In the blood-soaked mud of the Southern sector, Victus stood over the ruined corpse of The Magician. The man's body was a mangled mess of torn flesh and splintered bone, his once-proud robes now reduced to bloody rags clinging to his broken frame. With a heavy, brutal swing of his serrated broadsword, Victus entirely severed the Commander's head from his shoulders. The blade bit through flesh and vertebrae with a sickening crunch, and the head tumbled through the air before landing in the bloody dirt with a wet thud, its eyes still wide with the horror of its final moment.
Freddy pulled a profound communication artifact from his heavy armor and channeled his Gnosis, his fingers trembling slightly from the exertion of battle. The artifact glowed with a dim, pulsing light as he activated it.
"Rayn," Freddy reported, his voice ragged and strained, each word coming out in short, desperate gasps. "We completely slaughtered the entire 100-man division. The Magician is dead. But there are too many heavy corpses here. It is incredibly difficult to drag all these bodies to the rendezvous point."
Miles away, in the Eastern sector, Rayn was currently violently dodging through the thick, frozen trees. His boots pounded against the frost-covered earth, each step a desperate bid for survival. The frigid air burned in his lungs as he weaved between ancient trunks, his movements fluid yet frantic.
He had initially headed West, finding nothing, before violently pivoting East. Now, he was being aggressively hunted. Exactly three hundred heavily armed bandits were directly on his tail, carrying massive, profound weapons capable of slaughtering Phase 8 beasts. Their war cries echoed through the forest like the howls of starving wolves, and the ground trembled beneath their relentless charge.
Rayn heard Freddy's voice through the artifact, but he didn't have a single microsecond to reply. A massive iron spear violently shattered the tree trunk directly next to his head, splinters exploding outward like shrapnel. Rayn remained completely silent, entirely focused on evading the Vanguard to set up his own absolute trap. His mind raced with cold calculation, each movement carefully measured as he led his pursuers deeper into the killing ground he had already prepared.
Meanwhile, deep in the Northern sector, Peter—the reborn Dawinton—heard the entire exchange through his own artifact. The device pulsed against his chest, transmitting Freddy's desperate report and Rayn's cold commands with perfect clarity.
A complex, twisted wave of emotion washed over Dawinton's soul. He felt an undeniable surge of pride mixed with absolute, burning hatred. I was the one who taught Victus everything he knows about combat, Dawinton thought bitterly, his jaw clenching so tightly that his teeth nearly cracked. I molded him. I shaped him into the perfect weapon. And he chose to use those exact same techniques to try and assassinate me.
The betrayal burned in his chest like a white-hot brand, a wound that refused to heal no matter how many enemies he butchered. But now was not the time for ancient grudges. Pushing his bitter resentment aside, Peter decided to abandon the North and immediately travel South to reinforce Freddy and Victus.
"Peter," Rayn's voice suddenly crackled through the artifact, cold and slightly out of breath. "Do not move South. I am already repositioning to back them up. You stay exactly where you are and keep yourself busy collecting the corpses."
Peter immediately halted his advance. His feet stopped as if rooted to the frozen earth, his muscles tensing with the effort of restraining himself.
But it wasn't out of blind obedience to Rayn. Peter completely froze because his Phase 5 senses picked up the heavy, synchronized crunch of hundreds of boots marching through the freezing mud. The sound was unmistakable—the rhythmic cadence of a well-organized military unit moving with deadly purpose.
pils dilating as he focused his perception. Reinforcements, he realized, a cold smile spreading across his handsome features. How convenient.
He didn't hesitate. He tapped his spatial ring, instantly summoning a profound Golden Carpet. The artifact materialized beneath his feet, glowing with a soft, ethereal light. He smoothly stepped onto the glowing carpet, silently floating high into the thick canopy of a massive redwood tree. The branches were gnarled and ancient, their dark silhouettes stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers.
He immediately stored the carpet back into the inventory bag Vespera had given him, the artifact vanishing into the dimensional space with a soft shimmer.
Looking down from the dark branches, Peter saw a massive crowd of 250 bandits marching below. They moved with military precision, their boots sinking into the frozen mud with each step, their breath forming clouds of mist in the frigid air.
They were a terrifying, specialized unit. They wore tattered yellow robes and thick black masks that completely obscured their faces, paired with dark leather gloves and heavy hoods. The masks were featureless save for two narrow eye slits, making them look like faceless specters of death marching through the frozen wasteland.
Peter analyzed their Gnosis signatures with cold precision. Fifty of them are weak Phase 8 magic users, Peter noted, his mind cataloging each threat with the detachment of a merchant assessing his inventory. But that hulking brute leading them is a Phase 7 Commander. A worthy challenge for most men. But for me?
He chuckled darkly, the sound lost in the howling wind.
Peter initially wanted to drop down and violently butcher them on sight, to paint the snow with their blood and stack their corpses like firewood. But his calculating merchant's mind chose to gather intelligence first. Information was currency, and currency was power. He flicked a tiny, profound listening bug down into the mud, perfectly attaching it to the boot of a passing bandit. The device was no larger than a grain of rice, its surface coated in a subtle camouflage enchantment that made it virtually invisible.
"Keep your absolute eyes open!" the Commander barked, his rough voice echoing through the frozen trees. He was a mountain of a man, his massive frame barely contained by his tattered yellow robes. "The Supreme Leader sent up the retreat flare! Someone is out here violently butchering our hunting parties!"
Having absolute confirmation that this was a hostile reinforcement group, Peter smiled. The expression was cold and predatory, the smile of a wolf who had just discovered a flock of sheep wandering into his territory.
He intentionally snapped a thick wooden branch.
CRACK!
The sound split the silence like a thunderclap, echoing through the frozen forest.
A masked guard at the edge of the formation immediately stopped, his head snapping upward. His eyes scanned the dark canopy with barely concealed panic. "Did you hear—"
SHING!
A highly condensed, glowing golden coin violently shot from the shadows, piercing directly through the guard's skull. The projectile moved so fast that it left a trail of golden light in its wake, a beautiful and terrible streak of death. The man dropped dead in the mud, a perfect, circular hole punched entirely through his head. His body hit the ground with a wet thud, his legs twitching once before falling still.
The battalion erupted into absolute panic.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" the Commander roared, his voice cracking with rage and fear. He pointed his heavy sword at the trees, his hand trembling. "Find him and kill him!"
The fifty magic users immediately raised their wands, their palms glowing with concentrated Gnosis. The two hundred foot soldiers drew their heavy blades and surrounded the tree, forming a tight perimeter of steel and desperation. Their eyes darted wildly through the darkness, searching for an enemy they could not see.
Suddenly, Peter completely dropped from the canopy.
He didn't land lightly. He slammed into the center of the formation with absolute, terrifying kinetic force. The impact was like a meteor striking the earth, a cataclysmic shockwave that radiated outward in all directions. The sheer shockwave of his landing violently threw dozens of bandits backward, shattering their ribs and completely cratering the mud beneath his boots. Bodies flew through the air like ragdolls, crashing into trees and each other with sickening crunches.
Despite their injuries, the two hundred masked soldiers roared and violently charged at him. Their war cries echoed through the forest, a desperate chorus of men who had seen death and decided to meet it head-on.
Peter dusted off his dark clothes, his movements unhurried and almost lazy. A completely unhinged smile stretched across his youthful, tanned face—a smile that promised pain, suffering, and an end to all their pathetic existences.
"I absolutely love your spirit, boys," Peter laughed, his voice dripping with mockery and genuine amusement. "But I am going to have to butcher you anyway. My apologies."
Peter violently stomped his foot.
BOOOOOOM!
A catastrophic, deep-purple wave of spiritual pressure erupted from his core. The Gravitational Vortex violently manifested, its swirling energy completely suffocating the clearing. The air grew thick and heavy, pressing down on the bandits like the weight of a mountain.
The two hundred mortal foot soldiers didn't even have a chance to swing their blades. Their weak, pathetic wills were entirely crushed by the raw, unadulterated Phase 5 Merchant power. It was as if their very souls had been placed under the boot of a god, their spirits shattered beyond repair. Foaming heavily at the mouth, all two hundred masked men instantly collapsed face-first into the mud, knocked completely unconscious. Their bodies fell in perfect synchronization, a grotesque wave of defeated flesh and metal.
Only the fifty magic users and the Phase 7 Commander remained standing, staring at Peter in absolute, horrifying disbelief. Their faces were pale beneath their masks, their eyes wide with primal terror. In their terrified eyes, Peter didn't look human; he looked exactly like an apex lion preparing to completely devour a pathetic pack of hyenas. He was a predator among prey, a god among mortals.
"Why aren't you attacking me?" Peter taunted, tilting his head with mock curiosity. His green eyes glittered with cold amusement. "Are you scared?"
The insult violently triggered the remaining magic users. Their pride, wounded beyond repair, overcame their fear. Screaming in rage, they aggressively unleashed their Gnosis. Highly compressed fireballs, lightning strikes, and heavy broadswords violently rained down on Peter from all directions. The air crackled with arcane energy, the ground trembling from the sheer force of the assault.
Peter didn't even flinch.
The catastrophic barrage of magic and steel completely halted inches from his face, violently crashing against a profound, invisible Golden Barrier. The spells detonated against the shield, sending waves of fire and electricity cascading outward in spectacular displays of impotent fury. But not a single spark reached Peter's body.
"That actually tickled," Peter laughed, completely ignoring the blinding explosions illuminating his face. The light cast his features in sharp relief, making him look like a demon born from the flames.
The magic users screamed in absolute frustration, burning their life essence to pour even more power into the assault. Their bodies began to wither as they sacrificed years of their lives for a fraction of additional strength. But they couldn't even put a single scratch on the golden shield. The barrier remained pristine, untarnished, utterly inviolable.
"This is exactly why I forge my Golden Barrier before entering a fight," Peter mocked, his green eyes glowing with absolute arrogance. "Preparation is the foundation of all successful transactions." Then, a dark memory flashed in his mind, a bitter reminder of his own limitations. "Yet... that absolute monster of a kid shattered this exact barrier in a one-on-one fight. But you pathetic trash? You are nothing. Less than nothing. You are the dust beneath my boots, the mud I walk upon."
Peter slowly raised his right hand toward the freezing night sky. His fingers spread wide, as if reaching for the stars themselves. The gesture was grand and theatrical, a declaration of absolute authority.
"Collect the debt," Peter decreed.
His voice echoed with the weight of divine judgment, a proclamation of doom that sent shivers down the spines of the remaining bandits.
Fifty glowing golden coins violently materialized in the air above the magic users. They hung in the sky like a constellation of death, their surfaces engraved with ancient runes that pulsed with malevolent light. The coins hummed with power, their energy so dense that the air around them began to distort and warp.
The bandits completely froze in terror, instantly cutting off their pathetic magical attacks. Their wands fell from their trembling hands, clattering against the frozen ground. Some fell to their knees, their minds finally breaking under the weight of their impending doom. Others simply stood frozen, their eyes fixed on the golden rain of death above them.
The coins hung in the sky for a fraction of a second before violently dropping with catastrophic kinetic pressure.
SQUELCH! SQUELCH! SQUELCH!
Like absolute meteors, the fifty golden coins drove directly through the skulls of the magic users. The projectiles moved with such force that they didn't simply penetrate—they obliterated. Fifty heads violently exploded in perfect synchronization, completely showering the clearing in thick black blood and brain matter. The sound was a symphony of destruction, a chorus of wet cracks and dull thuds as the headless bodies collapsed into the mud.
The clearing fell into a stunned silence, broken only by the gentle drip of blood and the soft whisper of the wind.
Seeing his entire elite division entirely annihilated in seconds, the Commander's mind violently snapped. The man who had once commanded armies with iron authority was reduced to a gibbering wreck, his reason shattered by the impossibility of what he had witnessed.
"You fucking demon!" the Commander roared, his voice cracking with desperation and madness. Aggressively burning his life essence, he charged forward with suicidal determination. His body flared with crimson energy as he sacrificed decades of his lifespan for a final, desperate attack. He swung his massive, spiked iron mace directly at Peter's head with enough kinetic force to completely shatter a boulder—enough force to reduce a normal man to a fine red mist.
Peter didn't dodge. He didn't even blink.
He simply raised his bare, tanned hand and casually caught the spiked iron mace completely in his palm. The spikes bit into his skin, their points pressing against his flesh like the teeth of a starving beast. But they did not draw blood. His absolute Tier 5 bone density completely absorbed the catastrophic impact without a single scratch.
CLANG!
A massive kinetic shockwave violently cratered the mud beneath Peter's boots, sending a spray of frozen earth and debris flying in all directions. The ground trembled from the force of the impact, trees shuddering and shedding their frost-covered leaves. But Peter's hand didn't bleed a single drop. He stood unmoved, his arm steady, his gaze cold and unyielding.
The Commander desperately tried to yank his weapon back, his muscles straining, his face turning purple with effort. But it was entirely trapped in Peter's terrifying grip, as immovable as if it were rooted in the very bedrock of the earth. The spikes of the mace began to crack and splinter under Peter's grip, the metal groaning in protest.
"Your absolute balance is heavily in the red," Peter whispered, his voice soft and cold as a winter grave. There was no anger in his tone, only the detached finality of a merchant delivering a debt that could never be repaid.
Peter violently squeezed his hand. The massive iron mace completely shattered into thousands of jagged, metallic splinters. The pieces rained down around them like a deadly hailstorm, each fragment gleaming with a cold, malevolent light.
Before the Commander could retreat, Peter took a single, blurring step forward. The motion was so fast it left an afterimage, his body moving with the speed and grace of a striking serpent. He violently drove his fist directly into the center of the Commander's heavily armored chest.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening, a wet crack of shattered bone and torn flesh. Peter's fist entirely punched through the thick iron breastplate, violently shattering the man's ribcage, and entirely destroying his profound heart. The Commander felt his life force extinguish in an instant, a sensation of absolute, utter annihilation that stole his breath, his strength, and his very will to exist.
The Commander's eyes widened in absolute, sickening shock. His mouth opened, but only a gurgle of blood emerged. Thick black blood aggressively poured from his mouth as Peter casually withdrew his blood-soaked fist. The Commander's body trembled once, twice, and then heavily collapsed into the dirt, completely dead. His face remained frozen in an expression of utter disbelief and terror, his eyes staring blankly at the cold, indifferent sky.
Peter stood entirely alone in the dark clearing, surrounded by exactly 250 bodies. The silence was absolute, broken only by the soft whisper of the wind through the trees and the distant cry of a lonely bird.
He slowly looked down at his own muscular, blood-soaked hands. The crimson liquid dripped from his fingers, staining the frozen mud at his feet. His knuckles were covered in gore, his skin slick with the blood of his enemies. A completely unhinged, exhilarated laugh violently escaped his lips—a sound that was part madness, part triumph, part something ancient and terrible awakening after eons of slumber.
This is the absolute relief you get, Dawinton thought, the intoxicating rush of true physical power completely overriding his ancient fears, when you finally gain the power to butcher those who try to kill you. When the weak become strong, and the strong become gods.
His laughter echoed through the forest, a chilling sound that seemed to freeze the very air around him.
Suddenly, a weak, pathetic coughing sound broke the silence.
From the pile of unconscious foot soldiers, a single female bandit was desperately crawling through the mud toward Peter's boots. Her mask had fallen off, revealing her terrified face—a face that was young, beautiful, and utterly consumed by fear. Tears streamed through the blood on her cheeks, leaving trails of clean skin through the gore.
"Sir... please..." the woman begged, her voice a broken whisper. She reached out a trembling hand toward him, her fingers caked with mud and blood. "Please leave me... I am just a woman..."
Peter looked down at her. His green eyes were completely devoid of mercy, as cold and empty as the void between stars. There was no pity in his gaze, no hesitation, no flicker of humanity. There was only the cold, calculating stare of a merchant tallying a debt.
"You slaughtered the women of my town," Peter said coldly, his voice flat and emotionless. The words hung in the air like a death sentence. "You laughed as they begged for mercy. You danced in their blood."
Without a single microsecond of hesitation, Peter brought his heavy combat boot violently down on her skull. The impact was devastating, absolute. Her head entirely crushed into the mud with his absolute, terrifying force, her final scream cut short by the wet, sickening sound of shattering bone.
The clearing fell completely silent once again. The debt had been fully collected. The blood had been paid in full.
Peter stood amidst the carnage, surrounded by two hundred and fifty corpses, his body bathed in the moonlight and the gore of his enemies. He took a deep breath, savoring the metallic tang of blood in the air. His heart pounded with a savage, primal joy that he had not felt in decades.
This is just the beginning, he thought, his eyes gleaming with dark ambition. The world will soon learn the true price of opposing us. And they will pay. They will all pay.
He clenched his fists, the blood on his hands beginning to dry and crack.
The absolute extermination of the Bandit Coalition was moving entirely ahead of schedule. And Peter—once Dawinton, the fat, cunning merchant—had become the instrument of their destruction, a god of death walking among mortals.
He looked up at the moon, his green eyes reflecting its cold, pale light. A slow, cruel smile spread across his handsome features.
"The Merchant becomes the debt collector and the call has come", he whispered to the night. And he always collects in full.