Chapter 3: The Silent Hunter

It was around three in the afternoon, and the sun still held its most venomous heat.

The bandits, having just paid the price of a dozen lives to secure a "great victory," gathered together to guzzle down cheap swill.

A burly man with a beard so thick it nearly obscured his entire face drained his wooden cup of ale in one go.

With a thud, he slammed the cup onto the table, his voice raspy and slurred with intoxication as he bellowed.

"I say, if we’d all charged together and surrounded that old geezer, we wouldn't have needed so many men to die. Sure, fewer mouths to share the loot, but... but it’s just... it’s a loss of face!"

A scrawny, sharp-featured man sitting nearby gave the back of the bearded man’s head a sharp slap.

"Listen to you, Sean. When that old knight was fighting like a demon, weren't you the first to run? Why didn't you step up yourself?"

"Maybe your useless muscles could have jammed that apprentice knight’s sword, and we could have killed him and avenged you in the process. Eh, Mr. Sean the Runner?"

"A bandit’s business... how... how can you call it running? Billy, how can you spout such nonsense?"

The bearded man called Sean stammered in defense, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.

Whether from the drink or the sting of humiliation, his reaction drew a chorus of gleeful laughter from the others.

"I... I won't lower myself to your level. I’m, I’m going to take a leak."

Perhaps truly needing to relieve himself, he retreated toward the corner of a house amidst the jeers of his comrades.

Back when this was a village, there had been something resembling a latrine.

But now, the bandits had no interest in farming, nor did they care to maintain such "useless" things, so relieving themselves wherever they pleased had become the norm.

Nursing a deep resentment toward Billy’s mockery but lacking the wit to retort, Sean felt stifled, and the frustration brought back old memories.

Before he became a bandit, he had been the strongest lad in the village, and Wendy, the blacksmith’s beautiful daughter, had adored him.

Back then, with his raw strength, he excelled at herding, hauling, and smithing; he was a figure of envy among his peers.

Thinking about it, he sometimes felt he should never have turned to banditry; marrying Wendy and living as an honest farmer wouldn't have been so bad—at least he’d be fed, warm, and have a beautiful wife.

But as Sean stood there relieving himself, he quickly shook his head, casting the thought aside.

Wendy was long gone... and besides, the thrill of holding power over life and death was something even a coward like him couldn't resist—the urge and pleasure of dominating others.

He licked his lips, a perverse curve forming at the corner of his mouth; tomorrow, they would get to toy with the old knight’s squire.

Boss Obi-Wan rarely granted them the chance to torture captives, but perhaps the heavy losses today had stoked an uncontrollable rage.

Thinking of tomorrow’s "fun," he trembled all over, unable to contain his excitement.

Then, a long sword silently pierced his back, driving through his heart.

Blood gushed from the gap between blade and flesh, and Sean tried to scream.

But a crossbow bolt was faster, punching straight through his throat, turning his intended shriek into a wheezing, airy rattle.

Immediately after, as he tried to muster his final strength for a desperate struggle, a powerful hand gripped his head.

With a surge of force and a sickening crack, Sean’s consciousness vanished into an endless void.

Looking at the corpse before him—heart pierced, throat skewered, and head twisted at a grotesque angle—Avia trembled from head to toe.

Killing someone with his own hands... the concept felt worlds away; raised in a noble household, he could barely grasp the gravity of the words.

Though he had been neglected and knew that death was common, he had never witnessed the act of killing or the sight of blood...

Had he really killed someone? "Ugh—" An indescribable nausea churned within him.

The horror of the act left him unable to suppress the instinctive discomfort and dizziness that comes with seeing a fellow creature die.

He began to retch, but having eaten nothing for days, he only heaved up air and dry, hacking sounds.

"No need to react so strongly, Avia. It’s either them or us. Your archery is incredible; having you here is a massive help."

Wang Yu stood beside Avia and gave his back two firm pats. The force wasn't immense, but it nearly knocked Avia to the ground, prompting Wang Yu to lament the boy’s frailty once more.

The two sharp pats, while nearly knocking the wind out of him, finally eased the nausea of his first kill.

"I’m fine, thank you. It’s just... just hard to accept for now. I’ll adapt. Yes, I will adapt..."

Avia caught his breath and thanked Wang Yu for his support.

"Good. Now, let’s clean this up quickly. Just shovel the blood away with the dirt."

Seeing Avia recover and claim he was fine, Wang Yu gave him a mental nod of approval.

He liked people like this; it didn't matter if they were inexperienced or uncomfortable, as long as they were willing to learn.

The two began to set their plan into motion.

Based on Wang Yu’s secret observations, the layout was a small village surrounded by a dilapidated wall.

Though the wall was so ruinous it couldn't stop a cow, the watchtowers at the four corners were surprisingly well-built, and Wang Yu knew he couldn't approach the perimeter without being spotted.

The overall layout was loose, and the bandits lacked any real discipline, yet in key areas, Wang Yu sensed a professional touch.

The wall and towers were the perfect example; the wall was trash, but the towers were vital and effective—they had clearly grasped the essentials.

However, the towers only watched for those approaching from the outside; they paid no mind to what happened within the village. This was the conclusion Wang Yu had reached.

To escape, they had to act from within. A forced breakout at the wall would surely draw the attention of Obi-Wan and the mage, making escape impossible.

So, Wang Yu’s goal was to cut down Obi-Wan and the mage, then break through the rabble.

He was currently executing the first step of his plan.

Distract these combat-illiterate bandits, then serve them something "special" to drink.

"Why has Sean been gone so long? Did he get backed up down there?"

Billy wore a lewd grin, mocking Sean’s sluggishness as he drank.

The small, scrawny man had always been jealous of Sean’s physique, and now that Sean was the butt of the joke, he felt no guilt in piling on the insults.

"Thud!" The sound of a heavy object falling and shattering reached everyone’s ears.

"Hm? What was that? Did Sean get too drunk and fall over? He’s only had a few—that’s hilarious."

The bandits immediately began to laugh.

"Let’s go check it out anyway. Watching Sean make a fool of himself is always good for a laugh."

Billy, naturally, wouldn't pass up the chance to ridicule Sean further.

"Right, let’s go see the big bear," the other bandits agreed, eager for the spectacle.

The group walked toward the source of the sound, trading jokes about Sean.

When they arrived, they saw no one, but they caught the scent of wine.

A crate had been smashed open, revealing glass bottles filled with a clear, amber liquid that looked incredibly tempting.

A pile of bottles had rolled out from the broken crate; several had shattered, spilling wine across the ground, the rich aroma wafting into the nostrils of the drunks.

"Isn't... isn't this the 'Amber Nectar' that Boss Obi-Wan brought? How... how is it here?" one of the bandits asked.

"Yeah, how is it here? Didn't the boss keep them in the cellar?" another replied, stunned.

"If Boss Obi-Wan finds out, he’ll surely kill us..." someone else muttered in terror.

Billy, standing in the crowd, was first bewildered, then gripped by fear—fear of Obi-Wan’s wrath. Beneath his poor physical condition lay a deeply cowardly soul.

Yet, in the very next instant, his eyes ignited with a sudden, sharp brilliance, and he threw back his head to bellow at the top of his lungs.

"It’s Sean! It has to be that bastard. He must have been deep in his cups and decided to pilfer the boss’s finest vintage, sneaking this crate out of the cellar."

"He probably shattered the box while trying to swipe a few bottles, got scared out of his wits, and bolted—truly living up to his name, 'Runaway Sean'."

"The boss will never forgive him, so we might as well drink our fill now and pin the whole mess on Sean later!"

Struck by Billy’s logic, the bandits immediately snapped to attention.

Indeed, weren't they here to hunt down Sean anyway? Regardless of whether Billy’s theory held water, shifting the blame onto Sean was a foolproof plan.

Since the wine was already ruined and the boss’s wrath was inevitable, they might as well enjoy a few drinks and dump the consequences on Sean’s head.

Once the boss had vented his fury by butchering Sean, their own punishments would surely be far less severe.

"Yes, yes, it’s definitely Sean!" The bandits eagerly cast their guilt upon the man already sealed forever inside the crate, and with frantic haste, they pried open the bottles to indulge.

"It actually worked. I knew this rabble lacked vigilance, but I never expected them to improvise their own downfall."

From the distant brush, two pairs of eyes watched the scene unfold, Wang Yu’s voice laced with a strange, detached tone.

"I didn't think it would go so smoothly. Once they finish that wine, they’re as good as dead..."

Wang Yu muttered to himself. He hadn't anticipated such ease; when he was hauled off to the cell after feigning unconsciousness, he had overheard the bandits discussing the wine Obi-Wan kept in the cellar.

The plan to steal the stash and lace it with poison had formed in his mind quite naturally.

The real challenge had been how to make them drink it, a problem he shared with Avia, which led to the staged drama of the "accidentally broken crate."

"Avia, you were a massive help," Wang Yu said, patting Avia on the shoulder and giving him a thumbs-up of genuine appreciation.

"Well, we are partners, after all," Avia replied, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Ha, my talent for quick wit is abysmal, so I’m glad I left the strategy to you."

Wang Yu was well aware of his own intellectual limitations; he could hatch a plan, but the finer details were best left to others.

He had originally intended to simply poison a few bottles and see if they took the bait, but Avia’s suggestions had been invaluable.

"Leave it to me, then," Avia said, looking strangely pleased—or perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

"But, Wang Yu, are those herbs you used actually reliable?"

"Those herbs? No worries. This 'Wail-Breath' grass grows from the residue of intense resentment left by dead spirits. It’s not quite a magical potion, but it’s close enough."

"It took me forever to scrape together a small vial of the powdered leaves..."

"A spoonful the size of a fingernail can plunge the weak-willed into hallucinations. Though I could eat a pound of it and feel nothing, I verified the effects with an informant at the tavern," Wang Yu answered.

Avia breathed a sigh of relief; he had known since they first discussed the plan that this man was reckless.

Setting aside the merits of the scheme, Avia had been driven to distraction when Wang Yu showed him his personal notebook, filled with sketches of various herbs and bizarre minerals.

The drawings could only be described as abstract, likely decipherable only by Wang Yu himself. Wang Yu had admitted his lack of artistic talent with refreshing candor, though he had done his best to capture the defining features of each item.

Glancing through the notebook, which Wang Yu used to document everything he encountered while adventuring with the old knight, Avia noticed a clear progression.

From the initial, incomprehensible scribbles and notes, the sketches dozens of pages later had evolved into recognizable forms; the man’s improvement was undeniable.

Avia couldn't help but admire Wang Yu’s dedication; he was truly a man who loved to learn and practice.

What surprised him even more, however, was Wang Yu’s monstrous willpower. When he had first rescued him from the dungeon, he had been horrified by the man’s wounds.

While his ability to move could be explained by his constitution, the pain—the mere thought of it made Avia shudder. And was he serious about eating a pound of "Wail-Breath"?

As they spoke, the bandits began to show signs of distress.

A drunken man suddenly wore a look of sheer terror, his mouth working as if to scream, yet no sound emerged.

He clawed at his own throat, vomiting as his eyes bulged, bloodshot and straining against their sockets as if ready to burst.

As time passed, the symptoms intensified; beneath the skin of his face, a dense, blue-black web of veins began to pulse.

The expression of absolute horror began to twist into a grotesque, indescribable smile.

The contrast between the terrified eyes and the upturned corners of the mouth sent a chill down Avia’s spine as he watched.

He turned to look at Wang Yu, but the man was already stone-faced, his longsword gripped in one hand and his shield in the other, coiled and ready to kill.

Noticing Avia’s gaze, Wang Yu nodded, returning to his predatory stance.

Inspired by Wang Yu, Avia steadied his nerves, swallowed hard, and raised his crossbow, preparing to charge.

As the poison took hold, the state of the drinking bandits grew increasingly macabre.

Most were clutching their own throats; their faces, already mapped with blue-gray veins, turned a deep, suffocating purple, their arms corded with tension as they fought for air.

As they neared the point of asphyxiation, the eerie smiles faded, replaced by expressions of extreme ferocity.

It was the look of a man in his death throes, as if struggling against something deep within his own body.

They wanted to scream, to howl, to roar, but they couldn't; the "Wail-Breath" herb worked in direct opposition to the shrieking ghosts it was derived from—once ingested, it silenced the victim completely.

The spectral residue forced these poor wretches to witness their own deepest terrors, a fear so profound they would sooner die than face it. The stronger the will, the less effective the herb, but these bandits were weak-willed and drunk, their resolve bottomed out.

Against Wang Yu’s refined powder, they had no defense, left only to choke themselves to death in a silent, endless nightmare.

It was a fitting end for such scum.

A few of the bandits, their faces contorted, tried to fight their own bodies. The terror of the hallucinations, compounded by the sudden, lucid realization of their plight, shattered their minds.

The desperate instinct to survive granted them a fleeting moment of control.

But as one of them managed to gasp, "Help!...", he barely uttered the word before a longsword sheared his head clean off, sending a spray of blood half a meter into the air.

Another unfortunate soul, watching the scene with a twisted face, was overcome by a fresh wave of terror that drove him to scream.

But before he could produce a single sound, a crossbow bolt pierced his eye socket, shattering his consciousness and stifling his final cry in his throat.

Wang Yu coldly decapitated one bandit after another, each seemingly on the verge of a dying wail—a silent hunter, harvesting those who could no longer scream.