chapter 18.3

As Alcard and his team neared the ruins, their pace slowed, and they took cover behind a dense thicket of shrubs, allowing them to observe the site without being noticed. In the distance, the remnants of an ancient structure loomed over the barren land, a silent witness to time's relentless march. The landscape was eerily still, filled with skeletal trees stripped of their leaves and patches of dry grass that barely clung to life. Vines and moss had overtaken the cracked stone walls, a testament to decades, perhaps centuries, of abandonment. Yet despite its seemingly lifeless appearance, the trained eyes of the outcasts could detect faint signs that this place was not as deserted as it appeared.

Alcard raised a hand, signaling his team to halt. His gaze sharpened as he surveyed the ruins, catching glimpses of movement—figures slipping between the shadows of the broken walls, moving with an air of purpose. These were not mere travelers or looters stumbling upon an old ruin. Their posture, their careful footwork, the way they carried their weapons—everything pointed to the unmistakable presence of trained fighters.

"Look at that," he whispered, gesturing toward the patrolling figures.

One of the older outcasts beside him, a hardened warrior who had survived countless missions, peered at them before muttering under his breath, "Bandits."

But Alcard wasn't convinced. His keen eyes studied their movements further, tracking the way they systematically scanned their surroundings, their weapons at the ready. There was a discipline in their patrol, a methodical nature that did not align with the typical chaos of mere scavengers. He counted at least a dozen of them, each positioned strategically, forming a defensive perimeter around the ruins. Their armor, though mismatched, was far from the ragged gear of common thugs. Their blades gleamed even in the dim light, well-maintained and sharp. These were not desperate criminals looking for scraps.

"No," Alcard murmured, his voice low and edged with certainty. "They're not just bandits. Their formations are too structured, too professional. They're mercenaries—paid to guard this place. And if I had to guess who hired them, I'd say it's Tanivar."

A quiet understanding passed between the outcasts. If Tanivar had gone to such lengths to secure this site, then whatever lay hidden here was of immense value.

Alcard exhaled slowly, his decision firm in his mind. "We can't let them leave here alive. If they're here under Tanivar's orders, then they're a direct threat to our mission. From this moment on, no survivors."

There was no hesitation from his team. They were outcasts, warriors forged in the unforgiving fires of The Wall, accustomed to making hard choices. They knew that mercy was a luxury they could not afford. Letting even one of these mercenaries escape could mean jeopardizing everything.

Silently, they spread out, each moving into position with practiced ease. Alcard took the lead, gliding through the cover of darkness, his presence blending seamlessly with the night. He studied the patrol routes carefully, waiting for the precise moment to strike. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, anticipation humming in his veins.

One of the outcasts, positioned at an optimal angle, threw a dagger with precise lethality. The blade sank into the throat of an unsuspecting guard, silencing him before he could react. The body crumpled soundlessly, disappearing into the shadows.

Alcard gave the signal.

In a matter of seconds, a volley of arrows cut through the night, striking their targets with chilling accuracy. The mercenaries fell one by one, their deaths silent and unnoticed by their comrades—until, inevitably, one of them turned at the wrong moment, his eyes widening as he registered the unnatural stillness around him.

"Attack!" he shouted, his voice splitting the silence.

And just like that, the stealth was shattered.

The ruins erupted into chaos as the remaining mercenaries scrambled for cover, drawing their weapons in desperate readiness. Some tried to regroup, seeking defensive positions behind the crumbling stone walls, while others surged forward, attempting to push back against the unseen enemy. But Alcard would not allow them that chance.

"Don't let them escape!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the melee like steel through flesh.

A mercenary lunged at him, blade flashing under the moonlight, but Alcard moved first. He sidestepped the thrust with ease, pivoting fluidly before driving his sword deep into the attacker's ribs. The man gasped, his eyes going wide in shock before he collapsed.

The rest of the outcasts fought with ruthless efficiency. They worked in tandem, covering each other's blind spots, eliminating threats before they could regroup. The mercenaries, despite their training, were unprepared for such a well-coordinated assault. They faltered, falling one by one, until the last of them was cut down amidst the ruins.

Silence returned, save for the distant howl of the wind through the broken stone corridors.

Alcard stood amidst the bodies, his blade slick with blood. His breath was steady, though his pulse still thrummed with the residual energy of battle. His gaze lifted to the ruins ahead, looming even larger now that the immediate threat had been eliminated.

"This was just the beginning," he murmured, voice low but resolute.

One of the senior outcasts approached, his breathing still heavy from the skirmish. "We've cleared the area. But are you sure there aren't any others lurking around?"

Alcard didn't take his eyes off the ruins. "We can't assume anything. Stay sharp. If anyone else is here, they won't stay hidden for long. From now on, no chances. No mercy."

Without hesitation, the outcasts moved to secure the perimeter, checking the bodies for clues—anything that might indicate who these mercenaries truly were or what they had been instructed to protect.

Alcard, however, remained still, his focus entirely on the massive stone ruins before him. There was something about this place—an unshakable feeling that whatever was buried within these crumbling walls held a significance far beyond what even Tanivar and The Veil realized.

His fingers tightened around his sword hilt.

He didn't know what awaited him inside, but one thing was clear.

This was no ordinary mission.

This was a race against time.

And failure was not an option.

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