Enevar neither had the grim satisfaction nor pleasure of personally killing Joruk, but a twisted enjoyment enveloped him as he witnessed the poor mercenary's futile struggles and miserable demise. The recollection of Joruk's execution played vividly in Enevar's mind, and an unsettling smile crept across his face. The twisted satisfaction derived from witnessing another's downfall lingered with him like a sick drug.

The recollection was a brief but vivid montage—a man, now a vampire, dragged into the unforgiving sunlight. Multiple spears punctured his wretched form from all sides, each stab accompanied by agonized cries. Scalding holy water rained down upon him, intensifying the torment. Finally, the merciless flames of magic engulfed the vampire, sealing his fate in total execution. The brutality of the scene lingered as a haunting tableau in the recesses of memory.

Enevar, though just one man, lacked the physical capacity to inflict such a gruesome death personally. He wouldn't be able to puncture so many spears simultaneously to one man and make him feel it all at the same time, not to mention he lacked the resources to move White Magic Casters. Still... Despite his age, Enevar's ability to scheme and orchestrate brutality remained intact— when it came to manipulating and inflicting suffering upon another human being, the mercenary in him was most reliable.

Weeks after overrunning his previous horse to the death, Enevar found himself purchasing a new one. The memory of overrunning his last steed lingered, but he showed no remorse. This time, he opted for a stronger horse, one that could endure the demands of his travels.

At the stable, the stablemaster inquired, "Quite a sturdy horse you've chosen, sir. Name?"

Enevar, indifferent to such sentiments, replied, "No name. Just make sure it's strong and obedient."

The stablemaster, somewhat taken aback, nodded, "Alright, sir. Strong and obedient it is."

Enevar, unburdened by sentimental attachments, mounted his newly acquired horse, resolute in his journey. The horse remained nameless, a reflection of Enevar's pragmatic and unattached disposition toward the animals that served him.

Having overseen and ensured the mercenary's demise, Enevar's departure from Mandoor City marked the beginning of a journey toward the Royal Capital of Mundar— Mundramon City, renowned as the City of Gold. Accompanied by a caravan bound for the Coast of Corals, they aimed to capitalize on the opportunities presented by the Fandral forces now occupying the coastal regions. The City of Gold, with its allure of wealth, became a strategic stopover for the Caravaneers, thus making them convenient companions.

The journey had been relatively smooth, with a growing assembly of merchants, travelers, and their vigilant bodyguards sufficient to dissuade most would-be brigands. However, as the caravan progressed, the travelers found themselves thrust into the midst of a brigand ambush with alarming suddenness.

Amidst the chaos, Burk, a towering figure with a burly, muscular frame, asserted his dominance. "I am Berserker Burk, and this is my road! Pay the tax, leave half of your goods, and you may leave with your lives," he declared, flanked by two loyal subordinates—one armed with a menacing mace and shield, the other brandishing a deadly spear. Behind Burk loomed a formidable force of approximately fifty brigands.

In response to Burk's demands, the once-composed merchants now clamored and panicked, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of shouted protests. The air became charged with tension as the caravan found itself at the mercy of these ruthless highwaymen.

As Enevar surveyed the scene, he counted less than fifty visible brigands, yet his seasoned instincts warned him that more lurked in the shadows. Experience whispered that a rear ambush was likely in play. The caravan's members totaled around a hundred, but only a meager dozen possessed the skills and weaponry of capable fighters, their metal blades a stark contrast to the makeshift armaments of the bandits.

While the brigands wielded mostly inferior weapons, their strength lay in sheer ferocity, overwhelming numbers, and a strategic advantage in terrain. The chosen ambush spot inclined uphill, granting the bandits a clear monopoly on the higher ground. From their elevated position, they eyed the caravan below, a daunting display of strength and cunning that challenged even the most seasoned fighters among the Caravaneers.

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Enevar, undeterred by the tension, walked forward, dragging his horse by its reins. The merchants observed in curiosity; some shouted, calling out to the old man, while others chose to remain silent. In the midst of the unfolding drama, the bodyguards huddled together, busy conferring within themselves.

Burk, the imposing leader of the brigands, confronted Enevar. "Are you the merchant's representative?" he inquired with a mix of authority and suspicion.

Enevar, nonchalant, responded, "Berserker? I have fought a real berserker before. His eyes would go red, and his strength multiplied almost tenfold."

"Bullshit! Tavern tales, I bet!" Burk retorted, dismissing Enevar's words.

"I see, so you are not any big deal," Enevar remarked casually.

Burk, taken aback, questioned, "What got into you, old man? Are you insane?"

Enevar explained, "The reason why I joined this damn slow caravan was because I wanted to avoid trouble like you."

"Huh? Something wrong with your brain, old man?" Burk taunted, his tone shifting. He noticed the weapon hanging by Enevar's back. "Nice long sword you have right there, hanging by your back, and that axe too," he teased, pointing at the hatchet dangling by Enevar's waist. "What are you gonna do with them? Plonk me with it?" Burk chuckled, attempting to provoke a reaction from the seasoned traveler.

Curiosity flickered in Enevar's eyes; it had been a while since he had wielded his longsword. The distant memories of combat echoed in his mind, the last occasion etched vividly. In Mandoor City, he had executed a swift strike with his axe, severing the mercenary's right hand. The brutality didn't end there; Enevar proceeded to engage in a methodical act of torture, employing a dagger with a chilling precision.

Burk, imposing and armed with a great axe, flexed the weapon threateningly, a silent challenge lingering in his actions. "It wouldn't be a nice sight to bully an old man like you," he began, his tone carrying a veiled warning. "But disrespect me one more time, and my axe will claim your life." The air tensed with the threat, emphasizing the gravity of Burk's declaration as he asserted his dominance in the face of Enevar's nonchalant demeanor.

Enevar, swift and decisive, drew his long sword, and with immaculate speed, beheaded Burk. Silence reigned as the bandits processed the sudden turn of events.

"I don't have time with you," Enevar declared with a stern tone, addressing the remaining bandits who stood in stunned silence.

A Bandit Spearman, fueled by anger, shouted, "You! Die!" as he swung his spear in a determined arc. Enevar, however, showcased his combat prowess as he caught the wooden shaft of the spear, yanked it from the spearman's grip, and swiftly beheaded him.

The Bandit Mace-wielder, witnessing the swift demise of his comrade, could only stare in disbelief.

"Leave me alone. As I said, I don't have time with you," Enevar asserted firmly. Undeterred, he walked into the heart of the bandit formation, dragging his horse by its reins. The bandits and merchants alike stood as mere spectators, watching the enigmatic traveler navigate through the aftermath of the confrontation.

Enevar strategically employed his horse as a barrier, positioning it like a protective wall to shield against any potential sudden attacks. While riding the horse and swiftly escaping remained a viable option, Enevar hesitated to resort to it. The terrain still inclined uphill, making him wary of the challenges that might accompany a retreat uphill.

Despite the potential advantages of a swift departure, Enevar's preference leaned toward descending the slope. He maintained a cautious vigilance, using the horse as both a tactical barricade and a means of navigating the treacherous terrain to his advantage.

Indifferent to the fate of the merchants, Enevar detached himself from the caravan, leaving them to fend for themselves. Solitary and resolute, he continued on his journey toward Mundramon City, showing no concern for the potential losses or casualties among the abandoned group. With an unfeeling determination, Enevar pressed forward, prioritizing his personal path over the well-being of those he had left behind on the tumultuous road.

Enevar Lifer, an elderly man well-weathered by the passage of years, carried with him the tales of a bygone era when he served as a mercenary. Yet, within the depths of his being, a steadfast thread of wickedness persisted, defining him as a stone-cold killer—heartless and selfish. Such was the external façade he presented to the world.

Despite the harsh exterior, concealed within Enevar was a desire for solitude. The contradiction between his outward ruthlessness and an inner yearning to be left alone created an enigmatic duality. The question lingered unanswered: Why, at his advanced age, was he undertaking this journey? Neither the merchants nor the mercenaries who crossed paths with him could unravel the mystery that surrounded the old man's relentless travels.

Those who knew why was he taking this journey would only shudder... After all, when they met eyes with the man himself, they would realize what a monster it was that they just provoked.