Soron was a Professional Robber.
Of course, if you insisted on calling him an Adventurer, that wouldn’t be an issue either. After all, there was never a shortage of his kind among Adventurers.
Upon arriving at Shallow Beach Town, he immediately sought out Carl to collect his bounty, then took his subordinate and found a place to lay low.
They had bounties on their heads in quite a few places. Even though they had fled to the Northern Border, they still didn’t dare to drop their guard.
Soron had originally planned to infiltrate the merchant caravan, slaughter them all halfway through the journey, and flee elsewhere with the goods. But who could have expected so many things to go wrong along the way?
First, two baffling strangers joined the caravan, making them afraid to act rashly. When they finally reached a safe place, he thought about poisoning the dinner. But that merchant, Carl, was a tough nut to crack. He wouldn’t even let Soron near the cooking pots; the guards served the dinner themselves.
There was no need to mention what happened after that.
The goblins, Hobgoblins, and the shorty, cooperating with that Caster who had been playing the fool, unleashed their terrifying might...
He thought, "Fortunately, heaven helps the worthy. Didn’t I, the great Soron, still manage to escape in one piece?
"Those two foolish boys actually thought I was trying to curry favor with them. Who would have guessed that I had already set my sights on them?
"That idiot thought everything would be fine just because he slipped them money in secret. Heh, I can tell at a glance whether a pouch is filled with Silver Coins or Gold Coins. Once I slaughter those two, I’ll have the money to smuggle myself somewhere else.
"Hmph.
"The world is vast, and I’ll be free as a bird. Who could possibly catch me then?"
Besides, he still had this thing.
Soron took an object out of his pocket. It was a palm-sized, Dark Silver metal insignia. Its edges were somewhat worn, and the center was engraved with a Raven spreading its wings, clutching a broken Longsword in its talons.
He had stolen it from a noble’s estate in the Royal Capital. Who would have known that the noble would go completely mad, dispatching men to hunt him down everywhere?
"That guy thought he hid it well, but I still found it. This thing is definitely a treasure. Once I get out of here, I’ll find someone who knows its worth and sell it. Heh heh, I’m going to be rich," Soron muttered.
He was already fantasizing about buying a luxurious mansion and living a blissful life with a few beauties in his arms.
He thought, "Once I slaughter this kid, I’ll have it all!"
He glared viciously at the Flame rising in the distance. So what if the kid was a Caster? He would still die if shot by an arrow, and he would still scream if slashed by a blade. It wasn’t as if Soron had never butchered a Caster before. Visit NovelPing for the full chapter.
Soron gestured to his subordinate beside him, signaling the man to shoot the kid. His subordinate’s father was a hunter, and the young man had been playing with a Bow since childhood. With him launching a sneak attack, it was naturally foolproof.
Seeing that his subordinate understood, Soron finally drew an arrow, nocked it on the bowstring, aimed at the old man, and pulled back hard.
"Rest in peace, kid. I’ll live a good life for your sake."
TWANG—
The sound of vibrating bowstrings rang out almost simultaneously. Two arrows left their strings from different directions. One flew slightly high, the other slightly low; they crossed paths in mid-air before simultaneously landing on Old Hunter.
"Fuck!" the two men cursed at the same time.
"It’s fine! It’s two against one. That kid has been fighting for so long; his Mana must have bottomed out ages ago. Nothing to be afraid of." In his heart, Soron wished he could slice this idiot into a thousand pieces, but he still had to verbally reassure him.
"But boss, he’s gone," his subordinate reminded him.
"What?" Soron hastily looked over. Lorin was nowhere to be seen beside that damn old man. "Damn it, let’s go check."
***
The lingering vibration of the bowstrings was still trembling in the air when Lorin’s pupils suddenly shrank.
Two arrows. Two directions.
He kicked hard against the ground and dove to the right. Taking advantage of his elevated position, he rolled all the way into the patch of charred weeds.
His Leather Armor had already been covered in flying ash while he was finishing off enemies earlier. This roll made him completely pitch-black from head to toe. He quickly grabbed a handful of grass ash from the ground and smeared it haphazardly across his face. As long as he didn’t move, he practically blended into the dirt.
But who would ambush him at a time like this? He didn’t remember provoking anyone. Could he have just happened to run into some robbers? What kind of world was this!
Lorin took two rapid, panting breaths. Fortunately, the previous battle hadn’t been too intense. Only the chase had consumed some of his stamina; he could still swing his sword.
He thought, "Take it easy... wait for them to come to me..."
Lorin lay motionless on the spot, allowing his breathing to gradually steady. His ears, however, were perked up, capturing every slight sound in his surroundings.
The wind blew from the west, sweeping past the charred grass stalks with a faint RUSTLE.
The faint conversation of two men drifted over from the distance. It was intermittent and hard to hear clearly, but the voices sounded somewhat familiar:
"He’s gone!"
Lorin lowered his head and let out a cold smile. A sneak attack?
He was the kind of person who had to explore the entire vicinity whenever he arrived at a new place. He had long memorized the terrain here like the back of his hand; otherwise, he wouldn’t have come up with the trick of burning the rats.
However, Lorin was in no rush to move. The enemy had two people, and he had to ensure that his strike would kill at least one of them. He had to wait for an opportunity—wait for those two to separate, wait for them to get closer, and then launch a surprise attack.
Lorin hid Rusted Throat under the corpse of a giant rat, pressing his other hand against the dirt to feel for vibrations in the ground.
Outside the weed patch, footsteps began to move. One went left, the other went right. They were searching.
Lorin closed his eyes, sketching the outline of the clearing in his mind. To the right was the burned patch of weeds; to the left were a few scattered boulders; behind him was the barn. Although there was a fence outside the barn, it was likely his only route of retreat.
The footsteps were getting closer and closer.
The person on the left had heavier steps that THUDDED against the ground. He was likely a robust man, and Lorin wasn’t confident he could kill him in one strike. The one on the right was different. His steps were much lighter and seemed a bit sluggish.
He thought, "You’re the one."
He slowly arched his back, digging the balls of his feet deep into the mud. The muscles in his calves tightened, his entire body Ready to Strike.
"Hmm?"
The man let out a soft sound of confusion, seemingly having heard something. Lorin violently leaped up from the ground.
He saw a tense-looking young man, who was now staring at him in horror.
[Lorin’s Burning Hand]
A hand ablaze with a raging Flame grabbed his face. The high temperature coming into contact with skin produced a loud SIZZLE.
A flash of a sword immediately followed.
Rusted Throat pierced straight into his throat, cutting off his scream right in his windpipe. Bloody froth surged from the wound and dripped down the blade onto the ground.
The young man’s despairing expression was reflected in Lorin’s cold, indifferent eyes. To kill meant one had to be prepared to be killed.
His left hand, still wreathed in Flame, slowly covered the man’s face, helping him close his eyes.
"Rest in peace."