Francis and Blanche, who had been watching the battle unfold from the sidelines, both gasped sharply.
Even though they had seen Alan fight before, what they just witnessed still left them utterly shaken.
It was simply too brutal—so rciless that they instinctively felt grateful Alan was on their side. If this savagery had been directed at them instead...
Francis quickly banished that dark thought, but only then did he notice the fine hairs on his arms were standing on end without him realizing.
After dispatching the bounty hunters, Alan casually flicked his wrist, dispelling the wind-elent light sword spell he had conjured.
Yet despite dismissing the spell, the thick stench of blood still clung to him, dense and suffocating, lingering in the air as though it refused to dissipate.
At that mont, two more n burst out of a nearby alley. They didn't attack Alan directly. Instead, they placed their hands on their hips and shouted furiously, "Killing people in the Kent Kingdom? You brat, do you have any respect for Kent… for the Duke?!"
Alan suddenly turned around. A strand of mana extended from his body—molded into a slender, invisible arm—and in the blink of an eye, it wrapped around one man's neck and clenched.
Crack.
The sound of the man's spine breaking was chilling. He collapsed without even managing a scream.
The other man turned pale and began trembling violently. Cold sweat stread down his face as he stumbled back in fear, preparing to flee.
But Alan had no intention of letting him go so easily.
The mana that had ford into an arm instantly morphed again—splitting into a dozen razor-thin threads that snaked through the air and bound the man's limbs tightly.
Alan approached him step by step.
When he reached the terrified man, Alan raised his foot and stomped on the man's chest, pinning him down.
"I recognize you. You're a student from Lioncrest Academy, aren't you?"
Alan's voice was flat—completely devoid of emotion. No rage, no joy, no sorrow—just a cold, chanical tone that chilled the air.
The student gasped, trying to control his breathing as he stamred, "I… I'm not! You've got the wrong person!"
"Oh?" Alan muttered.
He crouched down slowly, grabbed the man's shirt, and tore it open—revealing the inner layer of his clothing.
There, hanging at his chest, was a pendant: a golden lion's head carved in exquisite detail.
The unmistakable symbol of Lioncrest Academy.
"What else do you have to say for yourself?" Alan asked, his foot pressing down with greater force.
A sickening crack followed—the man's first rib shattered beneath Alan's heel.
"Arghhh!"
The student howled in agony, the scream bursting out of him instinctively as the pain overwheld his senses.
Alan ignored his cries. He lifted his foot again and stomped down a second ti.
By now, the man could barely speak from the sheer pain.
Then Alan halted, crouched again, and stared at him closely.
"I'll ask you one question," he said coldly. "Answer truthfully, and I'll let you go."
"Y-Yes! Anything! I'll tell you whatever I know!" the man blurted out, his face a mask of snot and tears, utterly disheveled and pitiful.
"After your headmaster kidnapped my sister—where did he take her?"
"Oh, the girl nad Isabella—urgh!"
Before the words had even fully left his mouth, Alan stomped again, crushing another rib. His face darkened.
"Silence! You filthy beasts aren't worthy of speaking her na!"
The man began to cough violently, his lungs struggling. The third cracked rib had punctured sothing inside—each breath now scraped against torn tissue.
"I-I don't know!" he choked out between gasps. "The headmaster never told us anything!"
"Then how do you know her na?" Alan demanded, his eyes narrowing.
His foot ca crashing down once more.
The student's chest visibly caved in under the pressure. His eyes rolled back, and blood dripped from his lips.
He died on the spot.
Alan's sheer force had been so overwhelming that the ground beneath them cracked, long lines of fissures spreading out from the corpse like a spiderweb.
Alan's eyes were bloodshot.
He followed the trail of cracks, as if they were guiding his rage, and suddenly darted toward a nearby residential building.
He wasn't done killing yet.
Francis jumped in alarm. He could tell that sothing was terribly wrong—Alan's mind was not in its usual state.
Without hesitation, he lunged forward and wrestled Alan to the ground, locking his limbs tightly.
Blanche rushed in as well, grabbing Alan's shoulders and shaking him.
"Alan! Alan, what's wrong with you? Wake up!"
It took a while, but eventually, Alan began to stir. He groaned and held his head in his hands, clearly fatigued.
"What… happened to ?" he muttered.
Francis glared at him. "You're seriously asking us that?! We should be the ones asking you! What the hell was that back there?!"
He dragged Alan to his feet and pointed to the carnage—the corpses lying in pools of blood, the air thick with death.
Alan stared blankly. Then his brow furrowed in concern.
"Those were bounty hunters, right? We just fought them? Did any of you get hurt?"
Francis, Blanche, and Fort all exchanged puzzled looks.
Francis stepped forward and placed a hand on Alan's forehead.
"…Buddy, are you okay? That fight—you fought all of them. We didn't even lift a finger."
Then he paused, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"You don't have… so kind of split personality or ntal disorder, do you?"
Alan shook his head, confused, and tried to recall the battle. His mories were… hazy.
He rembered using his skill—True Death Eyes—and then everything after that felt like a blur.
Could that ability be affecting his mind?
The more he thought about it, the more troubling it beca. During his solo training with a mirror, nothing like this had ever happened.
But if this skill had unforeseen side effects, he'd have to adjust it himself. After all, he was the one who invented it. There was no manual, no precedent—only trial and error.
"Forget it. As long as you're all okay. Let's keep moving. The ruins should still be so distance away."
Alan turned and took the lead once again.
Behind him, Francis and Blanche lowered their voices and started whispering.
"I'm seriously worried about his ntal state," Francis said. "When he enters combat, it's like he becos a completely different person. Not the Alan we know at all."
Blanche considered this. "Let's not jump to conclusions. Rember why we ca to Kent—to find his sister. That girl is his everything. If he acts a little extre because of her, can you really bla him?"
"…I hope you're right."
Fort chose that mont to speak up, ending the conversation with a quiet but firm tone.
The group resud their journey—but each of them carried their own doubts and concerns.
Yet as the old saying goes: The tree desires peace, but the wind does not relent.
Though the people of the Kent Kingdom might not directly intervene in the affairs of foreign visitors, gossip still spread like wildfire.
No one cared if a few bounty hunters died—they were wanderers with no families or ties.
But news that two students from Lioncrest Academy had been killed by Alan?
That ignited fury.
These students had endured humiliation and hardship in a foreign land, all to find an opportunity to bring Alan down.
Now, before they could even make a move, Alan had taken the first strike—claiming two lives.
How could they possibly let that slide?
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