Night Raid

The mercenaries were celebrating their so-called victory in the tavern, and the air was thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and the remnants of bloodshed. Among them, one of the magicians, a gaunt figure with a twisted grin, spoke with vile amusement.

"Truly a breathtaking creature. I've been dying to get my hands on her ever since we set off!" he leered.

The scarred man—boss of the mercenaries—shot him a disdainful look. "If you want to catch her yourself, then you'll be responsible for delivering her to the employer. If anything goes wrong, you'll bear the full wrath of the client, Erik."

Erik immediately wiped the grin off his face, visibly uncomfortable. "I was just daydreaming... didn't mean to act on it."

"Hmph! Better not."

With a dismissive grunt, the scarred man walked over toward the cage where the elf girl was kept. Her eyes, burning with hatred, followed him intently.

"Though I can't get too dirty, you..." the scarred man trailed off as his hand casually produced a whip. With a sharp crack, the lash struck the elf's arm, leaving a long, red mark.

The elf girl flinched violently but bit her lip, refusing to make a sound.

"Again with your silence, huh? You're a tough one. But you've cost me a lot of men, elf girl. I think you need to scream—let out some of that pain. Maybe I'll reward you with a bit of food on the way," the scarred man sneered, grinning with sadistic delight.

The whip cracked again, and the elf's body trembled as the pain burned through her. But still, she remained silent, defying him.

The scarred man didn't stop. He was determined to make her scream, to release his own frustration. This was his way of coping with the losses he'd suffered. For him, inflicting pain was a way to regain control, especially when things didn't go as planned.

The whip was enchanted—designed to deal double the pain without causing permanent injury. The scarred man had spent a great deal of money acquiring it, a clear indication of how much he relished tormenting others.

After a while, he paused, clearly irritated by the elf's stoic silence. Though the whip had caused no lasting damage, the pain it inflicted was more than most could bear, and the scarred man had learned from experience that excessive use could break a person's mind. He'd once overdone it with a subordinate, driving him to madness.

He wasn't concerned about the elf's body—after all, she was a slave, a possession. What mattered more to him was not ruining the goods for his employer. Still, her continued resistance angered him.

"Such a stubborn race," he muttered under his breath. "You never know when to bow your head. This will only end worse for you."

For a moment, it seemed as though the elf had resigned herself to the pain. But then, her voice broke through the silence, quiet yet steady. "You... all of you sinners... my mother sees everything you do to our kind. One day, she will settle the score."

Her words were not just defiance. They were a warning. In the language of the Forest Elves, "mother" referred to the forest itself—their sacred protector, their deity.

The scarred man laughed, his voice dripping with mockery. "What 'mother'? Your so-called goddess? Let her come, and I'll deal with her too."

His laughter was echoed by the rest of the mercenaries, who joined in with cruel humor, unaware of the depths of the elf girl's anger. As they walked away, the elf girl's tears fell silently, her grief and rage consuming her.

The revelry of the mercenaries continued late into the night, with their laughter ringing through the tavern. The hours passed, and the quiet of the village settled in. Only the song of a lone nightingale filled the silence.

And then, like a shadow, Glen moved.

He had waited for the cover of night to strike. He knew that making a spectacle of himself in broad daylight would attract too much attention. In this world, a man known for defeating strong mercenaries would quickly become a target. As strong as he was, he was not invincible.

From the roof of a nearby building, Glen observed the tavern, where the mercenaries were still drunk with victory. The new recruits were stationed outside, maintaining their watch. Their vigilance, however, was nothing compared to the true threat inside—the three magicians. Glen knew they had likely set up alarm magic around the tavern, though he couldn't detect it himself. Still, he had a plan.

Using the remaining mercenaries as a reference, he quickly deduced the probable locations of the magicians' quarters. His eyes narrowed in determination. Then, with a powerful flex of his legs, his muscles bulged beneath his clothes as he crouched, preparing for the leap.

With a sudden burst of strength, he launched himself into the night sky. The sound of the roof collapsing echoed across the town as Glen shot through the air like a cannonball.

"By the gods! Who's there?" a voice shouted from below.

A bag of silver coins dropped from Glen's hands and landed near the mercenaries, silencing the outcry. The silver clinked softly in the night, and the men stopped their yelling. Only one figure moved quickly through the shadows.

Glen had already descended to the ground by the time the mercenaries opened the bag, the sound of wind whipping past them masking his presence. He landed with a soft thud, his landing controlled and precise. His hands—transformed into strong wolf-like claws—pressed against the ground, absorbing the impact.

From the darkness, the three magicians in their rooms stirred. They had felt a slight disturbance in the magic they'd set, but it was so subtle that they were unsure of its cause. They hesitated, unsure if it was an accidental trigger or something else.

The first magician, who had risen from his bed to investigate, was met with an arm like iron around his neck. A sickening crack echoed in the silence as his neck snapped effortlessly. His body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

The second and third magicians, oblivious to their comrade's death, opened their doors almost simultaneously. The lanky magician who had spoken earlier and his companion barely registered the movement before a similar fate befell them. Their necks were twisted with a speed and precision that left no room for resistance.

Glen stood still in the darkness, his form blending into the shadows. The mercenaries had no idea what had just transpired in their midst. The three magicians—once thought to be powerful—were now dead without a sound.

Glen's task had been easier than expected. The magicians, though skilled, were still only second-tier mages—stronger than an ordinary person but far from invincible. They were still mortal, just like anyone else. And Glen had no trouble exploiting their vulnerability.

He had made sure to act quietly, avoiding unnecessary bloodshed. He knew that any significant noise or a drop of blood could alert the more perceptive mercenaries. And though his strength could easily overwhelm them, he didn't want to draw attention to himself. He respected the town's sheriff, Dougley, and would not risk causing unnecessary chaos in a place where he had some rapport.

But the mission wasn't over yet.