Riven had anticipated it. The moment Jacky moved his hand, his body reacted. He ducked to the side, lowering himself just as the bolt shot through the air and slammed into the door behind him. A sharp thunk echoed, the old wood trembling from the force of the steel bolt.
Riven immediately snapped his gaze back to Jacky, his eyes sharp like blades ready to flay.
Jacky gave a thin smile, as if the attempted murder had been nothing more than a greeting, though deep inside he was caught off guard.
"You're quick, boy," he said calmly, but Riven could see the faint sweat glistening on his temple.
Riven stepped forward quickly, rain still dripping from the ends of his hair.
"So it really was you who sent them." His voice was low, strained, but certain.
Jacky didn't answer right away. Instead, he raised his crossbow again, his hands already reloading with practiced ease. His smile remained, but his eyes narrowed, calculating distance, angle, and chance.
Riven knew he had no time. A single blink could decide life or death. As soon as he saw Jacky ready to fire again, he lunged forward, closing the gap between them.
But Jacky wasn't careless. He had expected the move. Dropping the crossbow, his hand darted under the table and pulled out a short axe. With a guttural roar, he swung with all his strength, aiming at Riven's shoulder.
Riven was faster. His sword flashed under the dim oil lamp light, slicing across Jacky's arm. Not a full cut—the blade dug deep, tearing muscle. Blood spurted instantly, and Jacky screamed in pain. The axe fell from his hand, clattering against the floor.
Jacky staggered, but Riven didn't give him time. He shoved him to the ground, slamming him hard before straddling his chest. Jacky struggled for breath, thrashing, but Riven pinned his shoulders with his knee.
Without hesitation, Riven drove his sword into Jacky's other shoulder, right at the joint. The steel pierced flesh and muscle, prying slightly. The sound of tearing meat filled the room, followed by a strangled cry.
A scream almost broke from Jacky's mouth, but before it could, Riven smashed his fist into his face. A crack rang out. Blood and saliva sprayed, along with shards of broken teeth.
"Quiet," Riven whispered, his tone soft yet laced with threat. His eyes gleamed cold, like a beast gripping its prey. "Move suspiciously, and you'll join the three who came before you."
Jacky's eyes bulged, his breath ragged, his whole body trembling. With a voice choked by blood, he tried to speak. "Y-you can't possibly—"
"But here I am, standing over you!" Riven cut him off, his words striking like thunder in the storm.
Jacky froze, his face twisted with pain. His gaze shifted from the sword buried in his shoulder to Riven's blazing eyes. His voice cracked into a whisper, "How did you… do it?"
Riven didn't answer. He leaned closer, his voice low and pressing. "Why did you betray me, Jacky? I trusted you."
Jacky's face changed from pain to panic. He tried to defend himself, his voice hoarse, blood bubbling in his throat. "I… I only… only wanted to warn you. I'm sorry. I sent them… not to kill you… just to warn you. I knew… you were selling weapons elsewhere. That's all…"
"Don't lie." Riven pushed the sword deeper into Jacky's shoulder, ripping another scream from him. "That excuse isn't enough. If you really wanted to warn me, you wouldn't send them to stalk me and strike in the dark. That's not your way, Jacky. It's far too inefficient. You're too calculating to waste effort on something so trivial."
He paused, locking eyes with Jacky, then continued, "I interrogated one of them. They said you ordered them to kill me."
It was a lie. Riven hadn't had the chance to interrogate anyone. But he wanted to see Jacky's reaction. And it told him everything—the man's eyes widened, his body went rigid. No denial, no desperate shouting. Just pale silence betraying the truth.
Riven leaned closer, his voice a sharp whisper. "Tell me the real reason… or I'll make you talk. I've never tortured anyone before… but I can learn. You know me, Jacky. You know I can."
Jacky stared, terror flooding his eyes. His breathing came fast and shallow, his chest heaving. Finally, with a desperate rasp, he spat out words.
"You… crazy brat…"
Riven said nothing. He just waited, cold and still.
At last Jacky confessed, "I… I have the ability to gauge weapon ranks. The one you brought… the one wrapped in cloth some time ago… I knew it was… a Masterwork weapon. I couldn't just let it stay in the hands of someone like you…"
Silence.
Only the rain outside filled the void, dripping from the roof to the ground, breaking the dead stillness of the town.
Riven exhaled slowly. So that was it. Just greed, greed as human as it was vile.
He had no desire to hear more. Before Jacky could plead or invent another excuse, Riven swung his blade. One swift strike ended him.
Blood gushed. Jacky's body slumped lifeless. Riven looked down without emotion, only cold detachment. A flicker of relief touched him. If he had chosen to flee tonight, Jacky would surely have sent more after him, all for the weapon.
He rose, standing tall, his breath steadying. His gaze swept over the shop—empty, silent. The oil lamp flickered, casting wavering shadows. Jacky's men had left hours ago, their work finished, leaving their master alone.
Outside, the rain hadn't stopped, though it had softened. The small town felt dead—no voices, no footsteps. The last of its residents huddled in their homes, hiding from the chill and the downpour.
Riven turned to the window. Tonight felt quieter than usual.
The streets lay unnaturally empty. The storm had thinned to a drizzle, dripping lazily from the cloud-choked sky. Puddles glimmered with faint moonlight, broken by the wobbling reflection of cart wheels creaking down the muddy road.
Riven sat at the front, gripping the reins with hands still stiff from battle. His breath misted in the air, mingling with the smell of wet horse and cold night. Each time the wheels struck stone or rut, his body jolted slightly, but his thoughts weighed far heavier than the jolts.
In silence, he swore an oath.
Tonight… would be the last he lived this way.
He was sick of it. Sick of corpses, of blood, of death's shadow clinging to him. His trembling grip on the reins came not from weakness, but from the burning resolve in his chest.
"Enough," he whispered to himself, barely audible over the creaking wheels. "I won't live like this anymore."
The horse pulling the cart whinnied softly, as if echoing its master's heart. The road leading out of town grew emptier. One by one, oil lamps in the clustered houses guttered out. No more light remained, save for the pale moon and the faint shimmer of puddles rolling beneath the wheels.