Bartolo was still inside his treasure room.
He had been startled by the heavy, booming crashes outside.
Climbing onto a high stool in the room, he peered out through the small window.
And he saw it.
He saw his grand gate being rammed open.
He saw those familiar, lowly faces—his tenant farmers, his craftsmen.
Holding torches and weapons, they charged into his courtyard like a pack of madmen.
He saw his barn still burning.
The barn he had spent half his life’s savings to build was now turned into a colossal torch.
He finally understood.
Giovanni’s curse had not been empty words.
It was real.
“Fire will consume your greed…” The words echoed in his mind.
He trembled all over.
Not from fear— —but from extreme, overwhelming rage.
He felt betrayed.
Betrayed by this village, by the ungrateful dogs he had fed, by the fair-faced Abbot he had always looked down upon, by everything.
“Rebellion…
this is rebellion…” He jumped down from the stool, muttering under his breath.
His face, drawn and exhausted from going without sleep for a day and a night, twisted into a hideous mask.
“I’ll kill them…
I’ll kill every single one of these bastards…” He looked around.
His treasures.
His gold coins.
His deeds and contracts.
All of these were being lusted after by the mob outside.
No.
Absolutely not.
These were his lifeblood.
No one was going to take them away.
His gaze fell upon the wall.
Hanging there was a sword.
It was an ornamental side-sword he had bought in Florence at a great price in his youth.
Its scabbard was made of sharkskin, and its hilt was inlaid with pieces of colored glass.
He had never killed anyone with it.
He had barely ever drawn it from its sheath.
Now, he took it down from the wall.
Grasping the hilt, he pulled with all his might.
*Clang!* The sword was unsheathed.
The blade gleamed brightly, reflecting a cold light in the flickering candlelight.
Holding the sword, Bartolo felt a surge of strength return to him.
He was no longer just a money-lending landlord in a village.
He was a king about to defend his castle.
He heard footsteps outside, coming closer and closer.
They were heading straight for his treasure room.
“Masters!
It’s right here!
The old bastard’s money is all inside!” It was the butler’s voice—his most trusted butler.
“Find him!
Kill him!” “Smash the door open!” *CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG!* Hammers and axes struck the iron door, creating a deafening din.
Bartolo’s eyes turned entirely bloodshot.
He didn’t hide.
Holding the sword, he walked up to the iron door.
He unlatched the deadbolt himself.
Then, with a sudden yank, he pulled the door wide open.
A crowd was crammed outside.
Mario the blacksmith, Giotto the baker, and the butler who had sold him out.
They all held weapons, their faces dripping with greed and cruelty.
Seeing the door suddenly swing open and Bartolo standing on the threshold holding a sword, they all froze.
They hadn’t expected Bartolo to open the door himself.
“You dogs!
Ungrateful, treacherous dogs!” Bartolo roared, raising his sword and slashing down toward Mario the blacksmith at the front.
He put every ounce of his strength into the blow.
Taken by surprise, Mario raised his heavy iron hammer in a panic to block.
*CLANG!* The flashy, ornamental sword struck the iron hammer.
The blade snapped right down the middle.
With a sharp *clatter*, half of the broken blade fell to the ground.
Bartolo looked down at the broken stub left in his hand.
His last bit of courage, his last shred of hope, broke right along with that blade.
“Ha…
Haha…” Mario snapped back to his senses.
Looking at Bartolo, he grinned.
Then he raised his iron sledgehammer.
“Die, devil!” The sledgehammer came crashing down toward Bartolo’s head with a whistling wind.
Bartolo didn’t even have time to dodge.
*CRACK!* Like a watermelon being smashed.
Bartolo’s head caved in completely.
Red and white splattered everywhere.
The expression on his face froze in that final moment.
Shock, disbelief, and utter disorientation.
His body wobbled, then collapsed backward— —falling directly into the room filled with his treasure.
He was dead.
Even in death, his eyes remained wide open, reflecting the glittering gold coins he loved most.
…
Killing Bartolo did not bring the mob to a halt.
If anything, it drove them into a deeper frenzy.
Stepping over Bartolo’s corpse, they rushed into the treasure room.
When they saw the chests brimming with gold and silver coins, everyone lost their minds.
“We’re rich!
We’re rich!” They hauled the chests out and spilled the gold coins onto the floor.
Dropping to their knees, they used their hands, their clothes, and their hats to madly scoop the money into their arms.
Two men fought until they were bruised and bleeding just over a handful of gold.
Mario claimed the largest chest for himself.
Unable to carry it alone, he called over two other villagers to help him haul it away.
The entire manor descended into a lawless feast of plunder.
Furniture in the main building, paintings on the walls, grain in the kitchen, wine in the cellar—everything was looted clean.
Chickens, ducks, pigs, and sheep were chased across the courtyard.
Even the few lemon trees Bartolo had planted in the yard were stripped completely bare.
An hour later, what had once been the grandest manor in Santa Lucia Village was reduced to a pile of ruins.
Smashed items and overturned debris littered the ground everywhere.
Yet the mob’s desires remained unsated.
“He still has a wife and child!” “We have to weed them out by the roots!” “When that little brat grows up, he’ll definitely come for revenge!” “I hear his wife looks pretty nice…” Several men let out sinister, crude chuckles.
Their eyes turned red once more as they began searching every corner of the ruined manor.
It didn’t take them long to find their prey.
In a second-floor bedroom of the main building.
Bartolo’s wife and his young son, Anton, were dragged out from under the bed by the mob.
Her hair disheveled and her dress torn, the woman shielded her son fiercely in her arms.
“I beg of you…
please spare us…
You can have all the money…
take it all…” she pleaded.
Anton, a boy of seven or eight, did not cry.
He did not scream either.
He simply remained held in his mother’s arms, his eyes wide open as he stared at the terrifying, twisted faces surrounding them—faces of men he had once called “Uncle.” “Spare you?” A drunken farmer let out a loud belch.
“Who spared us?” “If not for your family, would Nio have died?
Would our well water have rotted?” “Kill them!” “Kill the little wolf cub!” The woman closed her eyes, pulling her son into a desperate, tight embrace.