Before his death, Guizam, bless him Pantheon, asked me for a note to be added to the book. It goes as follows:

“By now, I am a dead man. No matter the cause, but there is something of importance to reveal. While, on our way to the West Marshes, just south of the Anand’s Crown. I met a man of a few words. He spoke of the tremendous treasures left in the West Marshes when it bore a different name – Tollan’s Demise.”

“Beyond Yr”

The Final Note, Page 222 (removed from the current version)

Kuravel

Day 7

Bandits around Giliad lost their fighting spirit after the first few blows they didn’t even see. With a Royalblood’s strength, Giliad could’ve easily killed them with a single punch. He reined himself, although his patience ran low. They couldn’t answer his question about Tzin. They swore that she hadn’t come here.

Giliad wasn’t a pessimist but seeing the state of Soto and the appearance of the bandits, his thoughts projected a dark vision. If something happened to Tzin, he’d let loose.

One of the younger bandits had gone to fetch his boss. Giliad had no use of this mob here. They’d get their due, but first things first, it was time to get rid of Butcher.

“How can I help you?”

A man who walked out of the corner wasn’t a commoner. He stood taller than Giliad, with broad shoulders, and a typical Royalblood body that usually had little fat. He was shirtless, save for a dirty apron. While his body screamed of unnatural strength, his face didn’t look much different from the rest of the bandits. He was accompanied by a man in a black hat and clean outfit. An oddity amongst the bandits here.

“Where’s Tzin?”

“I do not know who that is.”

“Your subordinates have kidnapped her from Cape Town,” Giliad said, straining his patience. When was the last time he allowed his anger to go off unrestrained? He didn’t remember it so long ago it’d been.

“They are no longer Butcher’s subordinates,” the man in the black hat said, his voice cold. “They’re deserters. They’ve never returned here and you’re free to chase after them.”

“I will,” Giliad replied, his mind trying to process the revelation. “But first, it’s time to end your reign.”

He nodded at Butcher, who didn’t look pleased.

“Are you the bounty hunter from the Silent Fall?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Two revolvers appeared in the black hat’s hands. He fired them without a warning. The Royalbloods were inhumanely fast, but the bullets traveled with a speed that was beyond Giliad’s comprehension. The first bullet grazed his temple, unable to penetrate his skull, the second one lodged itself in his neck.

Giliad staggered shocked by the effect of just two bullets. In the empire, guns were restricted just to the military and mostly used to deal with commoners. Giliad had had very little experience with guns and their effect on a body.

Another two bullets got him in the chest. But Giliad had a Royalblood’s toughness and the revolvers caused barely any damage.

Butcher saw it.

“Aim at his eyes, Jon.”

Revolvers spat more bullets. Giliad covered his eyes with his hands, knowing that he blinded himself temporarily. Metal eagerly bit his hands’ flesh but couldn’t get through.

“Hack him, boys.”

“But that’s a Royalbood, boss,” someone replied between shots.

“Imagine the fame,” Butcher replied. “Being the ones who took down a Royalblood.”

Giliad didn’t understand the appeal. Such fame brought more troubles than it solved. Butcher wouldn’t be the first one to throw his fodder into jaws of death though.

The revolvers ran out of bullets, the bandits rushed at Giliad with their machetes raised high. They were inconsequential. The blades would likely cut his skin, but they lacked the strength to cut a Royalblood’s muscles.

Instead, Giliad lunged forward, the revolvers proved to be troublesome as the velocity of the bullets was beyond Giliad’s reflexes.

Jon was a commoner and couldn’t hope to dodge Giliad’s attack. In his place appeared Butcher, proving that his bulk made no difference to his agility. Giliad’s elbow met Butcher’s elbow. The energy of the impact would break a rock. Butcher didn’t smile but he looked far from worried. At the same time, Jon inserted the next rounds into the revolvers.

“You should’ve left when we offered you a chance, kid.”

Two Royalbloods struggled as they pressed each other. None of the gathered commoners comprehended the strengths involved.

“Not happening.”

Giliad jumped back, landing amid the bandits. Some scattered away from Giliad, others met his open palms, dropping unconscious. Giliad needed to focus on Butcher and the shooter. His current wounds were superficial and given a day, would close completely. He worried about Butcher’s earlier words. Being shot in the eyes might be too much to overcome while facing another Royalblood.

“Your reflexes put you far below the Fourth Strip. At that level, they can dodge the bullets. Your toughness places you above First Strip. In other words, you’ll go down, even if it takes a bit more time.”

Giliad didn’t see the revolver as the shooter stood behind Butcher and the shot went through Butcher’s vest. Luckily, it lacked a good aim and only grazed Giliad’s cheek.

“This is how the lowest ranks of the Imperial Royalblood army are dealt with. Guns,” Butcher sounded relaxed, almost happy. It seemed that his early worries had turned out unfounded. Butcher’s tone had an effect on his subordinates. They started to mutter, exchange terrible ways to kill Giliad, or snicker. Now that their fear was passing, Giliad sensed their dark intentions. He made his decision then, not only Butcher needed to be put down.

More shots rang, Giliad heard the revolvers and ducked into the group of bandits. He no longer reined himself. Panic exploded like a ripe fruit. All the bravado they’d acquired was dropped without a second thought. They were running away like rats.

Butcher and Jon stood watching this.

Those whom Giliad didn’t drop on the spot, were sent flying toward Butcher. He swatted them aside like flies.

“You enjoy beating weaker, aren’t you?” Butcher asked.

Giliad froze, bodies scattered around him.

“That’s what I thought. I’ve seen the likes of you. Young Royalbloods think they’re gods when they fight commoners. It makes them overestimate their strength when pitted against other Royalbloods. I don’t need to tell you that they don’t live long.”

Giliad ducked into the nearest ruin. Bullets mostly annoyed him but a few lodged themselves in his flesh. It wasn’t what bothered him though. To defeat Butcher he needed his fists, they weren’t in the best shape.

“You start getting it, aren’t you?” Butcher asked.

“For a bandit, you talk too much.”

The wall next to Giliad exploded, amid the debris, Butcher rose, towering over Giliad. The bandit’s fists were faster than Giliad expected and he only partially dodged the blows that could inflict serious damage.

Whatever stood in their way was smashed to pieces. Giliad focused on defense, hoping to rest his hands as much as possible before he was pushed to use them. Jon’s revolvers spat bullets whenever Giliad’s head appeared in the ruins. Twice his vision swam when bullets directly hit his temple.

Eventually, Giliad positioned himself between Butcher and the shooter. He needed to get rid of the threat of being blinded. Neither of the men could do anything as Giliad somersaulted over the rotten log wall and darted for the shooter.

Jon dropped the guns, but forty feet that divided them gave him time only to turn around. Giliad’s hand caught him in the side of the head, sending his body into a roll. Butcher roared, coming right behind Giliad.

“You’ll regret this,” he shouted as he dropped a blow on Giliad’s back.

The attack had the hate of a hundred people. It came down with a wild ferocity that pushed through Giliad’s defenses. It didn’t end there. The rain of fist dropped on Giliad with the intensity that threatened to overwhelm his resilient mind.

“You were right. It’s time to stop talking and start killing,” Butcher said as he straightened up, his fists were bloodied and for the first time in decades, he needed to catch a breath.

Giliad said nothing to that. He was trying to remain conscious.