Corrupted blood lord

It took Teclos longer than he expected to clear the camp.

Not because the goblins were strong.

But because they scattered like cockroaches once they started dying off. Starting from confusion, it turned into chaos pretty quickly.

Shouts in their guttural tongue broke the stillness of the night. Crude weapons were grabbed. Fires were kicked over. Shadows danced wildly across the camp as goblins rushed in every direction, searching for an enemy they could not see.

That was their mistake.

Teclos melted into the darkness between tents, his presence thinning until it was barely more than a whisper in the night. The shadows clung to him, wrapped around his body like a second skin, swallowing sound, swallowing even his killing intent.

The first goblin didn’t even feel its death.

It turned a corner, clutching a jagged spear, eyes wide and frantic—only for a thin line of black to flicker across its throat.

For a brief second, it stood still.

Then its head slipped from its shoulders, tumbling into the dirt as the body followed a heartbeat later.

A pair of goblins rushed toward the central fire, barking at each other, trying to form some kind of defense.

One of them suddenly jerked forward.

A blade had pierced clean through the back of its skull, the tip emerging from its open mouth.

The second goblin froze.

It didn’t even have time to turn.

A hand—cold, silent—gripped its jaw from behind, pulling its head back just enough for a short sword to slide beneath its chin and up through the brain.

Teclos vanished and let the body drop on its own, ensuring he wasn’t seen.

The camp descended further into madness.

Some goblins ran.

Some hid away.

Some lashed out wildly at nothing in the darkness.

And Teclos used every opportunity to kill them.

He struck from blind spots, from behind, from above—dropping silently from tree branches or slipping between tents like a ghost.

A slash across the throat.

A blade through the heart.

A quick stab at the base of the skull.

One motion and one kill throughout the whole night.

He never lingered in one place more than a second.

Never allowed himself to be seen.

At one point, three goblins gathered back-to-back, trembling, trying to cover all angles.

It didn’t matter.

A ripple passed through the ground beneath them—subtle, almost unnoticeable.

Dark tendrils burst upward.

They wrapped around their limbs and yanked every goblin off balance. In that split second of disarray, Teclos dropped in.

Before even landing, he stabbed one through the top of its skull.

After landing, he pivoted and drew a clean horizontal arc with his blade—decapitating the other two.

Screams of their terror echoed in the night.

Some goblins didn’t die immediately.

A few collapsed, clutching wounds they couldn’t comprehend, choking on blood, trying to crawl away into the dark.

Teclos didn’t always finish them right away.

Not out of cruelty alone—but because their struggling, their choking, their faint, desperate noises... fed the chaos.

Distracted the others.

Made them careless.

And careless prey was easy prey.

By the time the last goblin realized what was happening, it was already alone.

It stood near the edge of the camp, weapon shaking in its grip, chest heaving as it looked around at the carnage.

Bodies lay scattered on the ground.

Some faintly moving, trying to cling to life in a futile attempt.

"S-skree’ka... vrash! Graaa...?" it croaked in its own language, undeniably afraid.

Teclos stepped out of the darkness behind it.

For just a moment, and the goblin collapsed, blood pouring out of its eye.

Silence returned to the camp.

And Teclos stood in the center of it all, his blade dripping blood slowly into the dirt.

His chest rose and fell steadily. Clearly tired from using so much mana.

But his expression didn’t change.

To him...

They weren’t people.

They weren’t victims.

They were pests undeserving of life.

And they needed to be erased.

Somewhere far from the camp, unseen—the old man watched and smiled like a happy kid who had found something fun.

Teclos didn’t leave immediately.

He stood there for a while longer, letting his breathing settle, letting his senses stretch outward one final time.

The forest had grown quiet again.

No footsteps.

No shifting shadows.

No lingering presence.

Only the faint crackle of dying fires and the metallic scent of blood hanging heavy in the cold air.

Still, he didn’t trust that.

He moved through the camp one more time—methodical, precise. Every body was checked. Every fallen goblin inspected. If there was even the slightest twitch, the faintest sign of life, he ended it without hesitation.

A blade through the heart.

A quick thrust through the skull.

Nothing was left to chance.

Only when he was absolutely certain that nothing in that camp would ever rise again did he finally lower his guard—just slightly.

Then came the unpleasant part.

Teclos crouched beside the first corpse and reached for his knife, his expression hardening just a fraction, as he found it disgusting.

But it was necessary.

With practiced, efficient movements, he began cutting both ears off.

He tossed them into a rough sack he had taken from one of the tents.

He kept count in his head, his motions becoming almost mechanical as he worked his way through the camp. Blood smeared across his hands, dark and sticky, but he didn’t stop.

This was proof.

Proof that no one else could claim his work.

Goblins were pests—vermin that infested the forest, multiplied, and preyed on the weak. There was no treasure waiting to be found. Their camps held little of value—crude weapons, scraps of stolen goods, things not worth the weight to carry.

The ears were enough.

By the time he finished, the sack was heavy.

He tied it shut, slung it over his shoulder with a small grunt. The weight wasn’t unbearable, but it was noticeable.

Teclos gave the camp one last look.

Then he turned away without another thought.

The forest night swallowed him again.

He slipped into the shadows out of habit now, his presence dimming as darkness clung to him once more. He reeked of blood, so the last thing he needed right now was a beast attack as he made his way back toward the shed.

The path felt... shorter.

Or maybe it was just that his mind was no longer racing with panic.

Branches shifted softly as he passed. The cold air brushed against his skin, carrying the faint scents of earth and moss... he walked leisurely through the stillness of the night.

By the time the familiar clearing came into view, Teclos let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The shed stood where it always had.

Safe.

Or at least... safer.

He stepped into the clearing, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction as he approached the door.

The sack of ears weighed against his back.

Proof that he had done exactly what was asked.

Teclos adjusted his grip on it, a faint, tired smirk tugging at his lips despite everything.

"Let’s see what the old man says now..." he muttered under his breath, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

The door creaked as Teclos pushed it open.

For a moment, the forest outside seemed to hesitate—like even the wind itself didn’t want to follow him inside.

He stepped through.

And the shed, dimly lit and packed with weapons, felt smaller somehow.

Teclos looked like something dragged straight out of a nightmare.

Blood—dark, dried, and layered—covered him from head to toe. It clung to his clothes, streaked across his arms, stained his face. Some of it had cracked along the fabric, flaking with each movement. Other parts were still sticky, catching the faint light and shimmering in red.

His eyes, however, were the most unsettling part.

Calm and cold.

Like whatever hesitation he once had... had been carved out somewhere between the first kill and the last.

The sack over his shoulder shifted slightly as he stepped further in.

The old man was already there.

Sitting in a chair like he had all the time in the world.

One leg crossed over the other, leaning back just enough to look completely at ease. In one hand, he held a half-eaten piece of bread—one of those salted sticks he seemed so fond of. A small pile of crumbs rested on his lap, entirely ignored.

In the other hand was a sheet of paper he was reading.

"I killed the target," Teclos said, his voice steady, though rougher than usual.

For a brief moment, he considered dropping the sack at the man’s feet.

But before he could—

The old man spoke.

"Well done, kid," he said simply, taking another bite as if they were discussing something as mundane as the weather. "This was a clean job. You are finally learning my ways."

Teclos froze.

Completely.

The words surprised him so much that his brain short-circuited.

No sarcasm, or mockery; heck, not even a backhanded jab could be heard in the old man’s voice.

Just... acknowledgment.

The retort he had ready for him stayed in his throat.

He just stood there, staring.

"...What?" the word slipped out before he could stop it.

The old man glanced at him briefly, chewing slowly, then swallowed.

"What, you want me to insult you instead?" he said flatly. "Don’t get used to it. You did your job properly for once. That’s all."

But even that didn’t carry the same edge as before.

Teclos’s grip tightened slightly on the sack slung over his shoulder.

"...You’re serious?" he asked, almost suspicious.

The old man sighed, like he was already tired of the conversation.

"You infiltrated without raising an alarm. You killed the target cleanly. You used the panic to erase the rest of the camp without exposing yourself unnecessarily." He wiped his fingers casually on a cloth. "Efficient. Quiet. And no wasted movement."

He paused, then added more quietly—

"That’s how it’s done."

Teclos felt something shift in his chest.

Pride.

Since this training started, it felt like that was the first time the old man actually complimented him.

And that new path of combat he chose was right.

He let out a slow breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

"...Took you long enough to say something nice," he muttered, though the bite in his tone had dulled.

The old man snorted.

"There it is," he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The usual snarky kid. Thought you died out there and got replaced by something competent."

Teclos rolled his eyes, but this time... he didn’t snap back.

Instead, he reached up, pulling the sack from his shoulder and dropping it to the ground with a heavy thud.

"Proof," he said simply.

The old man didn’t even look at it.

"Keep it. Turn it in later if you want coin," he said dismissively. "I don’t care about goblin ears."

Of course he didn’t.

Teclos huffed quietly.

For a moment, silence settled between them.

Then the old man leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, finally giving Teclos a more direct look.

"Don’t misunderstand, brat," he said, voice lower now. "This was the bare minimum." He paused for a second. "But... it’s a start."

Teclos didn’t respond.

He just stood there—covered in blood, exhausted, mind still catching up—

And for once...

He didn’t feel like arguing, so he didn’t.

"Dismissed."

The word came casually, like everything else the old man said.

Teclos didn’t linger any longer.

He simply picked up the sack again, slung it over his shoulder, and turned toward the door. For a brief moment, he paused—just a fraction of a second—as if he wanted to say something.

Then he didn’t.

The door creaked open.

Cold air rushed in.

And just like that, he was gone—disappearing back into the forest, heading toward Kolma with steady, practiced steps.

He didn’t realize it.

But something had begun to change.

The old man hadn’t explained much.

Hadn’t taught him in any conventional sense.

But Teclos was learning his ways anyway.

Adapting and sharpening into a blade.

Becoming something else entirely.

Something closer to what the old man wanted.

An assassin.

The shed fell silent after he left.

For a few seconds, nothing moved.

Nothing stirred.

Then—

The old man leaned back in his chair, the faintest grin creeping onto his face.

"Finally..." he muttered under his breath, voice low, almost pleased. "...a student with potential."

The temperature seemed to drop as if the world itself recoiled. The faint sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, distant chirps, the subtle life that always lingered in the background—vanished instantly.

Birds took flight in a chaotic frenzy, wings beating violently as they fled the area.

Small animals bolted from their hiding places, instincts screaming at them to run, to escape, to survive.

Even insects stilled or scattered, as if the very ground had become hostile.

The forest... emptied.

Immediately.

Inside the shed, the shadows themselves seemed to deepen, drawn toward the old man as his grin widened.

Then he laughed.

Unrestrained.

Unhinged.

A madman’s laugh that echoed faintly through the empty clearing, carrying with it something deeply wrong.

Something dangerous.

The old man exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if nothing had happened.

The forest, cautiously, slowly, began to breathe again.

"...This might actually get fun. Now I only need to refine him," he murmured, reaching for another salted bread stick like it was just another ordinary day.