CHAPTER 261: CHAPTER 263: THE NEW KARNESSA

In the next few days, the war grinds on. The nineteen affiliated forces shift and brace, supporting one another across battlefields that burn day and night.

Shison Town—once a quiet trading hub—is now a war zone. The streets are clogged with barricades, overturned carts, and the corpses of soldiers who tried to hold the line.

On the north wall, a Tier 4 commander shouts above the clash of steel and the roar of inhuman voices.

"Form ranks! Hold that breach! Archers, cover the left flank—damn it, move!"

But his voice is swallowed by chaos. The enemy soldiers, monstrous, eyes glowing with hunger for blood, tear through the defenders like wolves in a pen of sheep.

And at the front of the assault, Karnessa moves like a shadow with teeth.

Once timid, once afraid to even meet an enemy’s gaze, she now walks in carnage like it’s her rightful home. Mhazul’s training has burned the fear out of her, leaving only precision and hunger for the kill.

Her whip snaps out with a sound like a thunderclap, the barbed tip coiling around the neck of a human soldier. Before he can even scream, she pulls—not to drag him toward her, but to slice. The whip tightens, cuts through skin, muscle, and vein. His head tumbles free, and the spray of blood doesn’t fall—it hangs in the air, trembling, under her control.

Karnessa’s lips curl.

"Bleed for me."

The floating droplets twist, stretch, and lance outward, spearing into three more soldiers at once. The crimson needles pierce through armor gaps as if drawn by instinct, finding the heart each time. They drop in unison, their blood joining the swirling mass orbiting her like a slow storm.

Behind her, one of the monster commander just like her laughs, watching her work.

"You’re wasting time, Karnessa. Why play with them?"

She cracks the whip again, this time tangling a soldier’s arm and yanking him forward. She steps in close, palm against his chest.

"I’m not playing."

Blood bursts from his pores like water from a burst pipe, drawn out of him in a rush that leaves him pale before he hits the ground.

Another skill flares—the blood already in the air hardens, shaping into jagged crimson blades that hover around her like a crown of murder. With a flick of her wrist, they fly, cutting through the rear lines, soldiers screaming as they fall.

The Tier 4 captain sees her now, eyes wide. "Focus fire on that woman—now!"

But it’s too late.

Karnessa spins, whip singing, sending its barbs across the wall in a wide arc. The soldiers who try to dodge are caught by the flying blood blades instead, cutting down men in a perfect half-circle around her.

The commander’s grin widens. "Little Karnessa, once timid and skittish... and now? Who would’ve thought?"

She glances at him, eyes cold, then looks back at the surviving defenders—no more than a dozen on this section of the wall.

"I was afraid because I was weak," she says softly, almost to herself.

The whip coils, blood swirls tighter, and her voice sharpens like a blade.

"I’m not weak anymore."

---

By the time the sun dips low, the streets of Shison Town are silent except for the crackle of fire and the groans of the dying. The banners of the defenders are torn and trampled into the mud, their colors drowned in red.

Karnessa walks through the ruined main square, her whip still wet, the faint orbit of blood around her slowly dissipating as her power settles.

Commander Zomvander, a hulking monster with a plated hide and jagged tusks, approaches from the west street, stepping over a shattered cart. His voice rumbles with approval.

"Karnessa... you’ve become even more powerful than yesterday."

From the side, another figure joins them—a woman monster with long, bone-like claws and a predatory smile. Saon’s eyes glint as she studies Karnessa.

"By the way... aren’t you close to His Majesty?"

Karnessa looks at her for a moment, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Yeah. His Majesty is my savior. He bought me when I was sold as a slave."

Zomvander snorts, a tusked grin spreading across his face.

"Then when you become Tier 5, you’ll immediately become a general. You know that, right? You’re close to His Majesty, so you’ll get promoted the moment you advance... while the rest of us have to reach Tier 7—which, let’s be honest, is impossible for most."

Saon chuckles low, her claws flexing idly.

"If you do get promoted, just so you know... the two of us are available."

Karnessa stops walking, tilts her head toward them, and the firelight catches the red in her eyes. Then she smiles—calm, but with a sharpness under it.

"Of course I won’t forget. I’d be glad to have you both in my ranks."

Zomvander lets out a low laugh, the sound echoing off the burned-out walls. Saon’s grin widens.

Around them, the surviving monsters regroup, dragging human corpses into piles. The smell of blood is thick in the air. And at the heart of it all, Karnessa stands straight, her whip coiled loosely at her side.

The three of them—Karnessa, Zomvander, and Saon—give the order without hesitation.

"Gather every gold coin, jewel, and anything of value," Zomvander rumbles. "Strip the town clean before we move on."

The soldiers obey instantly, splitting into squads, overturning merchant stalls, prying open chests, and ripping lockboxes out of ruined homes. The clink of coins and the tearing of wood fills the square. Saon is already counting a small pouch of gems she personally took from a noble’s corpse.

While the chaos unfolds, Karnessa keeps walking, eyes scanning the streets as if the gold means little to her. Her whip drags along the cobblestones, leaving a faint trail of drying blood.

Karnessa steps over the collapsed body of a merchant, the man’s once-rich clothes now soaked in mud and blood. Her gaze isn’t on the gold spilling from his pockets—it’s far away, fixed on a memory.

The Ashedge Clan.

A clatter of metal pulls Karnessa back to the present.

She turns her head slightly, watching as two soldiers—a horned brute and a four-armed, thin-limbed stalker—dump a chest of gold coins onto the cobblestones, letting the coins scatter so they can stuff them into sacks faster.

Zomvander’s voice rumbles over the din. "Move it! We ride before dawn—next town won’t wait for us to take our time."

Saon strolls past Karnessa, twirling one of her bone claws like a knife. "What’s with the long face? Didn’t take you for the sentimental type."

Karnessa doesn’t answer right away. She glances at Saon, her expression unreadable. "Just thinking of a clan that knew how to keep their monsters... alive."

Saon raises a brow, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Is that the Ashedge Clan you’re always talking about?"

Karnessa just nods once.

Zomvander snorts, shaking his head as he lifts a sack of gold over one massive shoulder. "I still can’t believe there’s a human force on this continent that doesn’t torture their monster slaves."

Karnessa’s gaze hardens, but her tone is calm. "That’s why His Majesty wants to give them a chance when the time comes—when we march on their city, they’ll be offered surrender."

Zomvander grunts, unconvinced. "And if they refuse?"

Her lips press into a thin line. "Then they’ll bleed like the rest." She exhales through her nose, turning away. "Let’s not talk about it."

----

Ironvale City, deep in Ashedge territory.

The streets outside are quiet, the moonlight catching on the slate rooftops, but inside a small stone pub, every chair is empty—except one.

Velira sits at the center table, a tall glass of deep red wine in her hand. The entire place is hers tonight; she paid the owner triple the asking price to clear the building, though the Ashedge Clan already owns every brick in Ironvale.

The pub owner lingers behind the counter, polishing the same glass over and over, his brow furrowed. He keeps glancing at her—his lord’s daughter, the heir to the entire city—and she looks... troubled. And if the heir has a problem, that means trouble for everyone under this roof.

The door creaks open.

Two figures step in, the faint smell of rain clinging to their cloaks. Gresren, broad-shouldered and armored even off duty, and Solven, lean and sharp-eyed, both wearing the subtle crest of the clan on their belts.

Gresren’s voice cuts through the quiet. "Why is the young lady drinking here alone?"

Velira glances up, her expression softening just slightly. "Gresren. Solven. Join me."

They don’t hesitate. Chairs scrape against the wooden floor as they sit, Gresren on her right, Solven across from her.

Solven studies her a moment, then asks, "Is this because of Sir Hadrik?"

Solven’s voice is measured, but there’s a note of sympathy. "Lady Velira, I’m sure the clan leader is hurt as you are. But in times like these... grief is a luxury for the leader of the Ashedge Clan. He carries the survival of all of us on his back."

"I know..." she says quietly, her gaze fixed on the table.

Gresren leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "You shouldn’t be too sad for Sir Hadrik. You know him. Dying in battle is what a warrior like him would’ve wanted."

Velira swirls the wine in her glass, watching the deep red spin in slow circles. Her voice is softer now.

"If only Alix were here... he would surely think of something."

Solven leans forward, forearms resting on the table. "Yeah. That guy." He shakes his head. "I still can’t get news about him, even after using the clan’s intel network. It’s like he’s vanished."

Gresren shifts in his chair, his mouth twisting like he’s about to say something bitter. "Don’t you think the mons—"

Velira’s eyes snap up, sharp enough to cut him off. "Don’t you dare finish what you’re about to say, Gresren."

He freezes mid-word, hands lifting in mock surrender. "Yes, ma’am."