"You'll find out soon enough!"
Facing Tulls' sharp questioning, a cold glint flashed deep within John's eyes. One hand gripped tightly onto the Divine Serpent Sword, while the other clutched the iron hammer that had transformed into an unassuming longsword.
Seeing how confident John appeared, and noticing that despite the fierce battle just now, no members of the City Lord's Guard had shown up, Tulls felt a sudden, uneasy jolt in his heart. Realizing that waiting any longer would only put him at a greater disadvantage, he decisively sprang forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, swinging his massive battle-axe down in a devastating arc.
But at that very moment—
John casually swung the seemingly ordinary longsword through the air.
Tulls hadn't even had time to register what was happening when a violent, churning pain exploded in his abdomen. Instinctively, he clutched his stomach tightly and squeezed his buttocks together in reflexive panic.
In that brief, chaotic instant, John seized the opportunity.
The Divine Serpent Sword transformed into a golden streak of light, piercing Tulls' seemingly indestructible body and ruthlessly shredding his heart to pieces!
Tulls' eyes widened in disbelief as the strength rapidly drained from his body. He staggered backward, then collapsed heavily onto the ground, utterly defeated.
Among high-level Awakeners, the line between life and death could be decided in the blink of an eye. A single mistake, a single opening—that was all it took!
"W-What sword art... did you use?"
In his final moments of fading consciousness, Tulls croaked out the question, blood bubbling at the corners of his lips.
Throughout his many years wandering the continent, Tulls had encountered countless rare Awakeners and seen all manner of bizarre, unimaginable skills. Yet he had never once seen a sword art that could suddenly cause uncontrollable diarrhea in the middle of a battle.
It was sinister beyond belief!
John glanced at him indifferently and replied, "If you've never seen it before, that's only natural. You can call it the Absolute Diarrhea Sword Art. It doesn't deal much damage. At best, it's a control-type sword art skill."
His voice was calm and detached, as if offering a final mercy—allowing Tulls to die without lingering questions.
As Tulls closed his eyes for the last time, John stepped forward and, with a clean swing of his sword, severed the man's head from his body.
A torrent of blood gushed forth, staining the ground scarlet and filling the night air with a chilling stench of death and slaughter.
—
Whitespire, late at night.
The current ruler of Whitespire, the city's mighty Lord, Oneal, jolted awake from a terrifying nightmare.
His back was soaked in cold sweat, his breathing ragged and uneven.
He didn't know why tonight, of all nights, he had dreamt of those who had died by his own hand.
In the dream, dismembered corpses merged into a blood-colored tide that surged toward him, trapping him, drowning him in an endless sea of limbs and curses.
Shrill, venomous voices echoed in his ears, making his bloodshot eyes bulge in terror. He could scarcely breathe, overwhelmed by a suffocating sense of dread.
"Huuh—"
Oneal exhaled heavily, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. He activated the opulent Moonstone Lamp in his chamber.
At once, the darkness receded, replaced by a gentle white light that bathed the room as bright as day.
And then his pupils contracted sharply.
There, standing silently in his room, was a lone figure.
Before that figure lay three severed, blood-dripping heads.
Harry!
The Red-Furred Ape!
Tulls!
Recognizing them, Oneal's mind exploded in shock; it was as if his very soul had been wrenched apart.
They were his trusted henchmen!
Especially Tulls—his most crucial source of strength, his pillar of support!
"I'm not ready to die yet!"
The desperate thought screamed through Oneal's mind.
"You... who are you?" he stammered, his voice trembling uncontrollably.
"I'm the Lord of Whitespire under the Macedonian Kingdom! If you dare harm me, it will be tantamount to declaring war against the Kingdom itself! No matter where you run, there will be no place for you to hide!"
Even as the desperate threats tumbled out of his mouth, John merely shook his head slightly.
In the next instant, a flash of swordlight flickered through the room.
A jet of blood sprayed into the air.
Darkness once again swallowed the chamber whole.
John hadn't killed him in his sleep—he had at least allowed Oneal the courtesy of seeing the new, unforgiving world he was ushering in. That, in John's mind, was already a great mercy.
—
Not long after,
Carrying the four bloodied heads wrapped in tattered cloth, John arrived at Whitespire's bustling commercial district.
He stepped into the bright, lively interior of the Bathing Club.
"Good evening, sir. Are you looking to rent a private suite tonight?"
A smiling receptionist greeted him warmly.
Glancing around to make sure no one else was nearby, John knocked lightly on the counter and spoke in a low voice,
"I'm here to submit a task."
The receptionist's eyes narrowed slightly, then she nodded.
"This way, please."
She led him up to the second floor into a secluded room.
There, she opened the bundle John handed her—and found herself staring at several fresh, severed heads.
Yet the receptionist remained utterly composed, unfazed by the grisly sight.
Instead, she studied the heads intently, faintly stirring elemental energy to verify their authenticity.
"Harry, the Red-Furred Ape..." she murmured.
Her gaze paused on the ape's severed head, brows knitting slightly.
"This head... it's a bit strange, isn't it?"
John responded calmly, "It's the Red-Furred Ape's head. That's all you need to know."
The woman scrutinized him for a moment, then smiled faintly.
"If it's your secret, you're not obligated to explain."
She then picked up Oneal's head, examining it with interest.
"Do you know who this is?" she asked.
"Whitespire's City Lord. Is there a problem?" John replied, utterly indifferent.
The receptionist's expression shifted slightly.
There was a glimmer of awe in her eyes as she studied the young man before her.
The bounty on Whitespire's City Lord had been posted for a long time.
Though Oneal was only a Bronze Rank Awakener and not particularly powerful, his official status as City Lord had made most people wary of laying a hand on him.
Even though Oneal had committed countless atrocities, fear of political backlash kept everyone at bay.
Yet this young man had casually delivered his head without the slightest sign of hesitation or fear.
Was it youthful recklessness—or terrifying confidence?
The receptionist moved on to inspect the fourth head.
This time, her playful smile faded, replaced by genuine solemnity.
Tulls.
A Platinum Rank combat-class Awakener, renowned throughout Whitespire.
He had been Oneal's greatest trump card!
And now, he was dead.
Killed by the very young man standing before her, who appeared to be merely Silver Rank himself!
"You killed Tulls?" she asked, unable to suppress her shock.
After all, the gap between Silver Rank and Platinum Rank was enormous, almost insurmountable.
John didn't answer directly.
Instead, he countered calmly, "Can I at least trade this head in for some silver coins?"
"Of course you can," the receptionist said with a smile.
"A thousand silver coins. This bounty has been up for a long time.
Forget completing the task—no one even dared accept it!"
Hearing that, John nodded in satisfaction.
Previously, he and Barton's group had looted the City Lord's Guard, obtaining a considerable haul of silver notes.
John had distributed a generous portion among Barton and the others—after all, their guidance had been crucial to the operation's success.
Naturally, he kept a substantial amount for himself as well.
And now, adding this bounty reward to the pile, he could split half with Monica while keeping the rest for his own use.
"Pack the bounty up for me," he said.
"I'm in a hurry."