I'm not a Witcher anymore.

This shouldn't be the case.

He has arranged everything he can think of.

Joel will be drawn here by that batch of so-called top-grade ore.

Craig would drug people in the hotel.

Thirty-odd outlaws, a spellcaster, and an owl bear were enough to devour any hastily assembled guard in this wilderness, leaving not even bones behind.

When Joel dies, the gold coins he brought with him will become his last decent travel expenses.

He wasn't after wealth.

Rather, it was so that they could leave the Undead Settlement with dignity.

Ever since the "Black Crow Gang" got a new leader, the atmosphere in that quagmire has changed.

The newly appointed guy was once just a scoundrel whom he had publicly humiliated, but now he sits in that chair.

The other party did not kill him immediately, but slowly took away his connections, stripped him of his face, and made those who used to fawn over him change their tune, turn away, and pretend not to know him.

That is not kindness.

That's like tying an old dog that once bit someone to the side of the street so that all those who come after can see what it looks like now.

Aiger knew that if he stayed there, death might not come immediately.

It can be humiliating.

Day and night, it goes on and on.

So he had to leave.

Take the money with you, take the last bit of capital that's enough to turn things around.

But now, everything is shattered.

The spellcaster is dead.

The fugitive is dead.

Craig is finished too.

Those who should have become corpses were still standing there, amidst a pool of blood and torches, like a group of living ghosts who had just emerged from the gallows.

"Damn it..."

Aiger heard himself squeeze out those two words.

His voice was dry and hoarse.

His legs felt a little weak.

It's not the exhaustion from running, but something uglier—when a person suddenly discovers that their last trump card has also crumbled into mud under someone else's feet, their bones will lose their strength first.

Aiger took a deep breath of the cold night air.

My lungs and internal organs ached from the cold.

He slowly took a step back.

not much.

My heel sank into a patch of loose gravel, making a soft rustling sound.

Just retreat into the darkness.

As long as you leave the area illuminated by the torch.

As long as they disappear into the wilderness—

Before he could even finish his thought, a hand had already landed on his shoulder from behind.

That hand wasn't heavy.

Yet it remained as steady as an iron wedge driven into a crack in the rock.

Aiger froze.

The muscles in my shoulder blades, neck, and back tensed up like a piece of hard wood in an instant.

He didn't even have the courage to turn around and look at the person behind him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up one by one, and his heart felt like it had been soaked in ice water.

Immediately afterwards, a cold, hard piece of metal pressed against his throat.

First it was cold.

Then, that slight coolness wafted inside.

It felt like a fine needle piercing the skin.

Then, the real pain finally erupted, belatedly.

The short sword didn't cut deep into the side of the throat, but it was extremely accurate.

The blade avoided the jawbone, slid in diagonally along the soft part, and the sensation of cutting through the trachea and flesh was so clear that it was despairing.

Aiger instinctively opened his mouth, wanting to shout, to beg for mercy, to say that he could offer money, connections, anything that could save his life—

But he could only squeeze out a series of strange, whistling sounds from his throat.

Blood gushed out first.

Warm, thick, it spread rapidly along the collar and chest.

Aiger instinctively raised his hands, wanting to cover the wound.

But the moment his fingers touched the hot, slippery blood on the side of his neck, the strength had already dissipated from his arm.

My knee felt like it had suddenly lost its bone, and it slammed into the cold, rough ground first.

thump.

He knelt down.

Then the person slowly tilted to the side.

My field of vision began to tilt.

The pebbles, broken grass, and cracked soil on the ground magnified inch by inch in his eyes.

His eyes were open, his pupils still struggling to move, containing the last bit of something that hadn't been burned away—resentment, panic, a belated will to live before death, and a profound sense of absurdity about how he had ended up like this.

But all of that is meaningless now.

Blood kept gushing from his throat, taking away warmth and his voice.

Darkness crept in from the edge of vision first.

Then close them up little by little.

The torchlight blurred, and the outlines of distant figures began to fade. The sound of the wind in the wilderness, the heavy breathing of horses, Craig's intermittent groans, Ingram's low coughs... these sounds, which were once clear, seemed to be separated by a layer of water and quickly receded into the distance.

The world gradually darkened.

In the end, only endless darkness remained.

Ravenna sheathed her short sword, wiped the blood off Aiger's clothes, and stood up.

The night wind swept in from the edge of the wilderness, causing a few strands of hair to gently brush against her face.

She didn't say anything, but just looked up at Joel.

Joel was silent for a moment, then finally walked towards Craig.

The face, twisted and deformed by the beast's corpse, looked particularly unfamiliar in the flickering torchlight.

Craig isn't completely dead yet.

He could barely move his upper body, and his throat was constantly emitting broken, bellows-like gasps.

As Joel approached, a clear hint of desperation flickered in his bloodshot eyes.

"Joel..."

His voice was broken and intermittent, as if it were being squeezed out from shattered lungs.

"Joel...we've known each other...for so many years..."

Joel did not answer immediately.

He simply crouched down and looked at that face for a long time.

So long that even the last glimmer of hope in Craig's own eyes began to fade away.

Then, Joel drew the dagger from his waist.

"It's been quite many years."

His voice was flat, as if he were talking about an old story that had nothing to do with him.

The blade fell.

Craig's body jerked violently, then fell completely silent.

In the wilderness, only the sound of the wind remains.

Joel did not stand up immediately.

He just squatted there, holding the knife, looking at the bloodstains splattered on the back of his hand.

He had killed several people in his life, but never in this way—squatting down, looking them in the eyes, and ending their lives with a single blow.

He took a deep breath, but couldn't suppress anything.

In the end, he simply wiped his face hard and turned to look at Zieg.

"Mr. Sieg... what's next?"

Zig's gaze was pulled away from the darkness where Aiger had fallen.

"First, confirm if there are any survivors."

Finn, carrying his spear, limped over to check on the remaining desperados lying on the ground.

Ravenna then nocked an arrow again and circled the area, searching for shadows where people might be hiding, using the light from the torch's edge to the boundary between the torchlight and the night.

A moment later, they both gave the same answer.

There are no survivors.

Only then did Joel's nerves, which were on the verge of snapping, finally relax a little.

But Ingram's injury couldn't wait.

The heavily armored warrior still leaned against the cracked rock, his breastplate visibly dented in the middle, each breath heavy and labored.

Finn was in slightly better condition, but his right arm was numb, and his shoulders, back, and waist were covered with bruises from the impact. Even his hand holding the gun would tremble uncontrollably if he stood for a long time.