NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 17
Henderson Scale 1.0 – Impossible to reach the ending due to a fatal derailment.
In every manor, there exists someone called “untouchable.”
This status can stem from various customs… or sheer实力.
At the edge of the manor, a lone man groaned. Clutching his abdomen and pressing against it to prevent his innards from spilling out, he knew what awaited him if they touched the ground.
He had seen it countless times before—in battlefields, mountains, and roads.
But never had he imagined seeing it from this side. This was the scene he witnessed when his enemies, women, children, and merchants—the prey they “reaped”—faced their doom.
It was never supposed to be his fate. As a leader commanding thirty bandits, he never thought he would end up like this.
Try as he might, he couldn’t recall how it had all gone so wrong. Because everything had seemed perfectly normal.
His preparation had been flawless. He sent scouts to investigate the schedules of the deputies and lords’ patrols, avoiding them while disguising themselves as travelers to confirm the absence of soldiers in the village. They meticulously stayed for days, gathering information down to the exact hours guards were stationed and rotated in the watchtowers.
Then, on the eve before the Day of Rest—the one night when the manor dwellers would rest lazily—fortune smiled upon them with heavy clouds obscuring the moon.
Where was the flaw?
The local militia was never more than ten men if assembled entirely, armed to a maximum of thirty. The odds were overwhelmingly in favor of a surprise attack. After invading the homes of militia members first or setting fires, they could enjoy their soft, easy prey for days before cleaning up and leaving quietly.
Following this routine, he had successfully plundered villages and manors across neighboring countries for seven years. Even in the land of the Threefold Empire of Rain, where patrols were frequent and seasoned to make others tremble, he managed to thrive as a bandit for a year.
There had been no room for error this time, none at all.
But here he was.
When he saw the signal—two torches waved in succession—he broke cover. He leaped over the low stone wall surrounding the manor’s residential area with renewed vigor, all according to plan.
And then it happened. A torrent of arrows rained down.
Falling from above like a storm, the countless arrows swept horizontally. His men, complacent with the prospect of plunder, were cut down or severely wounded in an instant. Despite being equipped with stolen plate armor and at least padded vests, their defenses were utterly ineffective against the powerful bows firing at close range.
Next came a single sword, wielding the force of a typhoon.
Under the flickering torches carried by his men, the sword danced with incomprehensible speed, leaving trails of light as it severed fingers, tendons, thighs, and limbs, effortlessly cutting through what should have been formidable armor. One moment, his men stood ready; the next, they lay defeated in what could only be described as the blink of an eye.
Even their fearless leader, skilled in combat, was near death from a single stroke that slashed through the gap between his chestplate and cuirass.
Crawling on the ground, pressing against his wound, the man tried to flee despite the overwhelming blood loss. No matter how far he escaped, he knew his life as a bandit was over.
Still, he did not want to die. Though he had killed countless times, he had never entertained the thought of being killed himself. The idea of becoming a victim had never crossed his mind.
But reality was harsh.
Something soft bumped against his nose. It smelled of oil and took time to realize—it was the tip of a boot.
By sheer coincidence, the clouds that had loomed heavily over the crescent moon were swept away by a wind, allowing moonlight to reveal the presence of a boot. And the man wearing it.
“Aa… aaaa…”
Looking up, he found himself face-to-face with a swordsman.
The man was clad in light leather armor, wearing a helmet with a largely open front for maximum visibility, holding a sword that appeared unremarkable. However, even bathed in the moon’s backlit glow, his striking blue eyes gleamed with icy determination.
“You’re the leader, aren’t you? No need to answer; your armor speaks for you.”
The cold, cutting words penetrated deep into the man’s now shattered psyche—not just the leader’s, but of the man who had lost everything and was now reduced to nothing more than a lone thief.
As consciousness faded, and the reality of his imminent death dawned on him, the sword’s tip was pressed beneath his chin, forcing his gaze upward.
The steely gaze pierced through him, and against all reason, the words he had heard countless times and now unconsciously blurted out rose instinctively:
“T-Tas… tasukete… ko… korosan…. de…. tanomo…!”
A pitiful plea for his life, mixed with sobs, elicited a grimace from the swordsman, who appeared to have bitten into something bitter and unpleasant. It was as if the man’s very existence before him was bitter poison.
“That’s quite a luxurious request. Did you think such a thing would stop your blade?”
The words stung as the thief reflected on his past; never once had such pleas halted his own blade.
However, the swordsman’s sword wasn’t thrust without mercy. It was gently withdrawn and sheathed with delicate care.
“But I have no intention of stooping to the same level as you. Rest assured, not all your men are dead.”
The cold yet somehow sweet words tempted a smirk from the man, who thought surely, with such leniency, there would be ways to turn the situation around.
“Rather, consider yourself damned not to die here, you scoundrel.”
Before he could think too deeply on his plan, his consciousness was snuffed out by a ruthless blow to his temple, dealt by the swordsman’s boot, without a moment’s hesitation.
—
I helped the bandit I kicked up rise to his feet, wrapping his belly in cloth to prevent his intestines from spilling, not out of any misplaced compassion or belief that he’d turn to the side of good.
No, simply because it’s more convenient to keep him alive.
“Yeah, well done,” said a voice behind me, turning me around to face Lambert, who despite his age—since “I turned 20″—was as active as ever, striking admiration.
“Damn, you’ve become a scary guy too, huh?”
And the evaluation coming from him—somebody I deeply respected—”scariness,” intrigued me.
“Twenty men in the blink of an eye?”
“Speak better of me.”
Holding torches and looking at the fallen bandits, Lambert grimaced, prompting me to instinctively share the expression.
“I haven’t killed anyone!”
And it was true, tonight I hadn’t taken a single life.
“That’s why you’re all the more fearsome,” Lambert sighed, spreading his arms to indicate the incapacitated men.
“Even amidst confusion, the battle-savvy bandits’ thumbs and tendons are no easy targets. Even I wouldn’t want to do it.”
I understood well enough; if he could avoid such tactics, it meant he was capable of it.
And so what? Capturing bandits alive fetches a higher bounty.
Smiling, I stated this fact, though Lambert scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. What could he possibly be hesitant about? Any creature planning to wreck havoc in the manor was bound to end up this way.
Their scouting was too sloppy. The weapons they carried were far too warlike for mere travelers. Empire speakers, they spoke with unfamiliar intonations that didn’t match their claimed roles.
And then there was the blatant ogling of the womenfolk, concerning themselves with which homes they belonged to. Such behavior was amateurish at best.
It was as if they had banners declaring their intentions waving above them in plain sight.
More than likely, they had become too complacent due to their previous successes. Careful and hard to counter strategies were only good until they slipped up.
And seducing a married man before a job? What were they thinking?
Caught on suspicion, I immediately lost my temper and “talked” to them. Confirming their intentions, I prepared their “thanks” promptly.
And thus, as shown, everything went smoothly. No casualties on the manor side, and substantial temporary income to boot.
“Truly, it was your misfortune that you remained as a reserve militiaman,” Lambert remarked.
“And suggesting I try going solo, are you now?” I replied sarcastically to his goading.
Ah, yes. In the end, I remained in the manor.
Despite my grand plans to become an adventurer, preparing extensively, it all boiled down to the outcome of a rather complicated “getting along.”
“For the princess’s rest, Margit must be waiting,” her father might have said.
As a registered reserve militiaman and a professional hunter, I now reside at Margit’s home, having married into the family.
The reason is not convoluted. After a bit of “bonding,” the result followed…
“Father is so energetic the princess can’t sleep,” Margit sighed, still retaining her charming innocence at 22, holding a young girl resembling her own sister. A little girl possessing Margit’s same graceful arachnid-like limbs and her lovely blonde hair and kitten-blue eyes.
Yes, humans are indeed curious. But it’s not my fault! She initiated it!
So, amidst various circumstances, I stayed—pleasing my parents while leaving them somewhat dumbfounded, and with my brother giving an extremely awkward expression—but I live a happy life. And even with these occasional troubles, things aren’t so bad.
Though disconnected from adventure, every day brings surprises. My six-year-old daughter looks nothing like me, and watching her grow brings me great joy.
I truly understand now the feeling of parenthood. Her presence, although unexpected, is undeniably a symbol of happiness for me.
Now isn’t the time to disrupt my daughter’s and wife’s mood with antics. For some reason, my daughter can’t sleep unless I’m in her bed.
Without “drenched in blood,” I shall quickly return to bed to placate her…
—
Killing outright is sometimes far more merciful, the man thought—or rather, the man who had risen again as the leader of bandits, was shaken.
Or perhaps, “risen again,” was the wrong term.
The deafening chants, overlapping cries of the same desperate calls—already indistinguishable beyond cacophony—reverberated through the ears.
But their meaning was clear: the audience, composed of men, women, and everything in between, young and old, city dwellers, they all roared together.
“Kill!!!”
The leader, and the bandits he had led to their violent end, awaited their gruesome fate in the unknown major city of the Threefold Empire.
Treated minimally, they were dragged to this alien place, clueless about their location.
Here the villagers had meticulously “prepared” them as exhibits. Both arms and legs had been severed at the tendons to ensure they could never trouble again.
Initially, they were paraded in the town square’s cages, tormented with stones, filth, and rotten food. Despite their predicament, they still resisted.
For they still viewed the jeering villagers as their past hunting grounds.
That perception changed on the third day.
Several members of the crew were yanked out of the cages and publicly tortured to death.
Three of the youngest, one of whom hadn’t even taken part in the initial attack, were dragged before the crowd and chained to high poles in the square. The city provided hand-sized stones to all, encouraging even gentle underhand throws.
Instead of swift deaths from full force throws, the victims endured prolonged agony, as weaker throws inflicted pain but delayed death. The accumulated damage stretched on for what felt like an eternity.
Day after day of similar brutalities unfolded. The crew watched as one by one faced these drawn-out, inhumane deaths, and their minds filled with dread.
The last straw was a young man, who had never killed in their first raid, enduring slow death after being roasted alive—mockingly compared to sacrificial lambs by the crowd.
Finally, it was the leader’s turn. His neck bound tightly with a coarse rope.
At first, he felt relieved. Hanging, despite the duration, seemed merciful compared to what his men had endured.
The executioner didn’t miss the look of relief.
“Ho, do you relish the rope, scoundrel? But I’m not as gentle as these citizens,” the hooded executioner said, kicking him down and driving him toward the river running through the city center—a grand, ornamented bridge above reflecting its iconic status.
He was led through the spectacle, strung along the railing, dangled like a fishing lure—or like a bobber signaling a catch.
In the middle of the river, a platform was constructed—adjustable so that the water would reach only the waist when the condemned stood on it. Strung by a rope to the railing, he was placed here.
The leader initially struggled to comprehend the symbolism.
But soon it became clear.
Exhausted but unable to sit, unable to sleep, even drifting to unconsciousness would bring a painful awakening with water rushing in. He couldn’t even escape by drowning voluntarily. The agony of trying kept him from release, only to cling to life and be mocked by passing citizens.
Thus, the penal code of the Threefold Empire of Rain, kept a “sealed code,” hidden from the common folk to prevent hasty descent into crime. The preface to the code bore these words: “Let one punishment be a caution to a hundred offenses.”
Upholding the principles of simplicity, robustness, and reliability, the Threefold Empire acted consistently. As a father uses a sword to defend his family, this too was an accepted scene in their world.
Just as the sands of the beach are endless, the seeds of wickedness persist. Yet, nipping them in the bud is possible…
—
The need for these demonstrations exists globally as a necessary evil.
And here concludes the first fatal derailment.
It appears that during the encampment, some “bonding” had occurred.