Henry Brooks didn’t expect this guy to be so ruthless even to himself—succeed or die trying. How could he let the other get his way? He quickly rolled out from under the bed and kicked the dagger away. The opponent’s wrist was dislocated by the kick, rendering it useless.

In the next moment, Henry Brooks grabbed the man’s jaw and, with a slight twist, dislocated it. Then, taking advantage of the momentum, he struck the other, still-intact arm, dislocating it as well.

All of this happened in a flash, the movements as smooth as flowing water.

As an elite warrior, Henry Brooks was no stranger to dealing with assassins. He knew such people were ruthless to their targets and equally ruthless to themselves. Poison hidden in the teeth was standard, and suicide methods were endless. Though their legs were crippled, he had to disable their hands and jaw as well to keep them alive.

After succeeding, Henry Brooks stood up, his sharp gaze locking onto the door. Two people were charging in, one after the other. Clearly, they already knew their comrade had failed and were coming to finish the job. The first rushed in like a starving wolf, not bothering to defend, a knife aimed straight at Henry Brooks’s neck—a fight to the death.

The other lagged a step behind, close enough not to hinder the first but ready to strike if needed. Their coordination was uncanny.

Anyone else facing such a combined attack would surely retreat to avoid the brunt, but Henry Brooks believed in offense as the best defense. He leaned back slightly to dodge the stabbing dagger, and almost simultaneously, lashed out with a straight kick—swift, hidden, and vicious like a viper striking.

The assailant was kicked flying, passing out before he could even scream, crashing into his companion and tumbling to the ground together.

In that life-or-death moment, the power Henry Brooks unleashed was terrifying. With a burst of speed, he dashed forward, kicked the dagger from the other’s hand, and his sword flashed like lightning toward the man’s neck.

“Pshh!”

The sharp sword tore open the man’s throat. He clutched it, eyes wide in disbelief, making a strange gurgling sound, as if unwillingly asking something.

Henry Brooks snorted coldly. Two live captives were enough!

He found some rope and tied up the unconscious assailant, then looked at the first one who had entered. The man’s forehead was drenched in cold sweat from pain, but he didn’t make a sound, staring hard at Henry Brooks and weakly saying, “Kid, you’d better let us go. Let’s pretend tonight never happened. I promise no one will come after you again. Otherwise, it’s a fight to the death.”

“You’re already in my hands. How are you going to fight to the death?”

“You’ll find out.”

Henry Brooks looked him over curiously and pressed, “I’ve heard that if an assassin fails and is released, they’ll give up the mission and never try again. For you to say this, there’s only one explanation: you’re assassins. But I think you’re just trying to cover up the truth. Your real identity is that of a deathsworn. So, tell me, who sent you?”

The man snorted coldly and said nothing more.

Henry Brooks wasn’t in a hurry. In his previous life, he’d seen plenty of tough nuts. Even those specially trained would eventually talk. A mere deathsworn was nothing. He seemed tough, but to Henry Brooks, he was full of weaknesses. He stuffed rags into the mouths of the two captives, then dragged them one by one outside to the courtyard and stuffed them into a large vat.

These vats were usually used to collect rainwater for fire prevention—big and deep, perfect for hiding people.

After finishing all this, Henry Brooks was about to return to the house when he suddenly sensed danger. He looked to the side and saw several dark figures racing along the rooftop, bodies low and moving at incredible speed.

“Another wave?”

Henry Brooks’s pupils contracted sharply, killing intent surging. He moved directly to the center of the courtyard, ready and alert.

Since there was no escape, then fight!

“Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!”

Several shadows flew in, landing all around. Each wore a mask, their eyes cold and wolf-like. One of them said in a deep voice, “Hand over the sword, and we’ll leave immediately. Otherwise, no one in this house will be left alive.”

“With just you bottom-feeders?”

“If you want to die, I’ll oblige. Kill!” The man barked, lunging forward like a cannonball—vicious, decisive. The dagger in his hand glinted blue in the moonlight, clearly poisoned.

Henry Brooks snorted coldly and, without hesitation, thrust his sword forward with lightning speed.

An extra inch of reach, an extra advantage.

When it came to fighting for his life, Henry Brooks feared no one.

The opponent hadn’t expected Henry Brooks to be so ruthless. A dignified duke, yet willing to risk his life—how could this be a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy? He was clearly a battle-hardened veteran. The intelligence was wrong, and the man was shocked.

In that split second of distraction, the sword struck. The man was decisive, though, remembering they had the numbers and it wasn’t time to risk everything yet. He retreated explosively, dodging the fatal blow.

However, Henry Brooks stuck to him like a shadow, pressing the advantage of his sword with another fierce slash, forcing the man to keep retreating or block with his dagger—either way, it was to Henry Brooks’s benefit.

The man was extremely frustrated, knowing that retreating further would only make things worse, so he tried to dodge sideways.

“Pshh!”

But the sword suddenly changed direction mid-swing, slashing at his lower body and severing a leg. Losing his balance, he crashed to the ground, his once-cold eyes now filled with terror. He couldn’t understand this fighting style—how did Henry Brooks do it? He’d never heard of such techniques in all the martial arts under heaven.

Modern military combat techniques, refined from thousands of years of martial arts and combined with science and big data simulations, are simple, practical, and aim to kill with the least force, fastest speed, and most direct method. The moves are as elusive as a goat’s horns—impossible to predict.