Chapter 270 Bloodedge, Cold and Piercing Killing Intent

Adventurers chased danger, and were danger themselves.

Driven by short-term goals like "quests" and "bounties," they didn't care if you were a good person or a bad one. They didn't care if a farm field ruined by their battles meant a family wouldn't survive the winter, nor did it matter to them if the poisoned water source they left behind might kill a hundred people downstream.

Compared to money, fame, and power, their pitiful sense of justice and conscience were like a gambling addict's promises—shamelessly spouted only when they needed to squeeze out some profit.

To a certain extent, as far as ordinary locals were concerned, a travel-worn party of foreign adventurers was even more unsettling than the thieves and bandits who ought to be sent to the gallows.

At least the latter had relatively fixed patterns of behavior. With good luck, you could even reach some fragile, passive balance with them—losing some wealth, but not your life.

But the former... no one knew what these powerful existences with their inhuman abilities actually wanted to do.

Human nature was universal.

When an individual's personal might broke past the critical threshold of qualitative change, their desires would multiply exponentially alongside it.

It was fine in large towns that were a motley mix of fish and dragons with multiple entangled factions. There, the power of order manifested through laws and mutual wariness. People and adventurers alike divided themselves into tiers based on strength, collectively maintaining the unspoken rules that allowed daily life to continue.

But when they arrived in remote, impoverished villages, driven by their inner desires and using their own martial prowess as their source of power, the ugliness of human nature would swell.

When snapping a person's neck was as easy as crushing an ant.

And when you clearly knew in your heart that even if you slaughtered every living creature in this small human settlement, there would be no consequences.

Good and evil, life and death, heaven or hell.

It all came down to the shallow bottom line in the heart of the one who held the power—a whim decided in a single thought.

"Boom!"

The wooden door of the farmhouse suddenly exploded amid a violent cracking sound.

A thick, calloused hand gripped the doorframe. Without needing much force, cracks rapidly spread outward from beneath fingertips packed with black grime, as if a slight push could tear the entire wall apart like sandpaper.

The culprit behind the shattered door—a massive, iron-banded wooden club—fell heavily to the ground.

Carrying a thick stench of sweat and blood mixed together from a long time without bathing, a bulging-veined, pale green head poked in from outside.

Thick saliva clung to two protruding tusks. A pair of cloudy eyes brimming with bestial desire swept across this simple, ordinary room with a chilling, terrifying gaze.

The gaze paused briefly on the middle-aged man who was trembling so hard he could barely stand, yet still shielding his wife behind him. But those eyes looked at him as if he were just a piece of rotting meat on a butcher's stall.

When he caught sight of the full, rounded curves of the woman behind the man, those lust-filled bestial eyes abruptly lit up. Yet, as his gaze moved upward and saw a face no longer young, ravaged by the scorching sun and hard labor, that interest cooled slightly.

He just viciously ogled her a couple more times before his eyes finally settled on the steaming dishes sitting on the table in front of them.

"Thud, thud, thud."

Heavy footsteps echoed like beating drums.

His rather low intelligence, combined with the thrill of unexpectedly finding a village mid-journey and the excitement of soon venting his sadistic urges, made him fail to notice the third set of utensils on the table that hadn't been hidden in time.

Completely ignoring the scalding heat of the broth, the half-orc marched straight forward. He grabbed the iron pot in the center of the table—which looked as tiny as a bowl compared to his massive hand—and gulped down the soup, pouring it directly down his throat.

At the same time, the three other figures outside the door finally ambled in amid a chorus of complaints.

"Gorg, how many times have I told you? Be careful, don't break the door. Now look at it. It can't even block the wind, so how are we supposed to sleep here?" complained a strongly built but slightly bloated mountain dwarf who looked like a solid block of meat.

Having also gone a long time without washing, the grease in his brown hair was visible to the naked eye, and even the thick beard on his chin was tangled into knots.

In response, the half-orc Gorg simply chewed his food haphazardly, spitting saliva everywhere as he mumbled back, "Village, wooden houses, many!"

"Gorg, break the door, you sleep by yourself!"

It was just a casual complaint driven by his personality; he didn't expect this low-intelligence half-breed idiot to actually listen.

The short, stocky mountain dwarf, Stonebelly, had slipped past the half-orc's thick legs with the greasy agility of a rat the moment he entered the house, sliding straight into the inner room.

His shifty eyes—entirely different from the straightforward and hearty stereotype of dwarves—gleamed with greed.

His short, radish-like fingers displayed a smooth dexterity exceeding that of an average Rogue. The wardrobe, the wooden chests, the dressing table... any place that might hide valuables was thoroughly searched.

He even casually snatched the dull, old copper hairpin from the end of the woman's hair and stuffed it into his waist pouch.

"T-this... My lords, please..." the middle-aged man pleaded, his voice trembling as he knelt before them in a near-begging posture.

Before he could finish his sentence, a massive, pale green hand the size of a palm-leaf fan swung toward his face.

"Bam!"

The middle-aged man's relatively sturdy body flew backward out of the broken doorframe. His face was covered in blood, and he lay motionless on the muddy ground, his fate unknown.

"Abel!" screamed the woman who had previously been shielded behind the middle-aged man. Seeing her husband suffer such a heavy blow, she subconsciously let out a heart-wrenching shriek of despair.

But her strong legs, forged from years of walking between the ridges and wheat fields, had only taken a single step before the very hand that had heavily injured and knocked out her husband locked around the back of her neck.

A nauseating stench that could almost make one faint spewed onto her face from his flaring nostrils.

The ugly, tusk-protruding head quietly leaned in. His cloudy eyes, just slightly relieved of hunger and now brimming with reproductive lust, locked onto this somewhat unsatisfactory prey. He planned to use her as an "appetizer" before slaughtering the entire village.

"Get out. Don't block the way and be an eyesore," a voice ordered.

Before the half-orc could make another move, a mud-stained leather boot stamped viciously into the small of his back.

The powerful force behind the kick made his long, meaty legs—which were firmly rooted to the floor—stumble and sway.

Strangely enough, the half-orc Gorg didn't show the slightest bit of dissatisfaction.

He merely let out a stupid laugh, scratched his head, and strode toward the door, carrying the woman by her neck.

Marcus, captain of the Bloodedge Squad.

He was a burly man whose very appearance screamed the words "vicious fiend."

A hideous scar slashed from his brow bone all the way to the corner of his mouth. His hair, shaved almost to the scalp, added to his ferocious aura, while his gaze was like that of a savage beast—wild, fierce, and aggressively predatory.

Beneath his sturdy iron armor hung two beautifully curved scimitars, one on the left and one on the right, completely at odds with his own brutish temperament.

He believed that "strength is truth." Holding a Class Level of lv3, he was the strongest in the party, ruling his squad with brutal, ruthless methods that ensured not even a lust-crazed half-orc bastard dared disobey his commands.

Of course, it wasn't out of any pity for the middle-aged woman. He had shouted to stop Gorg simply because he knew that, given the half-orc's nature, there was no way he would leave the woman alive.

Every time, it ended in a bloody, mangled mess, leaving the floor completely ruined.

Although Marcus didn't particularly care about such things, getting guts and intestines stuck to himself was always disgusting. Thus, he had told the bastard to screw off outside and stop being an eyesore indoors.

And the last person to enter the wooden house—a tall, slender figure with graceful curves dressed in a form-fitting martial outfit—stood silently in the corner of the room, like the evening breeze in the dark of night.

The massive purplish-brown wooden bow strapped to her back revealed this human female Class Holder's identity as a ranged archer.

She showed not the slightest emotional fluctuation at the struggles and wails of the peasant woman in the half-orc's grasp. With a cold sneer hanging on her lips, she simply watched the scene of abuse unfold in silence.

The group made no effort to hide their movements.

By the time Gorg carried the woman out of the wooden house, the surrounding clearing was already packed with villagers who had rushed over upon hearing the commotion.

Some were even gripping crude weapons like pitchforks in their hands.

But they were, after all, just farmers who made their living in the fields. Due to the tragic events that had once occurred in the village and the terror of adventurers passed down through generations, all it took was for the massive, vicious-looking half-orc Gorg to turn his head and sweep his gaze across the crowd for some of the weaker-willed farmers to drop their weapons in fright.

"Hahaha, cowards! Bugs!"

With a hideous and mocking expression on his face, his deep, teasing laughter echoed across the clearing.

And just as the atmosphere grew dead silent and the situation rapidly tilted to one side, a sudden commotion broke out in the crowd.

Village Chief Clapham squeezed his way out of the crowd, panting heavily with sweat dripping down his forehead, followed closely by Tom.

Seeing the middle-aged man lying unconscious on the ground from a single slap, a look of deep anxiety instantly appeared on Tom's face.

"Brother Abel!" he cried out.

Ignoring the half-orc Gorg standing not far away, he hurriedly rushed forward to check on the man's injuries.

Seeing this guy's brazen actions, Gorg felt it was a direct provocation. He snorted heavily and slightly raised his muscle-knotted arm, on the verge of teaching Tom a lesson he would never forget.

"Stop! Sir Adventurer, please stop!" Clapham suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs.

"I am the chief of this village, Clapham," he continued. The old man was highly experienced. Facing such a scene, he managed to maintain a baseline of composure, though his voice still trembled slightly.

"My lords, we... we are just poor villagers. If there is anything in the village that catches your eye, please, take it all."

"I just ask that you be magnanimous and spare this family. If you have any demands, we... we will definitely do everything in our power to satisfy them!"

Clapham deliberately raised his voice as he spoke, ensuring that even the people inside the house could hear him clearly.

But the only response he received came from the burly half-orc in front of him.

Upon hearing the village chief's words, Gorg's eyes instantly flashed with a bright light. He casually tossed the woman he hadn't yet had time to enjoy into the crowd and rushed forward with a look of sheer excitement.

Bringing with him a gust of putrid wind, his two tusks nearly poked into Clapham's face.

With a heavy, guttural voice and undisguised malice, the half-orc suddenly leaned in close. "Food! Booze! Gold! And..."

His bestial eyes, flashing with raw and naked lust, swept over the peasant women in the crowd as if searching for something.

"Young, pretty women!" he demanded.

"If you don't give them, Gorg will uproot your village! Kill everyone, and chew your bones... to pieces!"

Clapham's body trembled. The frenzied killing intent filling that thick, bloody stench almost entirely swallowed his consciousness.

If not for his identity as the "village chief" still supporting him from within, he likely wouldn't even have been able to stand.

'What should I do?'

'Should I really satisfy his demands?'

Putting aside the fact that if he actually found a young, pretty girl from the village and handed her over just as this half-orc demanded, how would the villagers ever look at him as their "village chief" again?

Based on Clapham's understanding of these types of adventurers, this was probably just the beginning.

From a young, attractive girl, to the villagers' family fortunes, and then to the village's winter food supplies... once everything was squeezed dry, the only thing left of any value would be their lives.

'So, should I refuse?'

Staring into those tyrannical, greed-filled bestial eyes right in front of him, Clapham's thoughts froze.

He had no doubt that the second the words of refusal left his mouth, his head—which had spent over fifty years thinking—would be swallowed whole by the monster in a single bite.

And immediately following that would be the complete annihilation of Ash Valley Village.

'No... it's not like there isn't a turning point!'

As if recalling that figure who had silently vanished behind them, his wavering heart steadied slightly.

He opened his mouth, just about to say something irrelevant to the half-orc in front of him to stall for as much time as possible.

When suddenly, a shrill female shriek rang out from inside the wooden house ahead.

The mountain dwarf—who, ever since entering the cabin, had been gathering its valuables with unnatural proficiency—was now standing in front of a shattered wooden wall with a look of pleasant surprise on his face.

A slender young girl of eighteen or nineteen was cowering like a quail, her body curled up in the corner of an emergency hidden compartment that should have been incredibly well-concealed, but had now been ransacked by the dwarf.

"Roar!"

Seeing this scene, the half-orc Gorg, who had been suppressing himself for quite a while, could no longer hold back his pent-up lust. He let out a strange, beastly roar. His massive, burly body turned into a pale green blur, carrying a gale of wind as he charged straight toward the girl.

And right at that moment, defying everyone's expectations.

A scene that absolutely should not have happened at this time took place.

Marcus, the captain of the Bloodedge Squad—who, just a few minutes ago, had actively let Gorg go out to ruin the woman and allowed him to make outrageous demands of the village chief, all while playfully sitting to the side as if watching a show—now inexplicably reached out and stopped Gorg as the half-orc rushed past him.

"Captain?" Gorg asked, stopping in his tracks to look at him. His restless heart had turned his eyes completely bloodshot, but out of fear for Marcus's prestige in the party and his incomparably harsh, tyrannical methods, the half-orc still managed to hold onto his last shred of sanity.

In the past, Marcus might have seriously given him a reason for doing so, and then offered the half-orc some form of compensation by allowing him to indulge in destruction and sadism elsewhere.

But right now, he didn't even spare the half-orc a single glance.

Instead, as if triggered by some stress response, he violently sprang up from his seat.

The solemn gaze swept through the crowd again and again, searching for that extremely condensed, cold, and piercing killing intent that had felt like the stab of an ice needle just a moment ago.