under his knees to avoid making a sound. His breathing was heavy but controlled. Finally, their eyes met.

The soldier’s gaze was clouded and pale, yet there was a flicker of awareness. His stare pierced Riven as if whispering without sound: “Kill me.” His lips parted slightly, but no voice came.

Riven drew a deep breath, the cold night air filling his lungs. He leaned in closer, just an arm’s length from the man. In silence, his heart weighed the moment.

“All right,” he murmured softly, almost like a prayer. “I will kill you. Now pray to whatever god you believe in.”

The man closed his eyes. Not out of fear, but as if accepting death as the final mercy from a world already too cruel.

Riven drew the etched steel dagger from beneath his cloak, the same weapon he had taken from another corpse. His grip was steady, deliberate, not rushed. He bent slightly, studying the contours of the man’s body, measuring the final seconds with the precision his work demanded.

“I will end you on the count of three,” he warned quietly.

One.

Two.

Before he reached three, the dagger pierced the man’s chest directly toward his heart. Thick, hot blood flowed, soaking Riven’s hand. The man went still. His last breath escaped in a soft sigh, almost inaudible. No scream, no struggle, just a silence that cut through the night.

Riven withdrew the dagger without expression. He did not wipe the blood from his hand, merely slipping it back under his cloak as if storing a handkerchief. It was not the first time he had done this.

He had encountered many soldiers like this, unfortunate souls who survived only to endure more suffering. Their bodies broken, their spirits near gone, and the only remaining mercy was a swift death.

Once, Riven would have felt sick. He remembered the first soldier he helped die. He had trembled, even cried afterward, plagued by nightmares and secret tears in the night.

Now, he felt only calm.

‘Am I cruel?’ he thought silently. ‘No. I am realistic. I give them a better end than this cruel world would offer.’

Naive mercy had long had no place here. If he did not act, they would suffer longer or become food for beasts before death came. What he did was not a crime. It was kindness wrapped in blood.

He felt no guilt. No disturbance. Once, he might have had nightmares, but now he slept peacefully. Riven knew he was only doing what had to be done and that was enough.

He stood, the sound of his cloak brushing the dirt faint, and looked at the Mordune soldier’s now perfectly still body. He glanced around, making sure the battlefield was still safe to move. More work awaited.

He continued his search, checking corpses one by one. His hands were quick as they pulled weapons, inspected broken armor, and emptied leather pouches. His eyes were sharp, moving like a hunter accustomed to reading the field. Not a moment was wasted.

Among pools of blood and piles of dead flesh, Riven pressed on. The night grew deeper, but his mind stayed focused. Every body he overturned was a new opportunity: weapons, coins, supplies, even shoes that were still usable.

Shifting a corpse clad in light armor, disappointment greeted him. Nothing remained, only a bullet wound in the chest and rotting hands.

He muttered under his breath and moved to the next corpse. This man had once worn lavish armor, now dented and partially burnt. Yet even damaged, it stood out. Black metal mingled with silver, thin lines that had once caught the light.

Riven carefully rolled the man over. There it was. A sword. Half-hidden beneath the body, its hilt protruding with a faint glimmer.

He bent down and slowly drew it. The blade looked like white ice, simple yet elegant. As he examined it closer, golden runes appeared on its surface, faintly pulsing as if the sword had a life of its own.

Riven’s hands trembled as he lifted it. Its weight felt ordinary, but the aura it radiated made his heart race. He glanced around, worried that someone might appear and snatch it from him.

Riven stared at the sword, frozen for a moment on the white-ice blade adorned with glowing runes. Suddenly, a piece of knowledge he had once heard from a weapons shop owner resurfaced in his mind.

Basic weapons were known as Standard. Made from ordinary iron, wielded by common soldiers with no skill or access to magic. Simple in form, meant only for survival and cutting down foes.

Above that was Forged. Crafted by skilled blacksmiths using magic-infused materials. These blades were lighter, more durable, sometimes imbued with minor magical effects to enhance their wielder’s agility. Only a few soldiers could own one, and the price was far higher than standard weapons.

Next was Runed. Swords inscribed with magical runes. Not mere decoration, the runes indicated residual magical power, able to strengthen attacks, protect the wielder, or even store special abilities.

Rarer still were Masterworks, legendary creations by renowned craftsmen. No two were identical. Collectors and nobles imagined their worth with open mouths. Even a common soldier wielding one felt as if the weapon itself had chosen its owner.

Then came Relics. Ancient heirlooms passed down through generations, often hidden in lost wars. Many believed a Relic could change the course of battle or even the fate of its owner.

And at the very top, the rarest of all, were Exalted. Sacred weapons revered by nations and kingdoms. Only a handful existed in the world. A wielder of an Exalted weapon was not just powerful but bound by a destiny far greater than their own strength.

Riven closed his eyes for a moment, letting the information settle. The sword he held—the white-ice blade with softly pulsing golden runes—most likely ranked as Runed. For a scavenger like him, owning a Runed sword was like discovering an invaluable treasure.

Euphoria crept into his chest. His eyes widened, and he couldn’t help but scream silently in his head: “I’m rich!”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep