[Chapter 267. A Tableau of Carnage]

His voice was barely a whisper, yet it cut through the noise with a cold tone that demanded absolute attention. "I don't need an army for the likes of you."

Before the arrogant man could even process the insult, Searanox's armored fist exploded forward with inhuman speed. The crunch of bone echoed like breaking kindling. The scarred man flew across the room as if struck by a battering ram, his body limp and contorted. He crashed into a heavy table with enough force to shatter it into a splintered mess, sending glass and liquor flying. The man lay amid the wreckage, wheezing wetly, each breath a struggle through a caved-in chest.

"Are you guys insane? That is Lord Searanox." A man emerging from a side room fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, his words slurring slightly. He had ragged, weasel-like features and shifty eyes that darted between the devastation and the towering Dhampir. Recognition sparked, instantly replaced by raw terror.

The room's atmosphere shifted from arrogant defiance to choked silence.

Searanox ignored the thugs, his eyes sweeping the room until they settled on a young woman with matted brown hair and a faded bruise blooming across her cheek. She flinched as he approached, hunching her shoulders.

"Tell me what is going on in here." His voice was perfectly calm, devoid of the fury that had driven his strike.

The woman froze. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Her gaze flickered down to a sigil burned into the back of her hand. Searanox watched the desperate struggle behind her eyes—a war between her instinct to answer and the magical compulsion holding her tongue. She twitched, seemingly on the verge of overcoming the enchantment, before recoiling violently as the System's Geas reasserted its dominance.

"Alright. Seems we have a problem here." Searanox straightened, his expression hardening as he turned back to the room. "If my memory serves me right, your leader is Gareth. Where is he?"

The scarred man rolled amidst the wreckage of the table, gasping for air. One of the women rushed to his side. Her hands glowed with a soft green light as she knelt, forcing healing magic into his shattered ribs.

"He's out clearing the dungeon," Rik, the weasel-faced man, answered. His voice trembled as he smoothed down his disheveled trousers, his shifty eyes darting around the room in search of a nonexistent escape route.

Searanox nodded slowly. His piercing gaze remained locked on Rik for a moment longer before shifting to the doorway. "Rayan. Get in here and tell me if you see the ones you sent."

Rayan hesitantly entered, stepping around the downed guard. His eyes swept methodically across the room—the terrified women, the subdued thugs, and the healer still tending to the broken man. He took his time, examining each face before finally shaking his head. "They are not here, my Lord."

Searanox turned his attention back to Rik, who was now sweating profusely. "Rik, was it? Since your boss isn't here, you seem to be in charge." Searanox took a deliberate step toward him. "Get your men out of the side rooms. I can hear them from here." His voice dropped dangerously low. "Do it before I break every bone in your body."

"Rayan, take all the women and bring them outside. Check the side rooms as well," Searanox ordered, his words precise and deadly. He moved toward Rik with predatory grace. "You fucked up big time. I don't mind if someone has their fun at the expense of others, but you had your fun at my expense." He advanced until his shadow engulfed the trembling man, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Do you understand the difference?"

As Rayan approached the huddled women, a defensive drone materialized in the center of the room with a hum of blue energy. The metallic construct rotated silently, its optical sensors sweeping the occupants before gliding toward the door. With a subtle shimmer, a translucent barrier expanded from its chassis, sealing the exit.

"We didn't know it was against the rules," Rik stammered. His eyes darted wildly, seeking an escape, but found only the impassive faces of his companions and the unwavering energy barrier blocking the door.

"Shut it." Searanox's growl vibrated through the room. "You killed my people—the source of income for my city. I'm still not entirely sure how you bypassed the city's laws, but you'll be kind enough to tell me in a moment."

Rayan approached the cluster of women near the wall. When he gently touched one's shoulder, she flinched violently. He guided them toward the entrance, and they shuffled forward with wooden steps. But as they clustered around the doorway, they refused to cross the threshold, pressing close together despite Rayan's increasingly urgent whispers.

"They won't leave," he reported, his voice strained with frustration and dawning horror.

Searanox turned toward Rik, his eyes glinting with cold amusement. "What have you done to them that they fear leaving this house? What did you threaten to do if they tried?"

Rik's Adam's apple bobbed in a hard swallow. "They're under contract. They only listen to us," he managed to say. The women flinched in unison at his words, anticipating punishment.

"A contract, you say..." Searanox murmured, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "This gets more interesting by the second." He raised his voice slightly without breaking eye contact with his prey. "Tell them to leave. All of them."

Rik hesitated a fraction of a second too long before obeying, his voice cracking. "All of you, outside. Now."

The women collectively gasped. One by one, they stumbled forward through the threshold, compelled by the magic. Within moments, two dozen women stood huddled in the street outside, clutching their arms against the chill, their faces twisted with confusion and fear.

"Rayan, take them with you. I'll clean up in here," Searanox said, his gaze sweeping over the men who now stood frozen like statues.

The drone at the door shimmered momentarily, allowing Rayan to lead the women away. The sounds of their bare feet faded into the distance, leaving behind an unnerving silence broken only by the injured man's wet wheezing.

Searanox waited a heartbeat longer, letting the silence settle over the room like a burial shroud. Rik searched frantically for any sign of mercy in the Dhampir's cold expression. Finding none, he opened his mouth to speak—perhaps to beg, perhaps to offer another pathetic excuse—but Searanox moved before the first syllable could escape.

Gauntleted fingers closed around Rik's throat. The sound of crushing cartilage echoed, wet and final, like a boot coming down on ripe fruit. Rik's eyes bulged as his airway collapsed, hands scrabbling uselessly at the armored forearm holding him aloft. With a contemptuous shove, Searanox released his grip. Rik's body crumpled to the floorboards with a dull thud, tongue lolling from between blue lips.

The remaining men stared in horror. One made a desperate lunge for a fallen sword, but Searanox was already moving. He pivoted on his heel, his armored boot connecting with the man's temple. A sickening crack echoed, sending bone fragments spraying across the room.

Another thug attempted to activate a skill, his hands glowing with gathered mana, but Searanox crossed the distance before the energy could coalesce. He drove his fist straight through the man's chest, gauntleted knuckles puncturing ribs and lung alike. The dying man's eyes widened in disbelief as Searanox withdrew his arm in a spray of gore.

Searanox exhaled deeply once the last of them lay dead. The room was a tableau of carnage—bodies contorted, blood soaking into the carpets and pooling around shattered furniture. His armor was spattered with crimson.

He had paused the slaughter near the end, extracting what information he could through increasingly brutal means. But all they offered were half-baked answers about Gareth's whereabouts and the nature of their contracts. One man swore Gareth would return by nightfall; another insisted their leader was in the dungeon and would be back in the hour. The conflicting tales only confirmed what Searanox already suspected: Gareth was the true architect of the enterprise, and these men were merely disposable tools.

Moving with deliberate care, Searanox dragged a heavy couch to face the entrance, keeping it partially obscured in shadow. He arranged the bodies deliberately, leaving just enough space between them to create an unsettling path that would force whoever entered to navigate through his handiwork.

He stepped outside briefly to retrieve the guard he had assumed was merely unconscious. Upon closer inspection, the man was very much dead—his neck snapped at an unnatural angle from the initial blow. Searanox tossed the body inside, closed the door, and took his place on the couch. The leather creaked softly under his weight. There he sat, his eyes fixed on the door, waiting for Gareth to walk into the trap.