Strike First...?

Karl moved.

In his view, since the disguise had been torn away, the undisguised coldness in Klein's eyes was the signal to start the battle.

In that case, the first to strike gains the advantage; the last to strike suffers the consequences.

Even if he was no match for that woman, in just an instant, as long as he could seize this seemingly harmless alchemist as a hostage, he had a chance to turn the tables!

Mana surged like boiling lava, pouring down his arm and into his longsword, causing ominous dark red patterns to light up along the blade.

The air was torn apart, letting out a sharp, piercing whistle like a ghost's cry.

Draw the sword, pierce the throat.

Karl swore this was the fastest, most ruthless, and most desperate strike of his life.

The tip of his sword pointed directly at Klein's throat, moving so quickly that even the trajectory of the mana flow turned into a blood-colored afterimage.

However, at the very moment he thought he was about to succeed, Klein's eyes remained as calm as water, and a nearly imperceptible curve even tugged at the corner of his mouth.

A barrier composed of pure light elements, as thin as a cicada's wing, condensed out of thin air in front of Klein.

"Clink!"

A crisp sound rang out, as faint as the cracking of ice.

Karl's sword tip was half a foot from the light screen, yet it could no longer advance an inch.

In the next instant, he only felt a chill in his right shoulder, and then his vision captured a sight he would never forget for the rest of his life—his arm, which had been tightly gripping the longsword, was severed cleanly from the shoulder.

Accompanied by a fountain of gushing blood, it traced a desperate arc in the air before finally landing on the floor with a "thud."

Until this moment, the intense pain hadn't even had time to transmit through his nerves to his brain.

His thoughts were still stuck at the moment he had swung his sword with all his might, but his body had already betrayed him.

The warm, viscous liquid sprayed out, painting a striking and gaudy red graffiti on the mottled walls of the hallway.

Only then did he see that Ophelia was already standing in front of him, as if she had been there all along.

It was her who had struck—he hadn't even been able to capture her movement of drawing her sword. He only saw her right hand gripping that knightly longsword, and on the sharp blade, a single drop of blood was slowly sliding down, finally dripping onto the cold stone floor and blooming into a small blood flower.

Her expression hadn't changed at all. Those eyes, as brilliant as gold, stared calmly at Karl, as if looking at a beast that had fallen into a trap and was struggling without realizing it.

"You..." Karl's voice was filled with pain and unbelievable horror.

He stiffly lowered his head, looking at the severed arm on the floor, then suddenly looked up at Ophelia.

"How... is this possible..."

His words could not be finished because the delayed, soul-tearing pain finally swept through his brain like a tidal wave.

"Aaaaaaah—!"

A shrill scream echoed throughout the corridor. Karl could no longer support himself and collapsed heavily onto one knee, his left hand desperately pressing against the stump of his right shoulder.

Morris was scared out of his wits. He scrambled back several steps, his entire back pressed tightly against the cold wall. His face was as pale as paper, and his legs shook like chaff, nearly causing him to slump to the ground.

Klein sighed helplessly, though his heart felt otherwise.

The light screen he had just prepared wasn't a simple defensive spell; if Karl had actually hit it, he would have been the one to suffer.

But Ophelia's reaction speed had far exceeded his expectations.

However... the smile at the corner of Klein's mouth deepened.

Although he could have handled this situation himself, who would dislike having a wife who was so domineering and determined to shield him behind her?

He looked at Ophelia, his eyes full of appreciation and a smile.

Ophelia also happened to turn her head, meeting Klein's gaze.

Deep within her golden eyes, a touch of softness rippled outward.

She even blinked rapidly, as if confirming that he was unharmed.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice as steady as ever, but carrying a concern that only Klein could understand.

"I'm fine." Klein shook his head with a smile, his voice warm. "How could anything happen to me with you here? Thank you, my Knightess."

Ophelia's ears seemed to flush with a faint hint of red, but she merely nodded slightly, withdrew her longsword, and stood back by Klein's side, assuming a perfect defensive posture.

Karl knelt on the ground, blood gurgling out from between his fingers, staining his expensive military uniform even darker.

He looked up, the fear and despair in his eyes almost overflowing.

"You... you really are Ophelia..." His voice trembled uncontrollably due to blood loss and intense pain.

Ophelia did not answer.

Klein walked over to Karl and slowly crouched down, his gaze level with him.

"Alright, I think we can have a proper talk now."

Karl looked up, the pain on his face being replaced by a kind of reckless abandon.

Like a prisoner who knew he was doomed, he had instead broken free from the shackles of survival.

He bared his teeth, revealing a twisted smile mixed with blood and saliva.

"Talk?" His voice was as raspy as sandpaper. "What is there to talk about between me and the two of you, the murderers who killed my brother?"

Klein shook his head, a hint of pity in his eyes.

"Your brother was a bandit. He died because of his own choices. He got what he deserved."

"Got what he deserved?" Karl's voice suddenly rose, sounding like a maddened tiger. "He just wanted our Vincent family to live a good life again! He only pillaged those merchant caravans who were full of money! He wouldn't take lives! It wasn't a crime punishable by death! Why did he have to pay with his life!"

Klein was moved to laughter by this bandit logic.

"Just pillaging merchant caravans?" He slowly stood up, looking down at Karl with a gaze as sharp as a blade. "Karl Vincent... is it? Then let me ask you, in all these years your brother has been a bandit, has he truly... never taken a single life?"

Karl was stunned by the question.

Klein turned his head, his gaze falling on Morris in the corner.

Morris trembled all over. He looked at Karl, who was kneeling on the ground and gasping for breath, and then at Klein, whose gaze was calm but carried an indisputable power. It was as if that gaze had injected a surge of strength into him.

He took a deep breath and clenched his fists.

"Speak up. You didn't follow us just to watch, did you?" Klein's voice was calm, yet it carried a ripple that seemed to soothe the heart.

Morris swallowed and finally spoke. His voice was shaky at first, but it quickly became clear and firm.

"Three years ago, just after the Autumn Harvest Festival, Vincent's bandit gang pillaged a silk caravan from the south. All twelve guards, who were veterans, were killed. The caravan owner was a middle-aged man named Andrew. He knelt and handed over all his property, only begging for his life, but his legs were still hacked off on the spot. He was left on the roadside wailing for a day and a night before he died."

Karl's face turned a shade whiter.

"Two years ago, during the winter moon, Vincent's bandit gang pillaged a caravan transporting relief grain. All seven guards were killed. The caravan owner was named Tom, a good man who was hacked to death on the spot because he refused to hand over the grain meant for the starving people. His wife and daughter, who had just turned fifteen..." Morris's voice paused, a flash of unbearable pain in his eyes. "The next day, people found their bodies in the woods."

Karl's face grew even whiter, and his body began to tremble uncontrollably.

"One year ago, during the spring season, Vincent's bandit gang pillaged a caravan transporting cloth. All five guards were killed. The caravan owner was Peter, an honest businessman who went bankrupt and fell into massive debt because of that raid. Half a month later, he hung himself in his own shop. His wife and children were sold by creditors, and their whereabouts remain unknown to this day."

Morris's voice grew lower, but every word was like a heavy hammer, striking hard against the hearts of everyone in the hallway.

"Six months ago, in midsummer, Vincent's bandit gang pillaged a caravan carrying emergency medicinal herbs. All eight guards were killed. The caravan owner..."

"Enough!" Karl let out a beast-like roar, interrupting Morris.

He knelt on the ground. The intense pain from his severed arm, intertwined with the storm surging in his heart, made him nearly faint.

His face was as pale as a dead man's, and his forehead was covered in beads of cold sweat.

"Enough..." His voice was as faint as a mosquito. "I know..."

Klein crouched down again, his eyes as calm as a bottomless cold pool, reflecting Karl's miserable face.

"You know?" his voice was light, yet carried a bone-chilling coldness. "What do you know?"

Karl didn't speak. He just hung his head, his breathing rapid like a dying animal.

"Do you know your brother was a murderous demon with the blood of innocents on his hands?" Klein's voice was unhurried. "Or do you know that you have been using your military uniform to protect an executioner who slaughtered civilians?"

Karl's body trembled violently.

"Or perhaps..." Klein paused, spitting out the most cruel assumption. "You actually... knew all along, didn't you?"

"You deserve to die... Vincent."

The hallway was terrifyingly quiet, leaving only Karl's heavy and chaotic breathing.

Blood was still seeping from the severed arm. Drip, drip. It was like a funeral knell for those departed souls.

"No..."

Karl's voice was raspy, carrying a madness suppressed to the extreme.

"You have no right to do this."

He suddenly looked up, his eyes bloodshot and filled with spite and resentment.

"Whether it's killing my brother or judging me, this does not conform to the laws of the Empire!" His voice grew higher and higher, as if this could bolster his courage. "I am the Vice Commander of the Empire's Patrol Division Third Battalion! I am a soldier of the Empire! What right do you have to judge me? What right did you have to kill my brother? This is a lynching!"

Klein stood there and did not speak.

He merely watched Karl's final performance, his eyes terrifyingly calm.

"The laws of the Empire?" A raspy and mocking voice came from the side.

It was Morris.

Karl turned his head, staring hard at the magistrate he had never respected.

"Shut up! You coward!"

"Shut up?" Morris's voice wasn't loud, but it was like a red-hot steel needle, ruthlessly piercing the last line of defense Karl had woven with madness.

Instead of shutting up, he straightened his long-hunched back and walked toward Karl, step by step.

Those eyes, which had always been evasive and uneasy, were now burning with a raging fire, locking onto the kneeling Vice Commander.

Morris stopped two paces in front of Karl, looking at him with an unprecedented, condescending gaze of scrutiny.

It was the gaze of a true law enforcer scrutinizing a criminal.

"Karl Vincent, after all this, you actually have the face to... talk to me about the law?" Morris's voice was very calm, filled with intense self-mockery and sorrow.

"Vice Commander of the Empire's Patrol Division Third Battalion, what a grand title." He shook his head, reaching out a trembling hand to point at the corner of Karl's blood-soaked uniform. "You put on this skin so you could catch bandits and protect the citizens of the Empire! Not so you could be a protective umbrella for that piece of trash brother of yours and clean up after him!"

Karl snapped his head up, his bloodshot eyes filled with shock and absurdity. He had never imagined that this magistrate, who had always bowed and scraped to him, would dare to speak to him in such a tone.

"You..."

"I what?" Morris interrupted him, his voice suddenly rising like an erupting volcano that had been suppressed for too long. "Imperial Code Volume 3, Article 71, states it clearly! Harboring a relative who has committed a major crime and failing to report it is treated as being an accomplice, with an increased penalty! Your brother killed so many people and destroyed so many innocent families; you are the accomplice! You are the executioner who stood behind him and handed him the butcher's knife!"

Every word seemed to be forced through his teeth, filled with blood and tears.

"What face do you have, what right do you have, to stand here and talk to me about the damn law?!"

Morris's chest heaved violently. The frustration, fear, and shame of being suppressed by Karl and condemned by his own conscience for all these years erupted as a wave of towering rage in this moment. He pressed forward, his spit nearly hitting Karl's face.

Karl was completely stunned. He stood with his mouth open, a gasping sound coming from his throat, but he couldn't utter a single word of rebuttal. Those laws, those charges—he knew them better than anyone.

"You have defiled this uniform!" Morris pointed at his nose, his voice raspy with emotion. "You, and that murderer brother of yours, you are both maggots of the Empire! You are the shame of the Vincent family! You are the scum of humanity!"

By the end, Morris's expression became incredibly pained. He pointed at himself as if judging himself as well:

"And that includes me! I am also a complicit criminal who went along with the filth! Because of your power, I could only watch evil happen, unable to resist, eventually becoming the kind of person I most loathed and looked down upon in my youth!"

"We all deserve to die!"

"Gah—"

This heart-piercing statement became the last straw that broke the camel's back.

Karl could no longer hold on. It wasn't a mouthful of blood, but a surge of turbid air mixed with gastric juice and despair that violently erupted from his throat.

His gaze instantly became vacant. The madness, spite, and resentment in his eyes all receded like a low tide, leaving only endless void and silence.

His entire being slumped to the ground like a pile of mud, all his arrogance gone. Only the blood still flowing from his severed arm silently recounted the sinful lives of him and his brother.