The Huntsman Of Death:A Gamer's POV As Side Character

A golden-haired woman moved gracefully through the grand halls of the mansion. Her radiant hair shimmered like sunlight as it swayed gently with each step. The plush carpet muffled her footsteps as she descended the marble staircase with an air of calm authority.

Trailing behind her was a stern-faced woman with short brown hair, her rapier gleaming faintly in the dim light. She barked a sharp command.

"Open the door!"

The guards stationed nearby snapped to attention, their expressions stiff. Bowing their heads deeply, they reached for the heavy iron doors and swung them open with a synchronized creak.

Beyond the doors lay a dark and oppressive passage, damp with humidity. The faint smell of mildew mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of blood hit the golden-haired woman like a wave. Yet, her expression remained untouched, cold as ice.

TAP! TAP! TAP!

The sharp sound of her heels echoed through the stone corridor as she walked forward. The faint glow of a single torch flickered against the walls, casting shadows that danced like ghosts.

Rows of cells lined both sides, crowded with gaunt and dirty prisoners who sat slumped against the bars, their hollow eyes staring into nothingness.

The guards positioned along the corridor immediately stood at attention as the woman approached. Straightening their postures, they bowed deeply, one arm crossed over their chests, the other at their sides.

"Welcome, Your Grace," they said in unison, their voices steady despite the tension in the air.

The Duchess acknowledged them with nothing more than a glance, her golden hair glowing faintly even in the dim light, like a sun illuminating the dark. Her presence was commanding, and even the restless prisoners silenced themselves as if sensing the weight of her authority.

At the end of the hall, the air grew colder. A man was chained to the wall, his body bruised and bloodied, slumped in an unconscious heap. The woman with the rapier moved ahead swiftly, dragging a wooden chair from the corner of the cell and placing it down with precision.

"Please," she said softly, stepping aside.

The Duchess sat down, her posture regal yet relaxed. Crossing one leg over the other, she stared at the man with blank, unfeeling eyes.

Her icy demeanor made the air feel heavier.

"Wake him up," she ordered her voice calm but carrying a quiet menace.

A guard immediately picked up a bucket of cold water and splashed it over the prisoner's face.

"AAAGH!" The man jolted awake, sputtering and coughing. He blinked rapidly, disoriented, before his gaze landed on the golden-haired woman sitting before him. Panic filled his eyes.

"I-I'm innocent! I didn't do anything! Please, you have the wrong person!" he cried, his voice trembling.

"That's what every criminal says," the Duchess replied coldly, her words cutting like a blade.

The man froze, his lips trembling. His mind raced as he tried to explain himself.

"I... I just delivered a message! That's all! I swear I didn't do anything else! Why are you treating me like this and torturing me?" His voice cracked as he spoke, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

Her gaze didn't waver. "Because the boy you spoke about isn't here, Samuel," she said, her tone sharp and unforgiving.

Samuel's heart sank. Panic turned to dread as realization dawned on him.

'Damn it. I shouldn't have trusted that bastard... I shouldn't have delivered that message...'

"I'm innocent," he whimpered, his voice barely audible now. "Don't do this to me."

The Duchess raised an eyebrow, a faint glimmer of curiosity breaking through her cold mask. She glanced at the guard standing nearby.

"Did you torture him? Did he resist or fightback" she asked flatly.

The guard stiffened, breaking into a cold sweat. "N-no, Your Grace! He didn't resist or fight back... but you ordered us to bring him here. We assumed—uh, we thought—we needed to discipline him for offending you. We were, uh, lenient for not torturing him further."

Her gaze shifted to the brown-haired woman standing silently behind her. "Mina, did I say anything about torturing him?"

Mina's eyes flicked to the side, avoiding her mistress's gaze. "No, Your Grace."

The Duchess let out a slow breath, leaning back in her chair as if stifling a headache. "I only asked you to bring him here, nothing more."

Samuel's eyes widened, and then his face twisted in disbelief and fury.

"So I got beaten for no reason?" he spat out, his voice rising. His indignation warred with his fear as he glared at the guards.

The guards exchanged nervous glances, guilt and dread written all over their faces.

The Duchess remained impassive, her expression unchanging.

"Samuel," she said in a voice that was almost a whisper but carried enough weight to silence him instantly.

He swallowed hard, his anger retreating into fear once more. The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade.

"You'll speak when I say you can," she added, her icy gaze freezing him in place.

....

Back In Night Creak City.

"There's a fight downstairs, and our men... they're falling fast!"

The room fell into deadly silence. For a moment, no one dared to speak, nor did they dare to breathe in the face of the absolute beasts of Blood Fang.

The leader Vargas, the one who made Blood Fang the current height and following him, the cruel mad demon Syro's expression turned grave.

Vargas's expression turned grim as he looked at his underling.

"Which rat is making a noise? Does he not know the consequences of offending us?"

Syro's brow furrowed. "How many attackers?" he demanded.

The young demon swallowed hard, his voice shaking. "...Just one."

Syro stood, grabbing his axe. "I'll see for myself and tear that son of a bitch apart." He strolled ahead.

...

The air in the faintly lit storage room behind the tavern was thick with the smell of spilled ale and damp wood. The faint chatter and clinking glasses from the main hall were muffled by the heavy wooden door I had just closed behind me. My eyes scanned the room, a small space with crates stacked high, a table in the middle, and scattered chairs.

Eight men stood in a semi-circle, all armed with crude weapons like knives, and clubs, and one with a chain. They were thugs, their sneers full of arrogance, expecting an easy win.

"You've got nowhere to run now," one growled, stepping forward.

I didn't reply. Instead, I flipped my dagger in my hand, reflecting faint light. My stance shifted low, balanced as I stretched my less.

The first thug lunged with a club, aiming for my head. I sidestepped fluidly and precise, letting the swing miss by inches. As the thug stumbled past, I struck a quick slash across the man's arm.

Blood spattered onto the floor as the thug howled, clutching his arm and falling to his knees.

The next two came at me together. I moved swiftly, darting around the table to keep them from flanking me. One swung a knife wildly, but I kicked a chair into his path, tripping him. As the demon stumbled, I leapt onto the table, pressing my boots thudding against the wood.

From my higher vantage point, I lunged at the second thug, driving my dagger into the demon's shoulder. He screamed as I twisted the blade before yanking it free. Blood flowed freely as he collapsed against the crates, groaning in pain.

A chain whipped toward me, its metallic rattle slicing through the air. I ducked just in time, the chain cracking against the table's surface. Using the momentum, I rolled off the table and landed behind the demon with the chain. Before he could react, I drove my elbow into the back of his head, sending him sprawling forward.

The fourth thug tried to catch me from the side, swinging a chair like a club. I pivoted, grabbing the backrest mid-swing. With a sharp tug, I yanked the chair out of his hands and smashed it into his chest. He gasped, falling backward into a stack of crates that toppled around him.

Three more remained, their confidence clearly shaken. One rushed in with a knife, thrusting it toward my chest. I sidestepped again, grabbing the thug's wrist and twisting it until the knife clattered to the floor. In one fluid motion, I brought my dagger down, slashing across the demon's thigh. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding leg and groaning.

The last two hesitated, glancing at each other. I took the opportunity to grab a heavy metal tankard from the table. I hurled it at one of them, the tankard smashing into the demon's face with a sickening crack. The thug screamed, blood pouring from his nose as he staggered back.

The final thug turned to run, panic written all over his face. But I was faster. I sprinted forward, leapt onto a crate, and launched myself at the demon, tackling him to the ground.

Pinning the thug beneath me, I pressed my dagger to his throat.

"Talk," I growled, my voice low and dangerous.