The outsider who had escaped from the 8th Platoon Leader’s grasp by detonating minerals in the air had barely survived the blast he himself caused and had been wandering the peninsula’s interior for days, clinging to his stubborn lifeline.
The reason he’d managed to escape the collapse site was thanks to a certain pill. It was the five-hundred-somethingth drug Alec Siles had been developing. If what Alec had given Leonardo was a stabilizer, then what he gave the outsider was a kind of mana amplifier.
A single dose made it feel as though mana welled up endlessly for about three hours. Alec had created the drug by imitating the symptoms of a mana rampage during his research.
However, it didn’t let one wield more power than their own mana reserves allowed. Instead, it was a dangerous drug that temporarily pushed usable mana to its limit, only to burn the body out completely at the end like a blown fuse.
The outsider, who had taken it thinking it was simply a mana booster, had used up the extra supply to escape during the collapse. Now he had no means left to get out of the peninsula on his own.
At present, he was running in a hurry, his destination through the winding tunnels none other than the mining team’s hideout.
He hadn’t expected to return of his own will, but between being devoured by monsters or arrested by the Council, it seemed better to go back, take a beating or two, and beg them to accept him again. To him, that was the best choice.
He had already become a terrorist defying public authority by evading the Council, and if caught, he might spend half his life in prison.
Worse, since yesterday he had felt the chilling sense of being watched—as though that brutal blond-haired man were hunting him down to kill him.
In panic, he’d been running complicated paths to try and shake off the shadow on his tail, and somehow ended up near here.
He thought he would see the entrance if he went a little farther, but the area was a maze; he couldn’t tell if he was even heading the right way.
The sound of his sprint echoed through the tunnel but soon slowed. Perhaps from the lack of oxygen underground, he was already exhausted though he hadn’t run far.
“Cough, ack—.”
The outsider, on the verge of tasting blood in his throat, stopped and spat phlegm onto the ground after dry heaving. Then he leaned against the wall, panting, and glanced back at the path behind him.
Fear flickered in his eyes. The tunnel was empty, yet he felt suffocated, as though something was chasing him. Whether real or not, his body trembled more and more, and his condition worsened.
Shaking violently, he shouted into the void pressing down on him for no reason.
“Hey, you bastard, come out! I know you’re there!”
The echo rang through the quiet cave. His own voice followed him, making his eyes dart around in terror.
But the echo faded, silence returned, and nothing happened.
Pressed flat against the wall, he scanned left and right. Then he yelled again, trying to threaten the empty air.
“Are you scared? Hah? Scared? Come out, fuck!”
His petty bravado bounced off the cave walls unchanged.
When even that died into silence, and still nothing happened, he finally let out a heavy sigh of relief.
Embarrassment at making such a fuss alone hit him, but he shrugged it off—he was alone, so who cared?
Thinking he should eat something to calm himself, he was just about to step away from the wall when—
Kwaaang—!
The cave wall before him suddenly shattered and collapsed. From the flying debris surged a chill like blades of ice.
Someone stepped through, radiating a fierce cold energy that seemed to freeze blood in its veins. The massive, shadowed silhouette glared at him with piercing eyes.
For a heartbeat he froze under that gaze. Then, recognizing the Council’s combat uniform, he panicked and tried to flee. But a huge hand burst through the dust and seized his neck before he could take two steps.
“Urk, ack—.”
His feet lifted from the ground, legs flailing helplessly. He clawed at the hand with both of his, but its surface was as hard and frigid as ice. His nails couldn’t pierce it; they slipped off uselessly.
“Nngh, gah. Ugh, haa—.”
Hugo held the struggling outsider in one hand, his eyes devoid of emotion.
As the man kicked wildly against him, Hugo stepped closer to the cave wall and pinned him there by the throat. Blood vessels burst in the outsider’s face, red blotches forming as veins bulged and his skin darkened to bruised purple.
Soon, members of the 1st Battalion poured out from the broken wall, surrounding Hugo and his captive. Last of all, the 8th Platoon Leader appeared and stood beside him. Keeping his eyes fixed on the outsider, Hugo asked,
“Is this the guy?”
The 8th Platoon Leader studied the choking man and ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) answered with a slight frown.
“Yes. That’s him.”
At her reply, Hugo lifted the man high again, then flung him aside like discarded luggage.
Thud— Crack—!
Though Hugo hadn’t thrown him hard, the outsider struck the wall shoulder-first with brutal force. Something cracked—either the cave or bone—but something had certainly broken.
Yet there was no time for pain. The outsider scrambled to his feet, gulping air, and began limping away.
To survive, he had to run. That instinct alone moved him. But even that was crushed by the sudden wall of ice that materialized before him.
Spikes jutted from all sides, interlocking to block the tunnel completely. Frosted icicles dangled at eye level, threatening to skewer him.
Despair hit him—then pain exploded in his leg. He looked down, and through his haze saw ice lodged in it, blood pouring freely.
His breath grew ragged. When his brain finally registered the pain, he wailed.
“Aa, aaaaargh!”
He collapsed awkwardly, crawling backward. The ice shard protruding from his leg gleamed, soaked in blood. Hugging the ruined limb, red liquid spurting like a fountain, he rolled on the ground. Panic overtook him, curses spewing through froth at his lips.
“Fuck, you son of a bitch!! You bastard! My leg!”
At his shrieks, Hugo frowned and gestured with his chin. Two battalion members stepped forward, seizing the outsider’s arms to restrain him.
He thrashed, clawing at them with his nails, screaming filth at the top of his lungs.
The soldiers bent his arms back, forcing him down. He spat in one man’s face.
The man blocked it with an arm, grabbed the outsider’s neck, forced his head forward, then kicked the back of his knees, driving him to the ground.
Unable to turn away, the outsider stared at the Council soldiers restraining him.
His broken breath came in sharp bursts. The cold air brushing his chin made his body tremble like a leaf—whether from fear or chill, he couldn’t tell.
Hugo advanced slowly, face utterly devoid of sympathy. The closer he came, the more the outsider’s struggles escalated, curses spilling frantically. At last, he stammered the familiar words every cornered criminal spits out.
“Th—the Council bastards can beat people, try to kill them like this? You’re just gangsters, nothing else...”
But when the giant loomed directly before him, gazing down like he might crush a bug, the man’s mouth snapped shut. Survival instinct overrode his pride. His face twisted and he screamed, voice cracking.
“Wh–what did I do so wrong! I was just trying to live—!”
He tried to sound bold, but faltered when Hugo knelt to his eye level.
Silence fell. The monster before him made no sound—not even a breath. His own seemed deafening.
The outsider’s gaze, quivering, rose from Hugo’s cold face to the massive hand nearing his head. His jaw trembled.
Hugo stared silently, then swung.
Smack—!
The blow landed with a dull, bursting sound. The outsider’s head snapped, his body reeling. Without the soldiers holding him, he would have been hurled aside.
His ears rang. Sparks flashed in his vision, bright then dark. Warmth pooled at the corners of his eyes—not tears, but blood from burst vessels.
Drool mixed with blood dripped from his ruptured mouth. One ear felt stuffed with water, his eardrum likely damaged. His whole head burned and went numb.
Barely able to breathe, he glanced sideways at Hugo in terror. But Hugo lifted his hand again, expression unchanged, and struck once more.
This time, two teeth flew free.
Two blows—that was all it took for his face to rupture, blood streaming from every opening.
His body quaked between spasms and collapse, on the brink of unconsciousness. His eyes bulged, ready to burst.
Through the red haze, he saw the hand rise again. Only then did he beg, desperate.
“Uh, uh... Pl–please. Spare me.”
His voice was garbled, slurred by the ruin of his mouth and missing teeth.
Hugo looked down coldly, waiting until the ugly mumbling fell silent. Then he asked flatly,
“Are you done talking?”
The threat was clear. If he said nothing more, the blows would continue. Panicked, the outsider stammered,
“Ple, please, have mercy... Uheuk...”
He bowed his head, repeating that he’d never do it again, babbling like a penitent.
Hugo lowered his hand at last. This was the usual pattern of those who wouldn’t listen until beaten.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the blood from his palm. After glancing at the two teeth on the ground, he fixed his eyes back on the swollen face before him and spoke coldly.
“Why should I?”
“...Uh, huh?”
The outsider blinked, bewildered by the response.
Hugo’s expression hardened, his gaze sharpening with murderous intent. It froze in his blue pupils, pressing like a noose around the man’s throat. His low voice cut into him, forcing him to remember his sins.
“You put the three people I must protect in danger. One of them suffered a head injury, and two are still missing.”
The outsider’s eyes flicked toward the 8th Platoon Leader. Gauze still covered her forehead, and her gaze at him was icy enough to pierce bone.
Only then did he realize she had been caught in the blast he caused. He had never imagined she’d survived.
His eyes returned to the man before him.
“Give me one reason I should spare you.”
“...”
There was none. No reason at all.
Blood-tinged saliva dripped from his mouth, nose blocked by blood, chin trembling.
Hugo’s furious voice made his numbed spine quake.
He glared down at the wretch, trembling wordlessly, and declared:
“I don’t show mercy to sinners. One—I won’t kill you, because dead men can’t talk.”
The outsider instinctively knew who he faced. Even in Barmot, the toughest said there was one man in the Council you must never meet.
Blue eyes that froze the very blood. A gaze that looked on sinners like insects. A crushing aura that smothered breath itself.
His murderous stare spoke clearly:
If you want to live, spill everything you know—before my patience runs out.
Kazad of the Council.
The moment the outsider realized the man’s identity, the front of his pants grew wet.
