The warhorse grew restless and uneasy, tossing its head, becoming even more agitated.

The knight looked around at the dense forest, searching for traces of trampling and destruction, and slowly began to retrace his steps.

“Why aren’t you chasing anymore?”

Someone asked behind the knight.

The knight’s hair stood on end. He shouted angrily, spun around with his blade raised, and slashed.

But behind him, there was nothing.

The knight’s breathing grew heavier, a chill running down his back.

Suddenly, the knight felt warmth and dampness on his fingers.

He looked at his hand—his weapon hand was covered in crimson.

He looked up and met a pair of eyes.

Grace Foster’s face was twisted with ferocity. He stood on a tree trunk, head lowered, glaring down at the knight below him with anger and violence.

The next moment, he leapt down, throwing himself onto the knight. With great strength, the two of them crashed to the ground together.

The knight’s heavy armor pinned him to the ground. Grace Foster lay on top of him, one hand pressing down on the knight’s neck, the other raising his dagger and stabbing it straight into the knight’s smiling eye.

The knight screamed in agony, his fists pounding against Grace Foster.

Grace Foster went berserk, stabbing wildly. The dagger left several marks on the mask, making a harsh scraping sound. With each stab, blood mixed with various unknown colored fluids seeped out from the knight’s mask.

At last, the knight stopped moving. Grace Foster struggled to tear off his mask.

It was a rather young, half-grown boy, about the same age as Grace Foster. Tears and blood mingled on half his face; his right eye was filled with terror, while his left eye had been destroyed.

Grace Foster slit his throat in one swift motion. Blood spurted out, instantly turning Grace Foster’s face bright red, as if he were a man made of blood.

Grace Foster picked up the knight’s ring-pommel saber, stood up again, and looked at the warhorse nearby.

With a mournful whinny, the warhorse dragged its heavy body and crashed to the ground.

Gritting his teeth, Grace Foster cut open his own clothes and tied up his left arm to stop the bleeding. Then, staggering, he walked out of the dense forest.

On the road outside the forest, the warhorse hung its head, nudging its master with its nose again and again.

Its master lay on the ground, the fishing spear standing upright.

When it spotted Grace Foster at the edge of the forest, it began to snort angrily again and charged at Grace Foster.

The ring-pommel saber whistled through the air. The warhorse’s front leg was chopped off, and it crashed heavily into a ravine, spewing thick mist. Reflected in its eyes, the cold ring-pommel saber was raised high.

“Puchi~~”

A crow landed elegantly on a jujube tree as sharp as a spike, preening its feathers.

Beneath the jujube tree, Grace Foster was struggling to remove the heavy armor. Gritting his teeth, he trembled as he hoisted the armor onto his shoulders, his legs shaking.

Step by step, he walked toward the forest, leaving a bloody stain on the ground with every step.

He repeated this several times, and the sky gradually darkened.

At last, Grace Foster hoisted the corpse onto his back and walked into the forest again.

Now it was the turn of the stripped warhorse.

Grace Foster tried several times—pushing, pulling—but the warhorse didn’t budge, its cold eyes fixed on Grace Foster.

Grace Foster gave up. He stood up and looked at the ring-pommel saber in his hand.

The crow flapped its wings excitedly and flew away.

Grace Foster collapsed beside the trap.

Around him were pieces of armor, and fragments of human and animal corpses.

He slowly closed his eyes and breathed steadily.

On one side were hollow eyes; on the other, a severed horse’s head. Both stared calmly at the murderer before them.

Grace Foster rose from the mud, laboriously pushing everything into the trap, which was now full.

That young face stared at him. After a moment’s thought, Grace Foster stuffed the fish from his basket into the boy’s mouth.

He glanced around warily, then quickly left.

Back on the road, Grace Foster began to cover up the blood and traces of battle once more...

From the wild boar forest onward, there was a small stream and a crude bridge made of piled stones.

Grace Foster stepped into the stream and carefully washed himself. The clear water turned murky.

Grace Foster looked at the water’s surface; his reflection wavered strangely.

He didn’t cross the bridge, but instead followed the stream westward.

He walked for a long, long time, until at last he saw a few blurry figures. As he got closer, their faces became clearer.

“Brother Taozi!!”

Brian Bolton hurried forward, looking Grace Foster up and down, and breathed a sigh of relief. “As long as you’re alright. We thought…”

“Brother Taozi, how did you get out? My mother always says, if you run into those masked knights, you have to run, or they’ll eat you…”

“Brother Taozi…”

Everyone chattered noisily.

“What happened today must not be told to anyone. Otherwise, those knights will come after us and eat us.”

“Then if my mother asks why I came home today, what should I say?”

“Just say the fish weren’t clean, so you didn’t dare eat them. Don’t mention anything about knights.”