Why must the devil be Defeated?

Chapter 115: 114 ‘Night of Blood
 

“Whimper… whimper whimper…”

In the woods not far from camp, Magre sobbed like a bullied child, crying his heart out.

“My Merica…my Merica…”

The thought of the only woman he ever truly loved now lying in the arms of another man—and that man threatening him never to bother her again—made Magre’s tears unstoppable.

“It should have been mine… mine…”

The more Magre thought about it, the more heartbroken and resentful he became, causing his tears to overflow, and even his nose began to run.

Such a pitiful state had not manifested in Magre since he was seven years old, indicating the depth of his sorrow.

“I won’t give up… I definitely won’t…”

Magre kept convincing himself with unending determination.

“There must still be a chance… a chance…”

Though the threat of Shane made Magre feel like collapsing to the ground, the thought of giving up on Merica was something he truly couldn’t do.

After all, this man’s obsession with Merica was so intense that he was willing to abandon his noble status to fulfill his desires, and despite his fear of Shane, Magre did not want to give up.

Of course, Magre really was terrified by Shane and dared not even think of seeking revenge.

If not for this fear, Shane might not have allowed Magre to leave so easily. Even if he didn’t kill him right there in the camp, he would have found a way to rid himself of Magre to avoid future troubles.

Now, Magre truly felt both hatred and fear towards Shane, torn between losing the will to resist and unwilling to give up on Merica.

So, all Magre could do was mutter to himself.

“He can’t stay by Merica’s side forever. Sooner or later, she will be alone…”

When that time came, he planned to whisk Merica away, flee far, and find a place where no one could find them to spend their lives together.

As long as he could have Merica, Magre felt that even the most challenging life would be worth living.

“That guy isn’t a god; he can’t possibly know where Merica and I would go…”

Magre entertained such thoughts.

As for whether Merica was willing, that was beyond Magre’s consideration.

As Shane had said, Magre always ignored Merica’s desires, displaying extreme selfishness or a self-deluding sense of righteousness.

Magre lived in his own script and world, with Merica merely being a character in it—even if she was the leading lady, she was something meant to be dictated by his wishes.

This was why Shane said that essentially, Magre was no different from other nobles: the only difference was that the others were aware of their actions, while he was not. He had no realization that he was doing anything wrong and instead believed that everything he did was right.

“Alright! It’s decided!”

Having made up his mind, Magre wiped his nose and tears, ready to rally.

“I’ll wait for that moment of opportunity to come, no matter how long it takes.”

Magre was resolved and turned to head back to camp.

However, Magre had no idea that this would be the last action he took in his life.

For, the moment he turned around, a shadow silently appeared behind him.

“Thwack!”

The blade pierced through Magre’s body, entering through his back and exiting through his chest, bringing forth a large gush of blood.

“Ugh…”

Magre froze, and after a moment, slowly lowered his head to look at the blade protruding from his chest, his eyes filled with disbelief.

Just then, another hand reached out and pressed against Magre’s head.

“Boom!”

With a flash of firelight, flames enveloped Magre’s entire body, burning him to ashes.

Magre didn’t even have time to scream, much less realize his life was slipping away; not even a trace of his remains were left, as his body was thoroughly destroyed, leaving no evidence behind.

Only then, the hand that had held down Magre withdrew, allowing an old man’s figure to appear in this space.

“Finally caught up.”

The old man looked at the distant campfires, laughing sinisterly.

As for the man he had just killed, he was already forgotten.

“Lord Beddo.”

The shadowy figure that had pierced through Magre with a blade revealed its full form, turning out to be surrounded by a large group of people, all of whom revered the old man.

These people were the shadowy executioners of the Old Demon Clan Faction.

They had finally caught up with the escort squad.

“How did the reconnaissance go?”

Beddo asked casually.

“The results are in,” reported a subordinate in a quiet voice.

“There are a total of one hundred and eighteen people in the camp, almost all of them of the Human Race.”

“Among them, there are three below Level 30, eighty-seven between Levels 30 to 40, twenty-three between Levels 40 to 50, three between Levels 50 to 60, and two above Level 60.”

“According to those with ‘Identification’ and ‘Reconnaissance’ Skills, among those two, one is Level 77, probably Lord Killian, and the other is Level 68, likely the highest level here.”

Hearing this report, Beddo sneered.

“Are there really people below Level 30? And a whole three of them? It seems Lamijion really couldn’t dispatch any decent forces to escort Killian.”

Beddo’s wariness of the camp had lessened by several degrees.

With such a level of force, even if Beddo himself didn’t take action, couldn’t they easily massacre everyone?

“Probably aiming for personal glory, the leader of Lamijion didn’t want to call for reinforcements from the other towns within their territory,” Beddo easily saw through the situation, scoffing: “The Human Race is hopelessly inept in every era, when will we finally rid ourselves of these annoying races?”

The disdain revealed in Beddo’s words was even denser than Killian’s.

The others showed similar sentiments, appearing as if they were about to dirty their hands on a menial task, their faces filled with disgust and resignation.

This was the nature of the Old Demon Clan Faction.

Thus, neither Beddo nor the rest of the Old Demon Clan were like typical villains who talk too much in the face of enemies; instead, they adopted an attitude of disposing of trash, carrying out the repetitive and tedious task of slaughter.

This time was no different.

“Should we charge in directly, Lord Beddo?” a subordinate asked. “The barrier around the camp has been breached by us, and soon, those Humans will notice.”

“Then let’s prepare the groundwork first,” waved Beddo, “Send a portion of our forces to infiltrate and rescue Killian, to prevent those Human dogs from getting cornered and killing the hostage first. Send another group to establish a blockade around the perimeter, whether by creating barriers or destroying roads; make sure none of those Humans escape.”

Speaking thus, Beddo licked the blood from his fingertips.

“The same old rules this time, start killing once the groundwork is done.”

“Regardless of gender or race, even if they are of the Demon Clan, those mingling with the Humans are nothing but traitors.”

“Kill them all, leave no one alive.”

Thus, the executioners began their operation.

The night of bloodshed unfolded here.