Henwell’s feet stand atop a pile of high-level monster corpses, but more than ten of the beasts still swarm him.

  His Nightwind armor is in tatters, riddled with cracks and dents, and both his longswords bear deep chips along their edges.

  Blood soaks through his clothes, swirling around him in a thick, bloody mist.

  Gasping hard, Henwell spits out frothy blood, his eyes glowing a fierce crimson.

  After a brief moment to steady himself, he charges back into the fray against the oncoming high-level monsters.

  A few minutes ter, Simon leads the Lord Iron Guards, having sughtered over a hundred monsters.

  At st, they carve out a safe zone.

  Without hesitation, Simon orders a shift in formation and charges toward Henwell’s position.

  Meanwhile, the pace gates have been cleared wide open.

  Squads of Blood Lion Knights finally pour into the castle grounds.

  They gather at the gate, reorganizing into charge formations.

  Minutes pass, and the force swells to seven or eight hundred Blood Lion Knights.

  Under their officers’ command, the knights begin galloping around the square.

  The charge distance is too short to build speed, so they circle the area to gain momentum.

  After a p and a half, their horses reach full speed.

  The lead knight adjusts direction, veering in from the fnk.

  Their three-meter-long nces, propelled by the horses’ momentum, easily pierce through monster bodies.

  After sweeping through the horde, the Blood Lion Knights pass by Henwell.

  Orak thrusts out his nce, shouting, “Henwell! Grab on!”

  Henwell catches the nce, and Orak, holding it with one hand, swings toward a nearby knight.

  Then Henwell grabs that knight’s nce again, deftly flipping behind the closest horse.

  Finally, he breaks out of the encirclement with the cavalry.

  While regrouping and adjusting their speed and formation, Orak looks at Henwell, drenched in blood, and says, “Get down and rest!”

  Henwell shakes his head, “I can still fight!”

  Orak says nothing more, letting Henwell find a warhorse whose rider has fallen.

  Moments ter, Henwell grips a spear and rides side by side with Orak, charging back into the monster horde.

  Henwell’s mounted combat skills are fierce—even without his preferred weapons or horse, a single charge lets him kill nearly thirty monsters, including two high-level ones.

  He scans the battlefield and shouts, “Brother! You clear the area around me! I’m taking my guards to block that little house spewing monsters nonstop!”

  Orak nods, “Go ahead, I’ve got your back!”

  Henwell spurs his horse to the Lord Iron Guards, swings down wielding his twin swords.

  “Simon! Form up! We’re blocking that damn creepy house’s entrance!”

  Leading the Lord Iron Guards through the gap Orak’s men carved open, Henwell arrives at the strange little hut.

  He orders, “Defensive formation! Simon, you and your men hold this doorway! Don’t touch the house—it’s weird as hell. Keep your distance!”

  Over fifty Lord Iron Guards form a semicircur siege line in front of the eerie hut.

  They split into three yers:

  The outermost blocks monsters charging with corpses, stopping them from feeding the strange house.

  The innermost holds back monsters pouring out from the hut.

  The middle yer stands ready to support either side.

  At the gate of house, Henwell swings his twin swords, cutting down high-level monsters bursting out.

  Meanwhile, Simon and the others tackle the remaining mid- and low-level monsters.

  Any stragglers slipping through get shredded by the inner yer of Iron Guards.

  At first, Henwell and his group face immense pressure.

  But as they hold the line from both inside and outside, fewer and fewer monsters emerge from that creepy little hut.

  Meanwhile, elite troops keep pouring into the pace grounds, splitting the outer monsters into pockets and wiping them out one by one.

  Throughout the battle, no army dares interfere with the thug’s battlefield.

  He’s just too damn fierce.

  At one point, a squad of kingdom guards, clueless about the situation, rushes into the fight.

  A hundred or so men st less than two minutes before getting wiped out completely.

  That brutal loss finally gives the church guards, who’ve been locked in fierce combat for a long time, a moment to catch their breath.

  As the situation gradually comes under control, the severely wounded Archbishop Atwood slowly regains consciousness.

  The thug ughs wildly, sshing down two more church guards and forcing back the attackers.

  Suddenly, he leaps high into the air and just hovers there, raising a hand to beckon toward the hut trapping Henwell.

  The creepy little hut shoots up from the ground, flying higher and higher until it shrinks back down to a palm-sized box.

  The thug grabs the box and tucks it into his pocket with a look of disgust.

  “You little shit,” he sneers at Henwell, “you actually camped the spawn point to kill monsters.”

  The man waves again, and the floating crystal that’s been pying music disappears.

  Complex geometric light patterns swirl around him.

  From the sky, he shouts toward the wounded Archbishop Atwood, propped up and guarded by others in the distance.

  “Old bastard! You’re lucky to get away today! But just wait! Without divine protection next time, I’m coming for killing you!”

  His body gradually fades, turning semi-transparent.

  He gres viciously at everyone and snarls, “You all better remember this day—you pissed off the wrong guy! Especially you, kid! You’re about to fuck with the wrong bad-ass!”

  Fixing Henwell with a threatening stare, he growls,

  “To keep you from dying ignorantly, remember my name—I’m Newwood!”

  With that, under the crowd’s grim looks, the thug named Newwood slowly vanishes into thin air.

  Henwell’s face is drenched in blood, making it hard to read his expression, but his eyes are full of confusion.

  Suddenly, breaking the heavy silence over the square, a clear voice calls out, “Henwell! Are you okay?!”

  It’s Melissa, her tone urgent and worried, snapping Henwell back to reality.

  He gnces at Simon beside him and says, “I will be seriously wounded! You all better act the part!”

  With that, Henwell spits out a mouthful of blood and colpses backward, lying ft on his back.

  Simon and the others scramble to catch him, quickly fashioning a makeshift stretcher from spears and cloaks.

  They hoist Henwell up and rush toward the pace gates.

  Jansen and the others leap down, chasing after the Lord Iron Guards.

  At the pace entrance, they find a random carriage—no one knows whose—and load Henwell inside, speeding off toward Phoenix’s estate.

  There’s no hint of acting in their faces; their panic is real.

  Henwell’s body bears at least a dozen wounds—some so deep you can see his insides.

  These are fatal injuries. Everyone genuinely believes Henwell is on his st breath.