17: Chapter 17 Brutal Slaughter

Richard's voice exploded in the darkness: "Everyone, pay attention! Someone is approaching directly in front of the carriage!"

Footsteps came from the darkness, sounding unhurried and steady.

Boots made soft pattering sounds as they stepped into the mud and water, the interval between each step perfectly consistent, like the ticking of a pendulum.

The footsteps stopped outside the circle of carriages.

Then that voice rang out, the tone very gentle, as clear as if someone were whispering right in your ear.

And the intonation of every word was just right, with the absolute air of an aristocrat.

"Good evening, fellow travelers~ The heavy rain over these past few days is truly tiresome, is it not?"

"But please rest assured, I am not here to add to your troubles."

"I have but one small proposal; as long as you are willing to cooperate, you can earn a chance to survive."

In the darkness, that red figure stood at the gap directly in front of the carriage circle.

He spread his arms, his posture as elegant as an actor standing on stage acknowledging the audience.

"My request is very simple~ Please begin to slaughter one another; please me with a blood duel."

"The one who ultimately survives will have the honor of becoming my servant..."

"I guarantee that becoming my blood servant will by no means lower your status; you shall enjoy eternal life and supreme glory in my manor."

The only response he received was dead silence and the sound of weapons being unsheathed.

Rain lashed against the canvas covers, into the mud on the ground, and onto everyone's faces.

Then Hoffman spoke up.

He was shivering all over from the cold, but he forced himself to stand out, shouting with a toughness that even he himself couldn't quite believe:

"You, you madman, get out of here right now! If you don't leave, we won't be polite!"

In the darkness, that young man sighed.

The sigh was light, disappointed, but not at all angry.

"It seems negotiations have broken down. What a pity—but that is no matter."

He elegantly adjusted his cravat, a curve forming at the corner of his mouth.

"Before we begin, please allow me to introduce myself."

"I am Count Cassius Aurelius Valerius de Morta, the proxy of the Blood God in the mortal realm, the thirty-seventh heir to the Eternal Night Dynasty, a permanent member of the Shadow Council, and an immortal being."

"You may address me as... Count Morta."

Immediately after, his figure vanished.

Richard's eyes could not capture his movement trajectory at all.

He only saw the red figure flicker in place, and then it appeared behind one of the attendants.

Count Morta's right hand pierced through the attendant's back and emerged from his chest, clutching a still-beating heart in his palm.

The attendant looked down at the extra hole in his chest, his face filled with terror, unable to say a word before collapsing into the mud and water.

The heart was crushed between Count Morta's fingers; blood and bits of flesh squeezed out from between his slender, fair fingers and dripped down his wrist.

He lowered his head to lick the blood from his fingertips, the expression on his face as if he were trying to savor a glass of wine.

"Common stock, but better than nothing," he commented.

"Spread out! Spread out!" Cecilia roared, raising her shield and charging at the red shadow.

Her shield struck empty air, hitting nothing, passing straight through.

That red shadow was merely an afterimage; the real Count Morta had already appeared in another direction, his hand transformed into a blade, slashing open an attendant who had attempted to stab him with a spear.

That attendant's body was sliced diagonally in half from right shoulder to left hip; as the upper body slid to the ground, the lower body remained standing, taking two steps in the mud before collapsing.

Viscera and blood spread across a large area of the ground, and the rain instantly washed them into a pool of pale red liquid.

"Liam! Light spell!" Richard shouted, brandishing his halberd as he charged forward.

He already knew he absolutely could not keep up with this monster's speed, but he had to launch an attack to try and create an opportunity for his teammates, even if the chance of victory was extremely slim.

The tip of the halberd pierced the red shadow, stabbing empty air.

Count Morta's true body had already appeared behind Richard, his fingers pressed together like a blade, slashing down toward the back of his neck.

—Clang!!!

Cecilia's shield blocked this blow behind Richard.

Had she not judged the situation in advance and made the block, this strike might have severed Richard's head.

The Count's fingers struck the metal surface of the kite shield, producing a deafening sound similar to a hammer hitting an anvil, sparks splashing into the curtain of rain.

Cecilia was jolted back two steps, leaving a deep, visible scratch on the shield on her left arm.

Her left arm was trembling violently, but she did not lower her shield.

Liam finally broke free from his fear; he held his holy emblem high, his lips chanting rapidly, and a dazzling white light erupted from the emblem, shining toward Count Morta's direction.

Even if it was the lowest-level light spell, this type of light-based divine magic had a natural restraining effect on undead and dark creatures.

Count Morta's body paused slightly in the light, and for the first time, a trace of displeasure flashed in his dark red eyes.

He raised one hand to shield his eyes, his body sliding back half a step as if pushed by an invisible hand, and a wisp of blue smoke slightly emerged from the edge of his velvet coat in the light.

He said softly: "Little priest of the God of Healing, I do not like your deity."

The next second, he had appeared in front of Liam.

His palm slashed horizontally across Liam's abdomen, the priest apprentice's beige apprentice robe was neatly sliced open at the navel, and blood gushed from the wound.

Liam looked down, seeing the wound that spanned his entire lower abdomen, his lips silently parted, and then he collapsed to the ground.

The holy emblem rolled from his loosened fingers, falling into the muddy water, its light extinguished.

"Liam!" Val's scream was so hoarse it tore her throat.

Count Morta looked down at the little priest struggling in the mud, not delivering a finishing blow.

He extended a finger and tapped lightly on Liam's forehead; a dark red ripple spread from his fingertip and burrowed into the center of Liam's brow.

His tone could even be called gentle: "You sleep for a while; I want to save you, this little lamb, for last."

"An offering to the Blood God requires a pure soul; a believer like you is just right."

Then he turned around and continued the slaughter.

That could no longer be called a battle; it was a one-sided massacre.

Count Morta wove through the crowd; every wave of his hand claimed a life, and every pause resulted in a corpse falling into the mud.

His palms were sharper than swords; an attendant tried to block with an iron sword, only to be sliced in two, person and sword alike.

Another attendant knelt on the ground begging for mercy, his forehead banging against the mud, but Count Morta pierced through the back of his head with a single finger, the movement casual, as if piercing a grape with a toothpick.

The red-haired female fighter, Val, charged forward!