Chapter 446 Circle

Chapter 446: Chapter 446 Circle

"Who the hell is that man?"

"Is he even real?"

"No... no way. I don’t think he’s human at all!"

The soldiers and knights could only stare, their minds blank as the battlefield turned into a charnel ground.

Broken bodies littered the earth, blood steamed in the cold air, and severed weapons lay scattered like discarded toys.

What they had just witnessed was not a fight—it was a one-sided massacre.

For several heartbeats, no one dared to speak.

Some clutched their weapons tighter, others forgot they were even holding them.

A few felt their knees weaken as a suffocating pressure settled in their chests.

Yet despite their shock, they were not ignorant men.

White Bone City had stood for many years, and in all its long, brutal history, only one person matched the scene before their eyes.

"The Handsome Butcher..." someone whispered, his voice trembling as if saying the name aloud might summon death itself.

"It has to be him."

"Yes... there’s no mistake."

"I thought he was just a story."

"He hasn’t shown his face for years!"

The name rippled through the ranks like a curse and a prayer intertwined.

Veterans who had once laughed at tavern tales went pale, while younger soldiers felt their throats go dry.

That title was not earned through exaggeration or rumor—it was carved into legend with blood.

Their gazes slowly shifted toward Monique, and what had once been casual respect turned into open reverence.

To be the wife of such a man... it was no wonder she carried herself the way she did.

No wonder even commanders treated her with unspoken caution.

Many years had passed since the legend last walked the streets of White Bone City, yet time had done nothing to dull its edge.

If anything, it had sharpened it.

Watching Riley now, standing amidst ruin as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience, they finally understood why.

One by one, the soldiers swallowed hard. What they felt was not relief, nor was it triumph.

It was fear—raw, primal, and undeniable—born from witnessing power so overwhelming that resistance itself felt meaningless.

Twenty minutes later, the battlefield no longer resembled a place where men had once stood alive.

Thousands of savages lay slaughtered across the land, their bodies piled atop one another in grotesque heaps.

The ground was torn apart by footprints, clawed by desperate hands, and soaked so deeply with blood that every step sent up a sickening squelch.

The stench of iron hung thick in the air, heavy enough to choke.

Those who still had the will to live had tried to run.

Some turned their backs and fled the moment they realized what they were facing.

Others screamed as they cast aside their weapons, dropping to their knees and begging in broken tongues.

A few even raised their hands in surrender, believing—foolishly—that mercy still existed on this battlefield.

Riley gave them none.

He moved through them like a calamity given form, a merciless plague that neither slowed nor deviated.

Whether they ran or knelt, whether they fought or pleaded, the result was the same. One strike.

One moment. Then death.

By the time it ended, not a single armed savage remained alive.

The blood that flowed that day was so abundant it pooled in low places and streamed along the uneven ground, thick and dark like a river in flood.

The screams had long since faded, replaced by an unnatural silence broken only by the distant cries of carrion birds already circling above.

Thousands had died.

Yet even amidst such complete annihilation, there were others among the savages who had not joined the fight.

Women huddled together in terror, clutching one another with shaking hands.

Captured men—prisoners taken from earlier raids—lay bound or wounded, their eyes wide as they stared at the carnage around them.

They had not lifted weapons. They had not charged into battle.

They had simply been caught in the wake of destruction.

Riley spared them a glance.

Then he turned away.

He did not care to handle what came next.

He had fulfilled his role, executed his task with ruthless efficiency, and erased the threat in its entirety.

What remained—the captives, the survivors, the cleanup, the questions—was no longer his concern.

That responsibility belonged to others.

One breath later, Riley disappeared.

There was no flash of light, no dramatic exit, no trace of power left behind.

One moment he stood amidst ruin—and the next, he was simply gone, as if the battlefield itself had swallowed him whole.

"He’s gone!" someone shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

"Where did he go?"

"He couldn’t have just vanished!"

"He must still be here with us... right?"

Monique’s men spoke in hushed, uneasy tones, their eyes darting in every direction.

They scanned the field, the corpses, the blood-soaked ground, half-expecting death itself to rise again.

Yet no matter how hard they searched, they could not find even the faintest shadow of Riley’s presence.

It was as though the force that had butchered an army had never existed.

None of them realized the truth.

None of them noticed the sickly-looking old man sitting in a wheelchair quietly hidden among them, his back slightly bent, his breathing shallow, his face pale and unremarkable.

He kept his gaze lowered, hands folded loosely at his side, blending perfectly into the aftermath.

That frail figure was Riley.

The Handsome Butcher had already sheathed his claws and returned to anonymity, leaving behind only corpses, silence, and a legend that would grow even darker with time.

"Enough standing around! Clean up the battlefield!" Monique commanded, her voice cutting cleanly through the stunned silence.

Her words snapped everyone back to reality.

Soldiers who had been staring blankly at the carnage straightened their backs and moved at once, dividing into groups to secure the area, tend to the wounded, and deal with the bodies.

Orders were passed down swiftly, and soon the battlefield buzzed with controlled activity instead of shock.

The commander of the city lord’s forces did not hesitate either.

He barked commands to his men, sending squads to assist with prisoner control and recovery efforts.

Even seasoned veterans moved with uncharacteristic speed, eager to finish their tasks and put distance between themselves and what they had just witnessed.

"Looks like we didn’t even need to lift a finger, boss," one soldier muttered as he sheathed his weapon, still half-expecting something terrible to happen.

"We didn’t even loose a single arrow," another added with a shaky laugh. "I almost forgot why I brought my bow."

Laughter rippled through the ranks, light and disbelieving, the kind that came only after surviving something far greater than oneself.

There were no casualties to mourn, no wounded to carry back.

Victory had been achieved so swiftly and so completely that it left many of them uneasy.

Yet relief soon followed.

What should have been a brutal, drawn-out battle had ended in less than half an hour.

An entire savage host had been erased without a single organized engagement.

To the soldiers, it felt less like a campaign and more like standing in the presence of a natural disaster that had simply chosen not to touch them.

As they worked, messengers were dispatched in every direction.

Fast riders spurred their mounts hard, carrying news of the victory to nearby settlements and allied territories.

By nightfall, the story had already begun to spread—and with each retelling, it grew.

Long before Monique’s forces returned to White Bone City, the region was already buzzing with rumor and awe.

Traders whispered about a lone figure who slaughtered an army in minutes.

Farmers spoke of a butcher clad in legend who moved faster than sight.

Some claimed the earth itself drank blood at his feet.

When the army finally marched home, they were met not with questions, but with celebration.

Taverns overflowed with song.

Bards composed verses on the spot, embellishing each line with fear and reverence.

Poets wrote of a man who walked through blades untouched, of a demon wearing human skin, of a guardian spirit bound to White Bone City itself.

And always, the same title echoed through every tale.

The Handsome Butcher.

With each passing day, his deeds drifted further from reality and deeper into myth.

What had begun as a man became a symbol, then a force, then something no longer confined by mortal limits.

His legacy rose higher than that of kings and generals, standing above history itself.

From that day on, the war was remembered not for its strategies or commanders, but for the moment the Handsome Butcher returned—and reminded the world why his name had never truly faded.

In the aftermath, many celebrated the annihilation of the savages, welcoming the victory with relief and gratitude.

For them, Riley was a savior, a living legend who had delivered White Bone City from a looming catastrophe.

But not everyone shared that joy.

Beneath the surface of celebration, unease quietly spread.

Some felt threatened rather than relieved, their smiles forced and their praise hollow.

They feared that a man who wielded such overwhelming power would not remain content in the shadows forever.

What if he grew power-hungry?

What if he turned that strength toward seizing influence, wealth, or authority?

Such worries took root among the nobles, merchants, and those with much to lose.

Yet none of them dared to act rashly. Confronting Riley directly was unthinkable.

Instead, they chose caution.

Spies were quietly dispatched, their orders clear and simple: observe, listen, and report.

Riley’s mansion became the silent center of their attention, watched day and night by unseen eyes.

Thus, while the city sang songs of triumph and hailed a hero, shadows gathered in the background—waiting, measuring, and fearing the man whose legend had returned stronger than ever.