However, for some reason, in this situation of overwhelming disparity, he suddenly felt a surge of fighting spirit. His gaze did not waver, but instead stared fiercely at the barbarian in front of him.

☆ Chapter 8: Origins

The boy and the killer’s eyes met head-on. The young wolf’s claws and fangs had yet to be sharpened, but his ferocity seemed innate.

This might be a natural disposition. When a person is trapped in a deadly situation, there are two kinds of people who will fight back. One kind acts after careful consideration—whether out of morality, duty, integrity, or after weighing the pros and cons, forced to do so. In their hearts, they are not unaware of fear, but their conscience or reason can overcome it. This is true courage.

The other kind thinks of nothing at all; everything is instinct. Instinctive anger, instinctive fighting spirit—even if they vaguely understand that their resistance will bring even more terrible consequences, they cannot suppress the urge to tear a piece of flesh from their enemy.

At this moment, Charles undoubtedly belonged to the latter. Perhaps the very word “terrifying” was enough to enrage him.

Thinking back on those years, it wasn’t just Grace who was always torn inside; Charles was the same. Grace ultimately did not kill him, perhaps because half of his blood belonged to her elder sister. And Charles ultimately did not kill her, perhaps because, after all the long torment, she still had the kindness of raising him.

The scar-faced barbarian seemed to be stung by his gaze. Enraged, he raised a huge fist, intending to smash Charles to pieces right then and there.

At that moment, a furious roar suddenly came from outside the door. One of the barbarians guarding the entrance was sent flying, crashing through half the house.

The dim embroidery room was suddenly flooded with light as intense sunlight poured in. Charles squinted, and before he saw the cold flash of steel, he first heard a scream.

The scar-faced barbarian’s iron arm, which was gripping Charles, along with the arm inside, was mercilessly chopped off. Charles lost his footing and involuntarily toppled to the side, but in the next instant, he was gently caught by another heavy armored iron arm.

There were always a few dismantled suits of steel armor scattered around Mr. Sullivan’s courtyard. But heavy armor was precious and usually not maintained for civilian long-arm masters—not even for John Foster’s connections.

Only once, when a suit of heavy armor was completely scrapped and about to be sent to General’s Slope for disposal, did Mr. Sullivan use his connections to quietly acquire it. He brought it home and, full of enthusiasm, took apart the old ancestral armor piece by piece, explaining every part to Charles inside and out.

Charles still remembered him saying that when a person put on heavy armor, it was as if they were endowed with the strength of ten thousand pounds—crushing several warhorses or toppling a few walls became easy. As long as you learned the basics, even a child could do it.

But the hardest part was not brute strength.

The strongest armored warriors were those who, even while wearing heavy armor, could still thread the finest string through the eye of a needle.

The armor on the newcomer was different from that of the barbarian warriors. It seemed slimmer, and the surface lacked that layer of gleaming silver, appearing dark and unremarkable. He gently patted Charles on the back, set the boy on his armored shoulder, and said softly, “Don’t be afraid.”

The voice came from behind the iron mask, somewhat distorted, but Charles turned his head sharply, staring thoughtfully at the tightly covered iron face.

Only then did the barbarians at the door finally react. They swarmed in, forming a circle around the black-armored man and Charles, with the scar-faced man at the center.

The black-armored man guarded Charles on his shoulder with one hand, while in the other he held a smooth “long rod.” Thin steam drifted from the unremarkable iron rod’s end.

His earlier strike, severing the scar-faced man’s arm, had been so fast that Charles hadn’t seen it clearly—could this battered iron rod really be his weapon?

The scar-faced man, drenched in cold sweat and face ashen, retreated two steps warily and said in a low voice, “Black armor, Wind-Cutting Blade… you’re one of those Ghost Crows.”

At first, Charles didn’t react. A moment later, his spine stiffened—Ghost Crows!

That’s right. Fourteen years ago, during the Northern Expedition, the Black Iron Battalion had swept deep into the northern barbarian grasslands like a black whirlwind. The barbarians both feared and hated them, calling them “Ghost Crows.”

The black-armored man ignored him, only calmly instructing Charles, “Hold on tight.”

The scar-faced man shouted, and four barbarian warriors, well-trained, charged in with him. Blades and spears came from all sides. The black-armored man’s feet flashed with a deep purple light, and he nimbly slipped through the gaps between the weapons. With a leap, he landed on the ruined roof of the The Foster Family. As soon as his feet touched down, his left shoulder carrying Charles barely moved, while his right side spun out at a dazzling speed, and the “iron rod” in his hand became a blur.

Charles forced his eyes wide open and saw that one end of the black-armored man’s “rod” had formed a ring of blade-like illusions, which came whirling down. The pursuing barbarian armored soldier couldn’t dodge in time and took a solid blow to the chest. The golden box at his heart instantly exploded, and the purple-gold inside burst into a terrifying fire, blowing the giant to pieces in an instant.