Ferolina's squad advanced into Redfront with grim faces and weapons drawn. The town should have been alive with chatter and market cries, yet only silence greeted them. No footsteps echoed on the cobbles, no merchants called out their wares. Homes stood ajar, tables half-laid, chairs overturned—like an entire population had vanished mid-breath.
Blake pressed his forehead to the bars of the prison carriage, watching the empty streets roll past. When the Littlewater Inn came into view, hope leapt in his chest. Pabel had promised him shelter there, safety. But the inn stood hollow and abandoned, its sign swinging in the dead wind like a cruel joke. Hope guttered out as quickly as it had sparked.
The knights spread into homes and alleyways, but every search ended the same. Nothing. Not a soul. Not even belongings. It was as if life itself had been scoured away, leaving only dust. An unnatural chill sank into their bones. Even the thugs shackled alongside Blake fell quiet, unease crawling over their skin.
The squad pressed toward the town square—and there, horror unveiled itself.
The first thing Blake noticed was the river of red, blood dried yet when, the wheel made contact to to it burst splattering all over and broke down the central thoroughfare. Then he saw the mound.
A tower of corpses. Men, women, elders, children. Throats slit, hands bound, bodies stacked in grotesque reverence to something unspeakable. Heads lolled from the heap, eyeless sockets staring into eternity.
One small body caught Blake's eye—a child, no older than five. The sight punched the air from his lungs. His stomach rebelled. He vomited until bile burned his throat, collapsing in his chains, shuddering with sickness and rage.
All his petty worries—about food, survival, scams, even the system panel—vanished.
The other prisoners muttered, their voices low and shaking.
"Black magicians, without a doubt," one spat. "They butchered the whole damn town."
"The Holy Empire won't stand for this," another said bitterly. "This isn't just a crime. It's war bait."
"The Magic Tower itself will act," a third whispered. "For a ritual this size… they must've summoned a demon. Maybe worse."
"If I caught them—" a thug started, blustering.
"Shut up," another cut him down. "They'd carve you open before you blink. We're fodder to people like that."
Blake listened in silence. For the first time, the truth settled cold in his chest: this was not a world of fairness. Law was fragile, life cheap, and only power stood between survival and slaughter.
At the corpse mound, Ferolina crouched, fingers brushing ritual lines carved into the dirt. Her face tightened, her voice low and cold.
"This wasn't some petty summoning. This was mass sacrifice—blood offered to summon something greater. An archdemon, perhaps even a demon king. The blood's dried… this happened yesterday at the latest. By now, the summoners are gone. They erased their trail."
Her knights lowered their heads, confirming her fears.
The silence that followed wasn't just grief. It was the weight of realization: what happened in Redfront would echo far beyond these streets. Empires would stir. The Tower would move. And the world would burn.
Ferolina glanced around the blood-soaked square of Redfront and asked crisply,"How far is Baron Dunzel's estate from here?"
One of her knights answered at once. "Half a day's travel, Ms. Ferolina."
She gave a short nod. "Then we move. But before that—search everywhere. Every corner, every cellar, every loft. If anyone survived, I want them found."
The knights fanned out, scouring the husks of homes and alleys with grim determination. An hour later they returned empty-handed, their silence confirming the truth: Redfront had been erased.
The convoy turned toward the estate. The white stallions pulled with weary determination, their hooves and wheels smeared red. In the carriage, Blake sat hunched, his eyes hollow. The images replayed without mercy: the tower of corpses, the glassy eyes of the child, blood spilling across the cobblestones. Sometimes he heard phantom voices—cries that had never reached his ears. Sometimes he smelled iron and ash, though the breeze carried only pine.
The hooligans, less shaken, bickered and shouted as though noise could drown out fear. Blake said nothing. He was locked in his own private cell, chained by memories that gnawed with every step of the wagon.
The road was no sanctuary. Again and again, shapes darted from the treeline—assassins, brigands, mercenaries. But none ever reached the carriage. Ferolina's knights intercepted them with brutal efficiency; more than eighteen such groups fell before they even came close. Limbs snapped, steel flashed, screams were cut short. The forest floor was littered with corpses long before Blake even noticed the attacks had begun.
Ferolina rode beside the carriage, her gaze sharp, her tone dry with annoyance."So many flies. I should have erased that tracking spell sooner." She spared a glance through the barred window at Blake. "But what I don't understand… is why. Who is he, that he attracts so many?"
Her voice carried no warmth—only curiosity sharpened by suspicion. "Either his enemies are legion, or he's more valuable than he seems."
Blake heard her words but barely processed them, his thoughts collapsing inward. If not for the constant jostle of the carriage wheels, he might have forgotten he still lived.
At last, the convoy slowed. Through the cracks of the carriage, Blake glimpsed the Dunzel estate: a vast manor perched behind black-iron gates, its windows dark, its walls looming like a slumbering beast. The estate should have been a place of safety, but in his state, it felt like another graveyard waiting to receive him.
And then—
Chime.
A sharp sound cracked through the haze of his despair. His vision filled with a translucent screen, glowing cold and unyielding against the gloom.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE]
Name: Blake Dunzel
Age: 18
Strength: 84
Mana: 21
Agility: 34
Constitution: 51
Skills: Basic Etiquette (Lv.2), Basic Sword Technique (Lv.1)
[URGENT QUEST – SAFE HOUSE] – COMPLETED
Reward: Vaultegg Mana Technique, +1 Gold
[Click → Accept]
[URGENT QUEST – FOUNDATION]
Objective: Increase expertise in the Vaultegg Mana Technique
Reward: Vaultegg's Amulet, +10 Gold
Fail Condition: Death
Blake blinked at it, throat dry. Finally—the useless system had given him something tangible. A power? A trap? Stories of mana techniques came to mind—cultivators screaming as their veins burst, would-be mages consumed by their own fire. His hand twitched toward the prompt… then froze.
Not yet. Not here.
He lowered his eyes, the screen hovering in silence as the estate loomed closer, waiting.