"Save me! Please—save me!!"
A bandit lay sprawled on the ground, his legs hacked off at the knees, dragging himself forward with his elbows. Darkness closed in around him, but to this man, the only beacon of hope was the figure standing before him. He stretched out a trembling hand, his eyes pleading as he stared up at Kelly—but the former bandit simply squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look at his one-time comrade.
A sharp blade pierced the bandit's chest, wrenching a final, bloodcurdling scream from his lips. His body shriveled before their eyes, shrinking into a desiccated husk of skin and bone. Flames of spectral energy erupted from his corpse, snaking up the blade's length before vanishing without a trace. The spirit warrior pulled the sword free—once rusted and dull, it now glinted with a fearsome, razor-sharp edge, sharp enough to slice through steel and jade alike. On closer inspection, even the warrior's armor had undergone a subtle transformation: the dents and cracks had mended themselves, the dark iron shell now shimmering with a faint, otherworldly glow. The decorative carvings on its surface twisted and warped, forming indistinct, ghostly faces.
"Is that all of them?"
Black's voice jolted Kelly back to reality. He forced his eyes open, staring fixedly at the young man before him, then clenched his jaw and bowed his head slowly.
"Yes, my lord."
His voice trembled with terror—and a flicker of shame. He had been a bandit too, after all. To abandon his brothers-in-arms at the behest of an outsider… it stung, if only for a moment. But the feeling passed quickly. Men could be replaced. And honestly—this was for the best. With all of them dead, no one would ever know he'd betrayed the gang. As long as he survived, he'd have plenty of time to build a new organization from scratch. He could spin a tale: the gang had been wiped out by a powerful enemy, and he alone had escaped by the skin of his teeth. Yes—that was perfect. Utterly perfect.
Good progress.
Black's gaze drifted to the spirit warriors at his side, and he raised an eyebrow in approval. This was the true reason he'd brought them here—to restore their strength, to stabilize their forms, to make them whole again.
Though the spirits possessed respectable mana reserves, they were nothing more than disembodied souls. Without a physical vessel to store and concentrate their power, their magic was locked at the bare minimum required to maintain their spectral form. To put it in perspective: a soul could only hold fifty mana at a time. It could siphon more through various means, but without a vessel to contain it, the excess energy would dissipate into the ether, leaving only the base fifty mana—the soul's natural limit. This process was irreversible, unavoidable. But with a physical body? If the spirit absorbed a hundred mana now, that power would be stored safely in its armor vessel, remaining until it was expended in battle.
Black's goal was simple: to flood the spirits with power in the shortest time possible, letting them condense and store that energy within their current forms. With enough mana to sustain them, these spirits could use their armor as a foundation to evolve—growing stronger, lasting longer, transcending their current limits.
There were several ways to boost the spirits' power. Now that Black had bound them to armor vessels capable of containing their mana, the next step was to let them absorb more energy. The fastest, most efficient method? Feeding on the souls of other living beings.
Soul consumption was an innate ability of all spectral creatures. Humans sustained themselves on flesh and blood; spirits survived on the essence of souls. And souls, like bodies, varied in strength. That was why Black had led the spirits across the Duskspine Mountains to the Golden Trade Route—for the abundance of "soul sustenance" that lurked here.
Black hadn't chosen the bandits out of some noble desire to uphold justice. No—there was a practical reason behind it. In the realms of good, the weak made up the vast majority. A soul's strength was directly tied to the power of its former host. Kindness required no great strength—only a compassionate heart. But evil? To thrive as a villain, one needed power enough to dominate others. Which was why the souls of evildoers were universally more potent. And the scene unfolding before him proved his theory correct.
Thanks to Kelly's betrayal, over thirty bandits had fallen to the spirit warriors. Feeding on these corrupt souls had pushed the spirits to the peak of mid-tier warrior strength—a level they never could have reached by preying on the farmers of Dusk Town, even if Black had ordered them to slaughter every last villager.
Ofalil, however, saw things differently.
"My lord… is this right?" she asked hesitantly.
Black turned to her, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Is there a problem?"
"You told them to surrender—laid down their weapons. But now you're killing them anyway. Isn't that…" She trailed off, her expression troubled. It was hardly surprising. The princess had never seen battle before, had little experience with death. The bandits' final looks—of bitter resentment, of betrayal—had weighed heavily on her conscience. She could almost hear their unspoken accusation: if you were going to kill us anyway, why did you lie to us?
"I *did* tell them to surrender," Black replied, his expression utterly innocent. "But I never said they'd be spared if they did."
"..."
"You heard me, didn't you? I only ordered Kelly to tell them to drop their weapons and give up. At no point did I promise them mercy."
"But… common sense dictates that—"
"Common sense is nothing more than a subjective judgment," Black interrupted with a smile. "Nothing is set in stone until it's explicitly stated. And on the battlefield, misjudgment is a death sentence. They made a mistake—that's all."
"Then… your real reason for this was…"
"Killing unarmed prisoners is far more efficient than fighting those who resist," Black said matter-of-factly.
"Ugh…"
Ofalil pressed a hand to her forehead, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. "I think I finally understand how your mind works, my lord."
Good.
Black said nothing more, watching the helpless look on Ofalil's face. Instead, he turned and gestured to Kelly, who hovered nearby, fidgeting nervously. "Come here."
"Right away, my lord!"
Kelly scurried over, forcing a ingratiating smile onto his face. He'd been studying Black and Ofalil closely during the raid. The girl was exactly what he'd thought—a sheltered noblewoman, clueless about the ways of the world. She didn't concern him. But the young man? He was a different story entirely. For all his slender build and lack of obvious muscle, there was something about Black's demeanor that screamed danger. Kelly had watched him closely during the slaughter—and what he'd seen had chilled him to the bone. Whether the bandits fought back, begged for mercy, or cursed his name, Black's expression had remained calm, detached—as if their lives meant nothing to him at all. Kelly considered himself a hardened killer, but even he felt a thrill of excitement when he held power over others' lives. Black, though? He showed no emotion whatsoever.
Could he be some kind of high-ranking noble, on a secret mission?
The more Kelly thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Black's clothes were clearly of noble make; the girl at his side was far too beautiful and poised to be a commoner. And those black-armored warriors—their combat skills were unlike anything Kelly had ever seen, brutal and otherworldly, their discipline absolute. Not a single one had uttered a word since they'd appeared, obeying Black's commands without question. Even the royal guards of the Kingdom of Shilo couldn't match that level of obedience.
Yes—this young man must be the emissary of some great lord. If Kelly could earn his favor…
The thought made Kelly's attitude even more deferential.
"You know the Golden Trade Route well, don't you?" Black asked.
"Ah—well enough, my lord," Kelly replied cautiously, still smarting from his earlier miscalculations.
"Then you must know who the strongest bandit leader in these parts is."
Kelly's eyes lit up. *Finally—a chance to prove my worth!*
"Without a doubt, my lord! The most powerful gang around here is led by a man called Daros the Moon Wolf—and his men are ruthless bastards, every last one of them. Rumor has it Daros has reached the rank of high-tier Swordsman—just one step away from becoming a Soul Swordmaster!"
"High-tier Swordsman?"
Black's eyebrows shot up in interest.
*Perfect.*
"Then I assume you know where his hideout is located?"
Kelly's smile faltered, his expression darkening slightly. "To tell you the truth, my lord—Daros's camp is on the western side of the Golden Trade Route. He's got the best territory around—rich pickings, easy escape routes. But getting there from here… it won't be easy. We'd have to cut through the territory of several other gangs—and none of them are pushovers."
"That's not your concern," Black said with a shrug, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. "Your only job is to lead the way."
He paused, then added with a cold smile, "Besides—we'll be passing through plenty of bandit territory before we reach Daros, won't we?"