Rise of the Faceless Demon

The Oesterian sky spewed the color of blood.

The giant Red Ring hung deformed above the horizon. Its light offered no warmth. It roasted the filthy clouds into a brownish-orange hue. The Rusty Dawn illuminated the frozen snowfields, turning the ice reflections into a thick crimson puddle stretching without end. The wind blew to carry sharp ice particles. It pierced the face. It brought the stench of rotting wood, mined copper, and carcasses failing to decompose in the freezing temperature.

Luka cut through the rocky path.

His boots crushed the icy mud with every step. Beneath his thick black cloak, his right arm throbbed. The thick, red-scaled flesh rubbed in a constant friction against the inside of his leather sleeve. His new muscle density rejected the cold temperature. A continuous heat churned beneath those scales. It was a predator's instinct demanding constant use.

Rhea walked two steps behind him. The maid's gray wool dress swept the filthy snow, leaving no trace of sound. The roaring wind masked her presence. Only the scent of lilies drifting past proved the woman still watched his back.

The journey through the remnants of the dead forest brought them to a hill crevice.

Down below, a small settlement leaned against the cliff wall. This was no village. This was a graveyard waiting for dirt. Wooden shacks stood slanted, defying gravity. Their straw roofs were bald and holed, exposing the inner wooden frames resembling rotting ribs. No smoke billowed from the stone chimneys. No guard dogs barked. No sound of axes splitting firewood existed. Silent. Dead.

Luka stopped his steps behind the remnants of a collapsed limestone wall. His eyes narrowed sharp at the mud courtyard in the center of the village.

Three light-armored warhorses stood snorting, spewing white steam from their snouts. Near the horses, three men in thick uniforms dominated the courtyard. Their steel chest plates reflected the Red Ring's light. In the center of the steel plates, the carved emblem of a hunting hound stamped clear.

Royal forces. Ulric's tax soldiers.

In front of the three soldiers, a rickety wooden pushcart lay overturned. Three small, dirt-smeared burlap sacks scattered across the ground. Black grain—the last deformed harvest born from a lack of sunlight—spilled in a mess from one of the torn sacks.

An old man lay face down on the frozen mud. His ragged clothes consisted of burlap patches. His pale, bluish skin clung straight to the bone. His scrawny hands gripped the edge of the torn burlap sack with a tight hold, defending the filthy grain as if his life were tied there.

Three steps behind the man, a woman and a young boy curled up in a hug at the corner of the shack wall. The boy's cheekbones jutted sharp. His lips shook with violent tremors, enduring the freeze and starvation.

"Let go of this filth, Rat."

The largest soldier, the captain of the group, swung his steel boot. He kicked the old man's face with a direct hit.

Crack.

The sound of a broken nose bone echoed loud to cleave the wind. Fresh blood spurted, soaking the icy snow. The old man was thrown to the side. He let out a hoarse groan with a phlegm-choked voice. Yet, his rough fingers refused to release the grain sack.

"The war tax must be paid in full." The captain drew a longsword from its sheath. The metal gleamed clean. Maintained to perfection using extorted coin. "This region's contribution is a disgrace. If this grain is not enough to ransom your lives, let your heads cover the shortage."

The sword blade rose high. It reflected the rusty dusk.

Behind the stone wall, Luka's chest burned.

The furnace in his solar plexus exploded. The blood in his vessels raced, crashing against his artery walls. He recorded the soldier's face. A healthy face full on suffering. Ulric sent these hounds to extort the bone marrow of his people in the middle of a lethal winter. His uncle built a golden throne upon the starvation of the Eisenhart citizens.

Luka's gaze sharpened. The boy's starving whimpers pierced his ears. These were his people. The Reinhardt bloodline demanded him to act. He was a protector. Severing this oppressor's head was no sin or an outburst of raw emotion. This was justice. The justice of a king returning from death.

His grip on the sword tightened, crushing his butcher instincts to the bottom of his gut, replacing them with the pride of a protector.

Luka stepped out from the wall's shadow.

His leather boots struck the ice puddle. The sound of frozen shards drew the attention of the three soldiers. They turned their heads in unison, staring at the black-cloaked figure with half his face wrapped in dull medical bandages.

Luka spoke not a single word. He dashed forward.

A distance of a dozen steps was devoured in two breaths. His left hand swept his cloak aside. His thick, red-scaled right hand drew the rusted sword from the sheath at his waist.

The nearest soldier pivoted his body, trying to aim his spear tip at Luka's chest.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Too late.

Luka discarded all sword-fighting elegance. He lowered his posture until his knee almost touched the mud, letting the spearhead pass right over his head. He twisted his waist, breaking a natural stance. His rusted sword swung horizontal, pulled by the pure force of his monster arm.

The dull iron struck the outer side of the soldier's knee.

Crack.

The knee armor shattered. The kneecap bone crushed into pieces. The soldier screamed in agony, losing his body's axis, and collapsed forward to crash into the ice. Luka spun his sword upward. He plunged it straight down. The rusted blade pierced the gap in the soldier's back neck guard, severing the spinal cord in one rough thrust. Blood spurted in a rush, soaking the remaining grain.

One dead.

The second soldier attacked from the left. His sword slashed diagonal, aiming for Luka's exposed neck.

Luka pulled his weapon from the first corpse. He let his enemy's sword scrape hard against the body of his rusted blade. Sparks flared, blinding the eyes. Luka did not parry to defend. He pushed his body forward, barging into the enemy's defense, then slammed his left shoulder with a direct hit into the center of the soldier's chest.

The soldier staggered back. Deprived of breath.

Luka pulled his right knee up, kicking his enemy's stomach until the man hunched over. Without mercy, he slashed the soldier's neck in a single cross motion. Skin and neck veins severed halfway. The soldier's head slumped in a grotesque angle, his body collapsing to flood the frozen mud with a thick crimson puddle.

One remained. The captain.

The large man stepped back. His eyes stared in horror at the speed of the slaughter. He gripped his sword hilt with both hands. He swung it vertical with all his remaining strength, aiming for the split of Luka's skull.

Luka threw his rusted sword to the dirt.

He raised his right hand, still hidden beneath the leather sleeve, opening his palm wide.

The captain's sword blade struck Luka's palm.

Clang!

Sharp iron clashed against hardened red scales. No flesh was cut. No blood spilled. The royal sword was halted in full by the mutation density of Luka's right arm.

The captain stood frozen. His mind hit a dead end watching steel fail to pierce a bare palm.

Luka gripped the sword blade with a tight hold. His scales scraped against the metal. He pulled the sword with a single hard jerk forward. The captain stumbled forward, losing his body's balance.

Luka's left hand crept up fast, gripping the neck of the man's leather armor.

Luka pulled the soldier closer. His pitch-black eyes stared straight into the oppressor's terrified face. No speeches. No heroic sentences of judgment. He raised his right knee, slamming it right into the soldier's solar plexus. A series of rib-cracking sounds echoed. The soldier choked on his own vomit of blood.

Luka released his grip, letting the man fall to his knees on the dirt. He picked his rusted sword back up, stepped to the side, then swung the old iron horizontal, severing the captain's neck in a single forceful pull.

The severed head fell and rolled, crashing into the wheel of the ruined wooden pushcart.

Luka's breaths roared fast. Thick white steam billowed from the gaps in his bandages.

Fresh blood dripped in a rush from the tip of his rusted sword. Three corpses of Ulric's forces scattered at his feet, painting the filthy snow with crimson puddles.

Luka pivoted his body. He stared at the farmer family near the shack wall.

The old man crawled back, hugging his wife and son with a tight grip. Violent tremors shook their bodies. Their faces were deathly pale. Their eyes locked in terror. They did not look at Luka as a savior god descending from the sky. They stared at Luka's right arm tearing through the sleeve, exposing thick, red-scaled muscle dripping with enemy blood. They stared at a far more lethal monster. The horror on their faces was far greater than when the tax soldiers kicked them.

Luka stood rigid.

His chest felt heavy. He had just saved their lives. He killed the oppressors who stole their food. Why did they cower in fear? Why were there no prostrations of gratitude or words of thanks?

The veins on his temples twitched, forcing his logic to swallow this raw rejection.

They are blind. His inner voice crept to soothe his conscience. They lived in fear for too long until their reason failed to recognize the shape of justice. Your monster flesh is the price of sacrifice you pay for their salvation. You bear this horror so they can live. You are the true king.

The buzzing in his head subsided. He locked the remnants of his conscience tight, pivoted on his heel, ignored the family's terrified stares, and left them to live with a new fear.

Luka stood in the center of the freezing village courtyard.

The Red Ring in the sky radiated the light of blood, roasting the headless corpses beneath his boots. He raised the rusted sword in his hand. This weapon was dull and heavy. He required too much muscle force just to pierce cheap leather armor plates.

Ulric possessed thousands of soldiers like this. Elite forces clad in thick steel marched to guard the capital palace walls.

Killing three street guard dogs had drained his breath. Slaughtering a battalion would burst his heart before he reached the palace gates. A single sword could not topple a kingdom. His sense of justice required far more lethal fangs. He needed an army as filthy and feral as himself, a mass weapon moving in the shadows.

High-heeled boots creaked over the icy snow.

Rhea stepped out from behind the shack's shadow. Her wool dress was flawless, a stark contrast to the bloody mud puddles around her. The maid stood in silence, folding her hands in front of her stomach, waiting for her master's line of sight.

Luka cast his gaze to the southern horizon, piercing the borders of the dead pine hills.

A giant mountain stood towering to cleave Oesteria's filthy clouds. Its peak was sharp and serrated, pitch-black, resembling a wolf's jaw opened wide to tear the sky. That place was the headquarters of the assassins, the main tent of The Hollow Syndicate.

He could not arrive there as an exiled prince begging for a borrowed army. Assassins did not bow to family lineages. He had to arrive there as an apex predator demanding the obedience of the pack.

Luka sheathed his rusted sword.

"We move on," he said.

His leather boots shattered the ice layer. He walked straight, leaving the soldiers' corpses to rot beneath the rusty dusk, stepping with absolute certainty toward the wolf's jaw waiting at the edge of the world.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!