Chapter 45 — Let Barra Go… Please…
An artery — once cut — is never something a hand can stop.
From the torn opening, warm scarlet blood gushed with the force of a burst dam, splashing across the floor and walls in a violent crimson spray.
The once–clean corridor was painted red in the blink of an eye.
Because that was all this exchange took —
a single blink.
The clash of metal had barely finished ringing when three Gold Cloaks collapsed at Pod's feet.
And before the five remaining guards behind them could even comprehend what had just happened, a half-naked silhouette — Pod — surged forward like a predator pouncing.
The three who had fallen were already dead. Pod didn't spare them a look.
His sword was not a weapon in his hand — it was an extension of his body, something he controlled as easily as his own fingers.
He could feel everything:
the blade slicing skin, cutting windpipes, severing muscle —
he knew exactly how deep those strikes were.
One deflection, one redirection, one sweeping horizontal cut — it barely required any effort from him at all.
And because of his height and reach, the instant the horizontal strike left his sword, he was already in motion —
charging forward.
The moment he passed between the three dying guards, he twisted his wrist again, drawing the blade tight to his body, slipping between their falling bodies with surgical precision.
And in that same breath — the sword thrust forward once more.
The razor tip hissed out like a serpent's fang — fast and lethal.
The next Gold Cloak didn't even understand what had happened. All he felt was a sudden sting beneath his arm.
Pod's sword had slipped into his chest from an unnatural angle —
and shredded his heart.
The layered rings of chain and the black breastplate the Gold Cloaks prided themselves on meant nothing. The blade found a gap with terrifying accuracy, piercing straight through.
Another kill — and Pod didn't slow.
As he ripped the sword out, he lifted his elbow and slammed it into the throat of the next guard.
With Pod's monstrous strength — enhanced bones and muscle density —
that elbow strike might as well have been a battering ram.
A soft crack — almost delicate.
Then the Gold Cloak's entire neck folded.
His head snapped sideways and smashed against the wall with a brutal thud before his body slumped lifelessly down.
Eight men had charged him.
In the space of lightning and thunder — five were dead.
The last three stood staggered unevenly in front of him, too far back to have reached him earlier.
They stared at the bodies of their comrades collapsing one after another — and their charge died instantly in terror. Their boots scraped the ground as they tried to stop.
But it was too late.
You don't start a fight you can simply stop halfway.
And Podrick Payne had no intention of letting them live.
He grinned — wide and merciless — and strode toward them, passing the bodies of the two he had just killed.
Only now did the one with the shattered neck finally slide fully down the wall.
The guard who had been stabbed through the heart staggered forward two helpless steps, disbelief in his eyes. His fingers loosened around his sword, knees buckled, and he collapsed face-first onto the floor with his final breath.
But before the fallen sword reached the ground, another hand caught it — a small hand.
Pod didn't even look as he closed his fingers around the hilt, claiming it mid-air.
Still walking toward the last three Gold Cloaks, he raised the sword — and simply threw it.
His Throw Lv.1 wasn't masterful —
but with this distance, and with a body like a walking dragon…
It didn't need to be.
The spinning blade turned into a streak of steel — a flash, then gone.
A sharp bang cracked through the corridor as the sword ripped the air apart — then buried itself in the first Gold Cloak's face.
It didn't stop.
It punched straight through his skull, bursting out the back in a spray of bone and blood.
The strength and speed — combined with the weight of the iron sword — turned it into a missile of pure death.
With a deafening crack, the spinning blade didn't just burst through the first Gold Cloak's skull — it detonated it.
The sword punched out the back of his head, shredded the helmet along with it, and kept flying.
It didn't stop until it drove itself straight through the open mouth of the second Gold Cloak, blowing through the back of his neck before finally losing momentum.
In that instant, the sword's path was obscene and precise:
First — the tip went through the first man's face.
Then — through his iron helmet.
Then — embedded itself inside the second man's skull.
Because the guard's head had been blown apart inside the helmet, and because the helmet had been carried forward with the blade stuck in its broken crack, the first Gold Cloak appeared to have been beheaded clean off, leaving a headless corpse swaying upright.
Behind him, the iron helmet — with the second guard's face impaled on it — was driven forward like a grotesque skewer.
Chunks of blood-soaked bone and brain finally oozed out of the shattered helmet, dripping red and white across the floor.
Two more thuds — heavy bodies collapsing.
Only two remained standing before Pod now:
the last conscious Gold Cloak, frozen in terror, and Janos Slynt, several steps behind him.
Out of the eight Gold Cloaks who had stormed the corridor, only three were still alive:
• The first guard, collapsed on the ground, missing half a hand
• The lone surviving guard in front of Pod, trembling like a leaf
• Janos Slynt — their commander
Pod did not strike them yet.
He turned his head slightly, staring past the two paralyzed survivors.
From the stairway not far away, he heard hurried footsteps — but not many this time.
"Lord Slynt! We found them!"
The excited shout arrived before the men did.
Two fresh Gold Cloaks emerged at the top of the stairs —
one dragging a woman by the hair,
the other casually holding a swaddled infant like a bundle of laundry, while the baby screamed and wailed in agony.
The moment they stepped onto the landing, they froze.
The corridor before them — the blood, the bodies, the hacked limbs — was a slaughterhouse.
They stopped dead, eyes wide, unable to comprehend what they had walked into.
Pod's eyes slid to the woman and the crying baby.
His gaze sharpened — then his lips curled upward into a smile, sharp and chilling.
The sword in his hand, once cold steel, was now soaked in red, gleaming wet and angry.
He slowly raised it.
Its tip pointed forward.
The one surviving Gold Cloak standing in front of Pod followed the movement of that sword — and his bladder gave out. Burning, pungent urine streamed down his legs, pooling beneath him.
Before he could scream or flee, his eyes rolled back.
He collapsed — fainting from sheer terror.
With his fall, Pod's blade simply shifted, and its tip now pointed at the man behind him:
Janos Slynt.
The frog-faced commander stared at Pod as if he had seen a demon dragged out of the Seven Hells. He stumbled backward, step after clumsy step, until his spine struck the wall and he had nowhere left to retreat.
His legs tangled beneath him and he collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.
In the silent corridor, the only sound was the baby's piercing, heartbreaking cry.
The woman being dragged — hair still clenched in the guard's fist — didn't even understand what was happening. She only fought to look at her daughter, tears streaming, voice cracking.
"Please… please… let Barra go… I beg you…"