Bloody Odyssey

Chapter 89 89: Blue Death II

Alfonzo walked with heavy steps toward the rubble.

Logan lay amid broken stone and splintered wood, his chest heaving, eyes wide with disbelief. To him, this rank-four guard was a monster. Not in raw power—but in something far worse.

How?

The Northern Beast no longer understood how he had ended up here, buried in debris, his body screaming in agony. Most of the alcohol that had clouded his mind had burned away, replaced by pain and shock. For the first time since stumbling through the inn door, his thoughts were painfully clear.

Alfonzo stopped above him. He raised the gun, pressed it against Logan's hand, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

His finger sank.

All that emerged was a low, almost gentle hum and a small wave of heat. What followed was a perfect, clean hole straight through Logan's elbow.

"AHHHHH!"

Logan's scream tore through the night. He clutched at his arm, but there was nothing left to hold—just a massive wound with cauterized edges, blood pouring between his fingers.

Alfonzo's hand shook.

The gun had recoiled—he felt the sharp kick against his palm—but years of experience with the bow had trained his body to correct the movement before his mind could even register it.

He stared at the weapon in his palm.

What… just is this?

He turned his head, glancing back toward the inn. Toward Dax.

Dax's eyes were piercing, evaluating every moment.

Alfonzo swallowed.

Upstairs, Sir Jacob sat on the edge of a bed, face buried in his hands.

What could be going on down there?

He could hear the screams. The crashes. The strange humming sound that belonged to no spell he knew. His heart pounded with every noise.

"Ahh… what can I do?"

He wasn't a young man anymore. He didn't have the stomach for this—for powerful men destroying his property, for guards and monsters and things that went bump in the night.

He looked at the heavy gold pouch still clutched in his palm.

At least… thanks to that young man, I can retire. I can still send my child to a good crafting school.

He stared at the empty ceiling for a long while.

Yes. I will sell this place. It was just his staff—they were currently on break, and thanks to that, he had already made enough this month alone.

The old man was smart. He was preparing to leave, to save himself from the trouble that clung to men like Dax like shadows.

Thanks to these bustling streets, this place shouldn't be hard to sell.

He imagined a small, quiet bakery. The smell of fresh bread in the morning instead of blood.

Ahh… even better. With my current savings, my wife and I can retire for life.

He wasn't after the magnificent pay of an innkeeper anymore. He just wanted peace.

I'm not young again.

"Stay still."

Alfonzo kicked the thrashing rank-seven master in the left side of his torso. Logan rolled, clutching his wounded arm, while Alfonzo's boot came down on his chest—pinning him firmly to the ground. A deep hole lingered in the earth where the first shot had struck.

Alfonzo stepped on Logan's palm, pinning it to the dirt, and pointed the gun at his other elbow.

Logan's body began to expand. Muscles bulged. Veins rose. Something animalistic stirred beneath his skin.

"You know I will not let you fuse with your primal beast."

Alfonzo brought the edge of the gun down on Logan's head like it was an old friend.

"Fucking bast—"

Hum.

Another humming sound followed. Another perfect hole—this time piercing deep into Logan's wrist.

Alfonzo's eyes glowed as if he were enjoying it.

The Northern Beast roared—a sound that shook the sky and reached the ears of every guard in the district.

Within seconds, they came.

City guards moved across rooftops and through open streets, descending from every direction. In the span of a few heartbeats, Alfonzo and Logan were surrounded.

Armor gleamed in the torchlight. Swords were drawn. Shields raised.

Then a commanding voice cut through the chaos.

"Stand down."

A middle-aged man walked forward. Every piece of equipment on his body was high-leveled—enchantments glowing faintly, metal polished to a mirror shine. The rose insignia on his chest was unmistakable.

Captain Ever Sword.

His men held their swords ready but did not advance. They recognized the sigil on the Godfall guards' uniforms.

"Isn't it the Godfall knights?" one of them murmured.

The captain's eyes swept across the scene—the rubble, the wounded man, the guard standing over him with a strange blue weapon.

"Our city is not a battlefield," he said. His voice was calm, but it carried weight.

Alfonzo tilted his head. He looked at the captain, then at the gun in his hand, then back at the captain.

He moved the gun toward the captain's face.

"Will this maybe kill him instantly, then?"

He looked at the gun like it was a god.

What is he doing? The captain's eyes widened.

"Apprehend him."

The guards moved.

Just as Alfonzo's finger tightened on the trigger, Dax appeared beside him.

His hand closed over the gun—not snatching it, just covering it. Stilling it.

Dax's eyes were like those of a demon, glued to Alfonzo.

A natural killer.

He disarmed the gun with ease, slipping it into his robe, then turned to face the city guards. His expression softened. He waved politely.

"Forgive our behavior."

His tone was almost apologetic.

"This man disturbed our peace. But he isn't dead."

The captain's eyes narrowed. He gestured to three of his men. "Check on him."

The guards scrambled over the rubble, approaching Logan's prone form. One knelt. Then froze.

He turned back, face pale.

"Captain Ever Sword… that man is the Northern Beast."

The captain's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes.

The Northern Beast?

He walked over himself, stepping across broken stone, and knelt beside Logan. He raised the man's arm—the one with the wound—and studied the hole that pierced clean through flesh.

Perfect.

"But this man has very strong regeneration," the captain muttered. "What is wrong?"

Within seconds, the sharp-eyed man had seen enough. The wound should have been healing. Instead, the hole wriggled—refusing to close.

What sort of weapon is capable of stopping regeneration at this level?

He looked up.

Dax was already walking away. Alfonzo followed tightly behind.

"Stop there!"

The captain's aura pressed down on Dax—a warning. He was the chief guard of the City of Roses. Not the type to be intimidated by a name.

Dax turned.

"Do I need to explain myself?"

He let his energy loose.

It wasn't an attack or a threat. It was simply presence—the overwhelming weight of something far greater.

Everyone present went blind for a second.

The weaker ones passed out entirely, slumping to the ground as their bodies shut down under the pressure.

Ever Sword gritted his teeth and glanced over his shoulder. His hand trembled on his sword hilt.

Then he raised his other hand.

A wave.

Retreat.

His guards hesitated, then obeyed.

In this world, the one with the bigger fist was always right.

In the deep darkness, a woman watched.

The events played out across the surface of a bowl—water rippling, images forming, dissolving, and reforming. She saw Logan's fall, the strange weapon, and the way the guards retreated.

Then she focused solely on Dax.

What have the Godfalls been up to?

Her gaze lingered on his face, his white hair, and those dark red eyes.

"Pretty boy."

She smiled softly.

In the bowl, Dax's image turned toward her.

His lips moved. She couldn't hear the words—but she didn't need to. He was looking directly at her through her bowl.

His reflection raised a hand.

And destroyed itself.

Crack.

The bowl shattered.

The woman fell back, coughing. A mouthful of blood sprayed across her silk robes. Her hand went to her chest. Her heart pounded.

What happened? She coughed again. Did my contracted beast just die?

Blood continued to spill from her lips.

"Master!"

A woman stormed into the room—the same quiet female guard from the restaurant. Deep worry filled her voice.

"Are you okay?!"

She rushed forward, arms wrapping around her master's shoulders to support her.

Her master coughed once more, eyes fixed on the shattered bowl.

And on the memory of those red eyes looking back.