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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Cyno
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The village gates shattered under the mercenary corps’ assault, wooden palisades splintering like kindling. The militia—mere armed civilians—collapsed before the professional fighters’ onslaught. Inside their homes, villagers trembled, awaiting their doom.
The Jess Mercenary Corps was formidable. Disciplined, skilled, and ruthless.
A few hired blades lingered in the village, but their half-hearted resistance proved futile. Sensing defeat, they conserved their strength, banking on guild connections to spare them later. Mercenaries within the same nation often knew each other; clemency after battle was common.
“Hold the gate!”
Shura stood with the militia, blocking the breach. She alone remained as the village’s last hope. Though the militia fought desperately, the gap in skill was insurmountable—seasoned mercenaries against untrained farmers.
Channeling mana into her blade, Shura swung at the invaders. The glow of an upper-tier Expert’s weapon gave them pause, but greed soon overpowered fear.
“An elf!”
Shura was of the elves—a race renowned for beauty and purity. A half-blood born between dark-aligned Moon Elves and light-aligned High Elves, but to humans, she was every inch an elf.
And thus, peerlessly beautiful. Her faint blue skin and crimson eyes—markings of her Moon Elf heritage—only accentuated her striking presence.
Leaping onto the palisade, she sliced a mercenary’s waist. Blood sprayed, but the veteran twisted away, avoiding a fatal blow. Comrades shielded his retreat with leveled spears.
Shura gritted her teeth. Their coordination was flawless.
Nearby, militiamen fell screaming. She rushed to aid them, but it was futile. The defensive line crumbled, and mercenaries flooded the village.
Landing, Shura paled. Raiders were already sprinting toward houses.
The village was lost. Time to flee—yet the villagers’ faces flashed in her mind.
A motherless child raised by a widowed warrior. A mother who returned from war in pieces. Clan kin who’d scorned her as “tainted blood.”
These people had taken her in when she had nowhere else.
She couldn’t abandon them.
With a cry, Shura hurled herself at the mercenaries.
“Damn, she’s no ordinary wench.”
Her assault momentarily staggered them. Though inexperienced, her elven speed and mana-enhanced strength overwhelmed mere humans. Casualties mounted—reckless recruits lost heads to her flashing blade.
The mercenaries recoiled from her blood-spattered face. Even isolated, a mana swordsman was deadly.
“Boss! Where the hell are you?”
The answer came as a hulking, bearded man strode through the broken gate—Jess. Once a knight expelled from multiple fiefdoms, now a mercenary captain.
“So the elf’s real,” he rasped, licking his lips at the sight of Shura.
“She’s strong,” a subordinate warned.
Jess scoffed. An upper-tier Expert himself, he outclassed her in raw power and numbers. His men had already cornered the militia.
“Surrender,” he called. “I’ve no wish to harm you.”
Shura tightened her grip. His leer promised only degradation. She’d die here first.
Elven women prized purity above life. Faced with violation, they chose suicide—or starved themselves to death. Even slavers avoided them, targeting males instead.
Jess signaled his men. “Get the gag and nets.”
He’d enjoy her before she found a way to die.
As they closed in, a scream pierced the chaos—Benny, a village girl, dragged half-naked from a house. Her pleading eyes met Shura’s.
Helplessness choked Shura. Worse—net-wielders were scaling the palisade behind her.
Jess pressed his advantage, denying her any opening. One mistake, and she’d bite her tongue off.
“No!”
Shura lunged toward Benny—ignoring Jess’s descending sword.
Steel nets ensnared her mid-leap.
“Ghk—!”
Thrashing uselessly, she was pinned as mercenaries forced a gag between her teeth.
Jess unbuckled his belt.
“Kkh…! Kkhh…!”
Tears welled as Shura glared at the village mercenaries—men who’d once professed love, now turning away.
Then—
A shadow fell from the sky.
Jess’s eyes bulged as a black-bladed sword erupted from his throat.
The figure landed lightly, yanking the blade free in a spray of crimson.
Shura blinked. A young man with hair black as night stood there, grinning through a mask of blood.
“Huh, an elf?” He tilted his head. “Why’s one here?”
His gaze sharpened.
“Ah, a half-blood.” He winked. “Bet life’s been rough, huh?”
For the first time in years, Shura thought of her mother—who’d smiled just like that.
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