Ruin has come to our family

With Susan as their guide, Lance identified their next target: another drunken ruffian. Lance slit the man's throat with a dagger. Blood bubbled from the wound as the man struggled, his fight for life inevitably fading until he was just another corpse. With a raised hand, Lance sacrificed the body. He looked at the blood on his own hands but felt nothing. He wiped them clean on the dead man's clothes and tossed the rag aside.

In this world, one either adapts or is mercilessly discarded.

The dregs, the small-fry among the thirty-odd constables, had all been culled. All that remained were the mercenaries.

"Next is the leader of these sellswords," Susan said. "He wears the armor and carries the weapons he stole from the veteran. Be careful."

So far, they had been picking off the weakest of the herd. But now, they would do the opposite, going straight for the man who appeared to be the strongest among them: the captain.

Lance did not underestimate the mercenaries just because he had reaped a few thugs. These were men who lived and died by the blade. Though they were no match for Reynauld or Dismas, they had survived this long for a reason. Their instincts were not to be compared with those of common street toughs. But by that same token, having survived the brigand attack, these men were as skittish as spooked crows. If he could take down their strongest, even if his actions were exposed, the remaining mercenaries would not dare to move against him. Such was their nature. If he started with the weaker ones, a single escapee could rally the others under their captain, and his plan would be ruined.

Lance knew he was taking a risk, but he trusted that the skill of his companions would bring him victory.

To secure the mercenary captain's support, the Magistrate had gifted him a house of brick and stone. As Lance's party approached, they could hear a woman's violent screams and wails from within.

"This one... he has depraved tastes," Susan said, her voice laced with a venomous hatred. "Though he is large and powerfully built, he is... lacking... in his manhood. He can only find pleasure in the torment of others. In these last days, three women have already died at his hands."

Lance's eyes narrowed slightly. "Move in."

Dismas, having spent years clawing his way up from the gutter, made short work of the simple lock. The captain's mad laughter and the woman's shrieks of agony masked the sound of their approach. Even as they reached the door to the room, the man inside had no inkling. Having come this far, there was no turning back. Lance met his companions' eyes and whispered a final instruction.

"I have a use for him. Take him alive if you can."

Reynauld took the lead. With a single kick, he shattered the door and charged in. Dismas followed close behind, dirk in one hand, pistol in the other. Lance held Susan back, waiting a moment until he heard the woman's renewed screams and the sounds of chaos within before entering the room himself.

The already small room was now cramped with the sudden influx of bodies. Lance could see a portly, shirtless man—the captain—using a horsewhip to barely parry Reynauld's onslaught. In the corner, a naked woman was bound to a wooden frame, her body a canvas of bloody welts.

In the instant Lance was distracted, Reynauld's longsword sliced through the horsewhip and bit into the captain's shoulder. The man's thick layers of fat, it seemed, served him well. The blade did not cut deep. With a roar, he charged forward, attempting a bone-crushing bear hug.

But Reynauld's skill was forged in the crucible of war. He lowered his hands, holding the longsword vertically before him and pressing forward. To Lance, it looked less like a charge and more like the captain was offering his own neck to the blade.

The captain realized his mistake, but he was a vicious man. He knew that to create distance now meant certain death; a desperate gamble was his only path to survival. He reached out with a bare hand, grabbing the flat of the blade to shove it aside. The sharp edge sliced his palm open; had he been a fraction slower, his fingers would have been shorn off. But his move worked. His neck was spared the blade, and he was now inside Reynauld's guard, confident that his brute strength could overwhelm even a man in plate.

But what is true for one is often true for the other. He was now well within Reynauld's reach as well.

Reynauld suddenly raised his hands, the body of his sword tilting back. In the cramped room, the long hilt of the two-handed sword, previously hidden, struck out like a viper's tongue, smashing violently into the captain's chin and snapping his head back, sending him stumbling to the floor.

To give an enemy a moment's breath is a cardinal sin of battle. It was not a mistake Reynauld would make. He stepped forward and brought the heavy pommel down on the man's head twice more, knocking him into unconsciousness. For good measure, he rested the flat of his blade on the captain's neck; the slightest movement, and the man would lose his head before he knew what happened.

Had the captain been fully armed and armored, he might have stood a chance. As it was, facing Reynauld was a death sentence. If not for Lance's order, he would already have been beheaded.

Dismas, who had rushed in eager for a fight, could only watch as Reynauld reaped the glory. The room was too small, the captain already cornered.

"Patience," Lance placated him. "The night is long." He then walked over to the woman on the frame. "Come, help me."

The two of them untied the woman and moved her to a nearby bed. There was not a single patch of unbroken skin on her entire body, only a ruin of bloody lash marks and deep, blunt-force bruises.

"He is not a man, but a beast," Dismas cursed, seeing her injuries.

The woman looked at the men who had burst in, her face a mask of terror. Freed, her first instinct was to curl into a ball on the bed, trembling uncontrollably.

"Be calm. We are not here to harm you," Lance said, not wanting to waste too much time on her. He left her and walked over to the captain. The three of them worked together to haul the man up and strap him to the very wooden frame he had used for his torture. His own instruments now became his shackles.

Lance checked the man's wounds. The horsewhip had absorbed most of the force; the shoulder wound was not severe. As for his hand, it would heal.

Once the commotion had died down, Susan entered. Seeing the scene, she could not help but ask, "Why did you not kill him?"

"Don't you think a simple death would be too merciful for him?" Lance replied with a cold smile.

He would not only take the man's life, but crush his soul. He would use this scum's life to forge his own authority.

Susan fell silent. Though she did not understand, she chose to obey.

"Look after her," Lance said, leaving the tortured woman in Susan's care. He and Dismas then began to search the house.

They soon found what they were looking for: a suit of armor, a mace, and a shield. It was, without a doubt, the veteran's equipment.