However, after a long moment of uneasy quiet, one of the men laughed and slapped the bearded man on the back.
“Relax, Ulric,” the man said, his voice filled with sarcasm.
“What’s there to hear? We’re in the middle of nowhere, inside this stupid artifact. The only way in is with the ring, and if anyone even thinks about using it, Grandmaster Alvis would know instantly. So unless you’re scared of your own shadow, I’d say you’re hearing things.”
Ulric frowned, glancing toward the village below. “I don’t know, something just feels off. That hunting squad left hours ago, and they haven’t come back yet. They should’ve returned by now.”
Another man, sitting at the edge of the group with a scar across his lip, snorted and shook his head.
“Probably dead by now,” he said with a smirk, tossing a coin up in the air and catching it. “What did you expect? This place isn’t exactly a walk in the park. They probably ran into something nasty out there. And besides, if they are dead, it’s just a few less mouths to feed, eh?”
The Obsidian Order had always been filled with the deranged. None of them really cared about each other.
The others chuckled at that, but Ulric’s unease only deepened. He leaned closer, his voice low and tense.
“I’m serious. We haven’t had any issues like this for months. And now, suddenly, a squad goes missing? Something’s not right.”
“Bah, you worry too much,” Rorik said, dismissing Ulric’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “Like I said, the only way in or out of here is with the ring. And if anyone tried anything, Grandmaster Alvis would know right away. We’re as safe as can be. Now, stop your fretting and focus on the game.”
“Yeah, Ulric,” Argus chimed in with a grin. “Besides, it’s not like you’re gonna win anyway, so maybe you should start worrying about your luck instead!”
The group burst into laughter, their voices echoing across the quiet night.
Ulric, though still on guard, couldn’t help but join in, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all.
But their laughter was short-lived.
In an instant, the darkness around them thickened, and before any of them could react, Atticus struck.
The first to go was Rorik, a silent blade of darkness slicing through his throat, his lifeless body slumping forward onto the table, coins spilling from his pocket.
The others barely had time to gasp as shadows engulfed them, each man falling to Atticus’s silent, deadly assault.
Ulric, who had been on guard in the first place, was the first to react. He immediately attempted to escape and shout a warning,
“INTRU—”
But his voice was cut off as tendrils of darkness wrapped around his throat, choking the life out of him.
Within seconds, the laughter had turned to silence, the game of poker now a scene of death. Atticus stood over the bodies, his cold gaze sweeping across the carnage he had just unleashed.
Not a single drop of blood had been spilled on the table or the ground—every kill precise, calculated.
He allowed the darkness to recede and cover the immediate area around him, leaving him standing alone on the wall, the bodies of the scouts strewn around him like discarded toys.
‘That’s 10 down. They were all master- ranks and look like they’re on the weaker side. The stronger ones must be inside the village,’ Atticus thought.
He scanned the area, noting that these were all the scouts on the wall. They were probably meant to be scattered around the wall but had grown used to slacking off due to the lack of threats.
The first part of his mission was complete. With the scouts on top of the wall eliminated, Atticus’s path into the village was now unobstructed.
He glanced once more at the village below, his mind already planning his next move.
He had to take care of all the scouts in the village before beginning his massacre. For now, the night belonged to him.
Atticus wrapped each body in a cluster of darkness before propelling them far away from the village.
Then, he vanished into the shadows, slipping deeper into the heart of the village.
The night had only just begun.
…
Atticus had one of the strangest hunts of his life. It was deep into the night, and luckily, the streets were mostly deserted.
He could hear some activities inside the buildings, but those weren’t his focus for now. Just like with the scouts on the walls, Atticus was looking for men with slender bodies and an aura of death around them.
After moving around for a bit, he soon encountered a peculiar scene.
Standing atop a tall building, he looked down to see a man lying in a hammock strung between two trees.
The man was snoring loudly, clearly deep in a dream, with a peaceful smile on his face.
However, the man fit all the characteristics of the scouts. Atticus dropped down and approached silently, listening as the scout murmured in his sleep.
“Ah, yes… the perfect life… a farm… fresh air… chickens… mmm… sweet, sweet corn…”
Atticus raised an eyebrow, listening to the scout’s ramblings. The man shifted slightly, pulling his blanket tighter around him as he continued to dream.
“No more orders… no more yelling… just me, and my crops… ahh…”
Atticus almost felt bad for interrupting what sounded like the best dream this scout had ever had. But it was almost.
With a swift motion, he reached out, a shadowy tendril severing the ropes holding the hammock up.
The scout’s eyes snapped open as he fell to the ground with a loud thud, his dream shattered.
“What the—” the scout began, but before he could finish, his vision tilted. It took a second for it to set in, but it did—his head had been severed. The man couldn’t help but feel a tinge of regret. His beautiful farm life…
The last thing he saw before his life left him was the figure of a man clad in a black suit, a red shroud covering his face.
Atticus felt no pity, his expression unchanged. He controlled the earth to swallow the corpse whole and immediately continued his movement.
