Chapter 55

Chapter 55: The Slaughter 

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Warning: Violence and Deaths, the title says it all.

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Third POV

A week later

In the northern border of House Neméos, the night air of the forest was crisp, carrying with it the sharp, clean scent of pine and damp earth.

Perched high in the branches of a towering pine, Richard crouched in silence, his right hand braced against the rough bark of the tree trunk. 

Unlike his usual outing, Richard had foregone any disguise, Instead he wore simple dark tunic and trousers.

His golden hair, tied loosely at the nape of his neck, glimmered faintly in the moonlight. 

His piercing green eyes scanned the scene below—the bandit camp sprawled in a loose, chaotic circle. 

Flickering campfires cast pools of orange light across the clearing, their flames gnawing at the darkness but failing to penetrate the surrounding forest's deep shadows.

The fires revealed a camp in disarray: tents pitched at uneven angles, gear strewn carelessly about, and men lounging in drunken stupor. 

These were the men Richard had tracked down—the bandits who had turned the northern reaches of his territory into a killing field, disrupted trade, slaughtered innocents, and vanished into the woods after each raid.

Erwin had pointed him toward this forest just that afternoon, his voice grim as he described the path of destruction they had left behind. 

Now, here they were, laughing and carousing as though the blood on their hands could be washed away with ale.

The camp was alive with noise. Crude laughter and slurred shouts rang out as men sprawled around the fires, mugs clutched in dirty hands. 

Some leaned back against fallen logs, faces flushed and eyes half-lidded, while others gestured wildly as they regaled their companions with bawdy tales.

Richard counted over thirty of them, their forms sharp and distinct even in the dim firelight, his keen eyes piercing the darkness with ease. 

Their attire matched the state of their camp—patched leathers, fraying cloaks, and grimy tunics stained with sweat and grime.

Nothing about their appearance hinted at an affiliation with the Westerling knight, Ser Jamond, who Richard suspected might be aiding them. 

But appearances could be deceiving, and he had learned not to trust what he saw on the surface.

If these were simple bandits, they would all die tonight, every one of them paying in blood for the lives they had taken. 

But if they were connected to Ser Jamond, Richard would need to deliver a message—a warning that actions toward House Neméos lands would not go unanswered, even if they were noblemen.

Richard's sharp gaze locked onto a particular man who stepped out of a tent near the center of the camp.

Unlike the others, this one carried himself with an air of authority. His armor, though lightly scuffed, was polished and painted—a clear mark status. 

Colored in green and brown, it stood out starkly among the bandits' ragged attire.

Richard's suspicions peaked. This was most likely the man he had been waiting for—the leader, or at least someone important enough to interrogate.

The time for observation was over.

Richard released his grip on the tree trunk and straightened on the thick branch, his balance perfect as he adjusted his stance. 

Without hesitation, he sprinted across the branch. Reaching the edge, he launched himself into the air, his body slicing through the darkness like a shadow, his claws extending with a metallic snikt.

The fall was swift, gravity accelerating his descent as he aimed directly for two unsuspecting bandits near one of the many campfires. Their drunken laughter was the last sound they made.

Richard landed with a deafening crack, his claws driving cleanly through their skulls. The sickening crunch of bone and the wet squelch of brain matter filled the air. 

For a moment, there was silence, the bandits frozen in stunned disbelief, before chaos erupted.

Shouts of terror tore through the camp as the men scrambled for their weapons, the glowing campfires illuminating their wide, horrified eyes.

Richard wrenched his claws free with a savage jerk, splitting the skulls of the fallen men. Without pause, he turned to the nearest bandit, a man fumbling for a sword. 

Richard's claws flashed in the firelight as he slashed clean through the man's arms, severing them at the elbows. 

The bandit screamed, blood spurting in violent arcs, but his agony was cut short when Richard drove his claws into his chest and raked them upward. 

The man's torso split open like a slaughtered pig, spilling viscera onto the ground as his body crumpled.

Carnage ensued.

Richard became a whirlwind of death, his claws slicing through flesh, bone, and steel with ruthless ease. 

He moved like a shadow given form, a predator unleashed upon prey. Each motion was precise, each strike designed to kill or maim.

The bandits screamed and scattered in panic, their drunken stupor evaporating as limbs were severed and blood sprayed in crimson arcs. 

Heads rolled, torsos were cleaved open, and entrails spilled onto the dirt as Richard tore through the camp like an unstoppable force. 

Many Men tried to flee, their shouts of terror echoing through the forest, but there was no escape. 

Richard pursued them with relentless speed, his claws slashing across their backs with devastating precision. 

Muscle and spine gave way under his strikes, and the men collapsed mid-sprint, choking on their final breaths as life drained from their broken bodies.

The few who dared to fight were met with a brutal end. One in particular had lunged him with a spear, only to have it snap harmlessly against his Adamantium skeleton. 

A second later, the man's chest was opened from collarbone to hip, his ribs spreading apart like a grotesque flower.

For every blade that struck out, there was a swift retaliation—an arm severed, a throat punctured, a heart pierced. 

Blood flowed freely, soaking the earth beneath the campfires, the orange light reflecting off the growing pools of red. 

By the end of the slaughter, the ground was littered with broken bodies and severed limbs. Blood pooled around the fires, turning the dirt to mud, and the air was thick with the stench of death. 

The survivors, if they could be called that, lay writhing on the ground, their screams reduced to wet gurgles as blood bubbled from their mouths. 

Some were missing arms or legs; others clutched at their spilled intestines, their faces twisted in agony.

Richard walked among the broken and dying, his expression cold and unfeeling. Blood dripped from his Adamantium claws, still gleaming in the flickering firelight. 

One by one, he knelt beside the writhing forms of the wounded, ending their suffering with swift, decisive thrusts to their carotid artery. 

Finally, only one man remained—the one who had emerged from the tent in polished, colored armor. 

Now, stripped of any semblance of authority, he crawled through the mud, his legs reduced to bloody stumps. 

He screamed in pain as he clawed at the dirt, desperately trying to escape, his breath ragged and wet.

Richard followed him in silence, his steps slow and deliberate, the sound of boots squelching in the blood-soaked earth.

The man's screams turned to pleas. "Please don't kill me! Mercy! Please!" His voice cracked with terror as he dragged himself forward, his hands leaving red streaks in the dirt.

Richard crouched over the trembling man, his face devoid of emotion. The flames from the campfires cast flickering shadows across his sharp features, making him appear more demon than man. 

His Adamantium claws extended with a metallic snikt, and this time, they glowed red-hot, the heat causing the air around them to shimmer and crackle.

The scent of burning metal mixed with the already pungent surroundings stench of blood, shit, piss, and fear. 

Richard held the claws close to the man's face, the heat radiating onto his skin, causing him to flinch and whimper like a wounded animal.

"You will tell me everything," Richard said, his voice low and cold, "or I'll make you suffer until you beg for death."

The bandit leader sobbed, his hands trembling as he pressed them against the dirt, trying to shield himself from the blistering heat. 

"Please!" he cried, his voice cracking. "I'll tell you anything! Anything you want!"

Richard's gaze didn't soften. Without warning, he thrust his glowing claws into the ground mere inches from the man's face, the sizzling heat searing the soil. 

The bandit flinched violently, his wide eyes overflowing with tears.

"Who are you?" Richard demanded, his tone sharp and devoid of patience.

"I—I am Ser Qynton, a hedge knight," the man stammered, his voice trembling, blood dripping steadily from the stumps where his feet had been severed.

Richard's gaze darkened as he leaned closer. "Why did you attack the merchants and travelers passing through Neméos territory?"

Qynton froze for a second, his eyes darting wildly as if trying to piece together a believable excuse.

Richard's patience ran thin. Without hesitation, he pressed his scorching hot Adamantium claws against the bleeding stump of Qynton's leg.

The searing sound of flesh burning filled the air, mingling with Qynton's agonized scream. 

"Aghhhhhhh!! I was ordered by Ser Jamond! In return for raiding the merchants, he promised me land and marriage to his daughter Elayne!" Qynton's voice was a hoarse, desperate gasp.

"Is that all?" Richard asked coldly, his tone betraying neither mercy nor satisfaction.

"Yes! That's all!" Qynton cried, struggling to breathe through the blinding pain.

Satisfied for the moment, Richard sheathed his claws and walked away. 

For a fleeting moment, hope flickered in Qynton's mind. Perhaps the demon man had finished with him. Perhaps he would live.

Desperate to escape, Qynton crawled to the base of a nearby, leaning against it as his breath came in shallow gasps. He tried to convince himself that he might somehow survive this nightmare.

That fragile hope was shattered as Richard emerged from a tent moments later, a wooden box in one hand.

Qynton's heart sank, dread washing over him in waves as Richard approached with calm steps. The flickering campfire cast ominous shadows over Richard's bloodstained figure.

"What—what's that for?" Qynton rasped, his voice barely audible, his confusion laced with terror.

Richard didn't answer. The only response came in the form of a metallic hiss as his Adamantium claws unsheathed once more, this time with only the middle claw extending.

"No! Please, no—" Qynton's plea was cut short as Richard's claws swept through the air in a single, decisive stroke. 

The bandit's head separated cleanly from his body, rolling into the mud as his lifeless form slumped against the tree.

With practiced efficiency, Richard bent down, lifting the severed head by its hair and placed it into the box. Having all he needed, Richard finally left.

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Author Note: Do y'all want this kind of chapter in the future where I explain the carnage? Or do yall want a more PG version where I tone down the description. 

Expect another chapter today. Also there might be two chapters tomorrow.