late at night.

South of Watchtower, Ravenwood.

A man carrying a heavy wooden box runs under the quiet night sky, squeezing through the gaps between boulders and leaping over low bushes, his figure like a shadow moving through the darkness.

He kept looking back, unaware that his back was already soaked with sweat.

The further south you go, the denser the trees become, the steeper the roads become, and the solid ground is gradually replaced by soft, rotten wetlands.

The man looked up at the moon, then turned to listen to his surroundings. The rustling of leaves in the wind and the sound of grass hitting pebbles made him clench his fists nervously.

He used both his hands and feet to climb up the mound next to him, and was just about to jump down the slope on the other side.

The sound of crossbows cutting through the air suddenly exploded.

A silver crossbow bolt shot towards his ankle.

Almost instinctively, the man leaned to one side and pushed off with his feet, barely avoiding the attack.

He slowly rose from the ground, placed the wooden crate on his back, and shouted into the empty forest, "Come out! You lackeys of the church!"

The muffled sound echoed among the trees.

"The filthy rats in the sewers always make such a jarring cry before they die."

Three men and one woman slowly walked out of the shadows into the moonlight.

The tall man at the front wore Anglo chainmail. Beneath a full-face iron mask, a pair of emotionless eyes stared at a wooden crate placed on the ground.

The short, stout man holding the crossbow slung the weapon over his shoulder and looked at the wary fleeing man in front of him with a mocking gaze. His voice was as deep and rough as ever: "Marcus Byrne, we've been following you for a long time, longer than you can imagine."

Marcos silently drew his short sword from his waist, regulated his breathing, and used the blade to cut his skin. The blood flowed over the weapon's metal surface, but instead of dripping into the ground as he had expected, it adhered to the sword's surface like oil.

Once the blood had covered the entire blade, Marcos tore open the hem of his clothes with his teeth, used the strips of cloth as bandages, and wrapped the wound.

"Bring it on."

He swung the blade into the air, and the intense friction from the powerful swing ignited the entire short sword. The flames were not the usual red and yellow, but rather had a faint purplish-black hue.

The short, stout man narrowed his eyes slightly, placed the crossbow back against his chest, took a black bolt from his back, and whispered, "A variant of the sun..."

The man wearing the iron mask shook his chainmail and took a step forward.

The woman, completely shrouded in a white church robe, spoke up: "Boss, you don't need to do it yourself..."

The leader slowly drew his two-handed sword from his back and plunged it into the ground in front of him with a resounding crash, clearly and unequivocally conveying his command. The other three team members uttered no further objections and silently retreated.

Marcos held his flaming dagger diagonally across his chest, staring at the man who stood motionless as a mountain not far away. The man's weapon remained embedded in the ground, and his figure did not move an inch, but cold sweat slowly trickled down Marcos's face.

He stomped his right foot into the ground, and a black flame, like one rising from hell, swept forward. The air and dust instantly became scorched by the high temperature, and Marcos's sword tip appeared in front of the leader's face in an instant.

The man whose face was completely covered by iron armor moved. He kicked the greatsword in the ground with his foot. The huge force kicked up dirt and fallen leaves, which hit Marcos and made him slow down for a moment.

The two-handed sword was swung from the lower left to the upper right.

The swords clashed, sparks flying everywhere.

The owner of the short sword was thrown off balance by the force of the attack and staggered back a few steps.

The masked man planted his weapon back into the ground, placed his hands on the hilt of his sword, neither pressing his advantage nor uttering a taunt, but simply waiting... waiting quietly.

Marcos knelt on one knee, gripping a tree trunk behind him with one hand, while his other hand held a short sword plunging diagonally into a puddle of water. The flames on the sword were not extinguished by the water; instead, they burned even brighter. There was not a trace of fear or frustration in his eyes, only an endless burning fighting spirit.

For the first time, the eyes behind the iron mask showed a change of emotion. He nodded slightly, and his two-handed sword was pulled from the ground. For the first time, the leader raised his weapon and assumed a fighting stance.

The swords clashed once more.

The deafening sound startled the roars of animals deep in the forest.

Marcos still held the dagger with difficulty, but the blood streaming from his hand and his staggering gait showed that the warrior was struggling desperately.

The two sides exchanged blows for several more rounds.

Taking advantage of an opening in his opponent's defenses, the masked man reversed the hilt of his sword and struck the man directly in the abdomen, forcing Marcos to let out a muffled growl and fall to his knees.

"Life or death?"

The greatsword's blade was pointed at the fallen man's chest. The leader of the group stopped the other three in their tracks with one hand and gripped the hilt of his sword with the other, saying this.

Marcos, kneeling on both knees, was trembling all over. He threw down his serrated short sword with his right hand and lay prostrate on the ground.

Seeing this, the other three members of the team breathed a sigh of relief.

The short, stout man put down his crossbow and said disdainfully, "A rat is a rat..."

Before he could finish speaking...

At first, it was a low chuckle, then it turned into a maniacal laugh. Marcos suddenly stretched out his hands and firmly grasped the Iron Mask's greatsword. He lunged forward with all his might, the blade piercing through his chest and back. A large amount of blood splattered out, not a drop falling to the ground, but instead wrapping tightly around the Iron Mask's greatsword and armor like a shroud.

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