Chapter 56: Night Assault

"A creature so breathtaking it steals your breath! This journey has been torture watching her!" a gaunt mage leered, his grin dripping with lust.

Scarface shot him a sideways glance, his voice cold. "Want one? Go catch your own. This one's for delivery. Anything happens to her, you answer to the Master's wrath, Erik."

The gaunt mage's expression instantly soured. He wiped the leer off his face. "Just… fantasizing. Never said I'd touch."

"Hmph. Better stay that way."

Scarface turned and strode casually towards the cage. The elf's hate-filled eyes tracked his every move, burning into him.

"Can't soil the merchandise, true…" Scarface's voice dropped to a sinister murmur. His hand flicked, a coiled whip snapping into existence. With a sudden, vicious motion, he lashed out!

Thwack!

A crimson welt bloomed instantly on the elf girl's arm. Her whole body shuddered violently, but she clenched her jaw, biting back any cry.

"Silent again, eh Elf?" Scarface snarled, his face twisting into a grotesque mask of rage. "Cost me good men to bag you. So scream! Vent my anger! Maybe I'll feed you something decent on the road then!"

The whip cracked again. And again. The sharp, rhythmic sounds sent shivers down the spines of the watching mage and the newbie guards.

This was the Captain's way. Any mission losses exceeding his expectation demanded an outlet. Sometimes a subordinate. Sometimes an unlucky bystander. Today, the Elf prisoner bore the brunt.

The whip was a custom enchantment. It caused minimal physical damage, but magnified pain twofold. Scarface had paid handsomely for it – a testament to his passion for inflicting agony.

After a dozen strikes, Scarface stopped himself with visible effort.

Not out of pity. Fear. Fear of breaking her mind.

The whip spared the flesh but doubled the torment. Few could endure its bite for long. He'd once whipped a subordinate into a drooling, mindless wreck. Lesson learned: never whip to death… unless necessary.

And this prize was destined for the Master. A broken toy meant punishment. This frail Wood Elf seemed fragile. He was holding back.

Yet her utter silence infuriated him.

The angry welts faded slowly from her skin, the searing pain lingering beneath. She curled tighter, trembling.

"Stubborn race," Scarface spat, wiping sweat from his brow. "Too proud to bend. Just earns you more suffering!"

A low, trembling voice, raw but fiercely steady, cut through the night from the cage:

"You… creatures steeped in sin. Every atrocity committed against our people… Mother sees all. Judgment will come."

Among the Wood Elves, "Mother" meant the forest itself – their nurturer, their sacred heart.

Scarface knew. He chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "Hah… Mother? Your pathetic fantasy. Judgment? If your precious Mother dares show herself…" He leaned closer, his voice a venomous whisper just audible to the guards, "I'll take her right there on the spot. See how divine she feels then."

Guards snickered. Inside the cage, buried in her arms, the girl wept a single, silent tear of pure rage and despair. Such desecration… and she was powerless.

Scarface turned, exchanging coarse jokes with the mage as they walked back towards the tavern's raucous glow.

———

The mercenaries roared and drank well past midnight. By 1 AM, the moon hung high and bright, stars sparse. Only the solitary song of a nightingale pierced the town's quiet.

A shadow, swift and silent, flowed across the rooftops like liquid darkness.

Glen.

Night offered cover. Taking down feared mercenaries in broad daylight would make him notorious. Fame was dangerous – it drew eyes, especially eyes attached to powers he wasn't ready to face. His strength was considerable, perhaps even high-tier in this world. But he wasn't invincible. Glen knew this with cold clarity.

The hired throng's tavern came into view. Inside, the veterans reveled. Outside, the rookies stood watch – proof their captain's paranoia ran deep, even in a guarded town.

Perched atop a taller building, Glen paused. The sentries were insects.

His concern was the mages. They would have laid alarm wards. Magic was alien to him. Finding them was impossible.

But not insurmountable.

His eyes scanned the tavern below, tracking the movements of the drunken mercenaries inside. He mapped paths, calculated shadows, identified the likely rooms where the mages slept.

There.

Glen bent his knees. His leg muscles bunched and swelled violently, straining the fabric of his trousers to its limits.

CRUNCH!

The rooftop beneath him exploded downwards in a shower of splinters and dust!

"Gods above! What the—?!" a man's startled shout erupted from the collapsing room below amidst crashing debris.

A small pouch thudded beside the startled occupant. He snatched it up, peered inside – gleaming silver coins. He snapped his mouth shut.

In the chaos and darkness, no one saw Glen launch himself skyward from the collapsing roof like a human cannonball.

He arced high above the tavern courtyard, then plummeted headfirst. Meters from impact, he twisted. Arms, subtly changed into thick, lupine limbs, snapped out. They touched the packed earth first.

WHOOSH!

A fierce gust of wind blasted outward, scattering loose debris and rattling shutters. Glen landed like a coiled spring, utterly silent apart from the displaced air.

Inside the tavern, three rooms away, three pairs of eyes snapped open simultaneously.

A ripple. A tiny disturbance in their wards. Possibly just a rat? A falling tile? Uncertain, they hesitated to raise the full alarm.

The first mage swung his legs out of bed, pulled open his door to investigate.

A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom outside. An arm shot out. Iron fingers clamped around his throat.

CRACK.

He died instantly.

Second-tier mages were only slightly tougher than mortals. Their lives remained just as fragile.

The other two mages, sensing nothing amiss with their comrade, also rose. The gaunt mage, Erik, and his burlier counterpart opened their doors almost simultaneously.

Only a fleeting draft brushed past them. Then, two sharp, wet snaps echoed almost as one.

CRACK. CRACK.

Consciousness fled.

Dispatching three supposedly formidable second-tier mages was disgustingly simple for Glen. Broken necks were clean. Efficient. Bloodless. Vital, when dealing with men whose noses were tuned to the scent of blood from their daily trade.

He could slaughter everyone here in minutes. But that would heap mountains of trouble on Constable Dougley, a man he grudgingly respected. Best keep the mess contained. For now.