*Boom!*
With a resounding crack, the small wooden door of the basement was kicked open, and a group of individuals clad in gray leather, wielding steel swords, stormed in with menacing intent.
"Where is she? That filthy spawn?"
"There's no mistaking it; the apprentice of that witch is right here! Drag her out and purify her…"
As these individuals adapted to the dim candlelight within the room, their righteous proclamations abruptly came to a halt.
Replaced by expressions of disbelief, mouths agape in shock.
*Bang!*
Without a roar or preamble, a heavily muscled arm, like a battering ram, seized one of the leading witch hunters by the head and slammed them against the wall.
*Splurt!*
The sound was reminiscent of a watermelon bursting, and as Alan felt the sensation in his grip, he inexplicably recalled the time in middle school when he smashed an egg during a physics experiment.
How strange… killing someone, and yet, it felt so distant.
Could it be that he had slain too many little demons?
It didn't feel all that different; the same sensation, the same color.
Only this time, human screams were much more melodious than those of little demons.
"Demon… it's a demon!"
Finally, as realization dawned on one of them, the previously imposing witch hunters dropped their weapons and rushed toward the small exit in a panic.
But unfortunately for them, Alan had no intention of letting them escape.
To eliminate the roots, he needed to eliminate these pests; if he didn't, they would only return with reinforcements.
"Ah!!"
"Don't! Ugh… gurgle…"
"Pfft, heh… cough."
A chorus of screams filled Alan's ears, and finally, after snapping the last witch hunter's neck beneath his foot, he came to a halt.
Well… that's done. Time to eat something to replenish my strength.
Little demons sure had a voracious appetite.
Thinking this, Alan slowly bent down and picked up a rather intact piece of flesh, just as he was about to shove it into his mouth when a thought struck him.
He turned his head to the corner of the room and noticed Grellia, pale as a ghost, huddled against the wall, trembling like a leaf. It was clear that the scene from moments ago had been far too traumatic for a young girl.
Ah… damn it, can someone please help me censor this?
With that thought, Alan casually grabbed a nearby cloak and wrapped the pieces of meat within it.
This wasn't hell; the flesh could be preserved for a while.
Next, Alan approached Grellia, who seemed lost in her own world, shaking her head slowly.
It really looked like she was thoroughly frightened.
How long would it take for her to return to her senses?
Was there a way to comfort this little girl?
Was he really going to make a funny face to cheer her up?
Don't joke about it; Alan knew just how terrifying his own face appeared.
As he was lost in thought, a wave of unfamiliar memories surged into his mind.
*"Seduction Spell.
Temporarily relax the target's vigilance, making them more susceptible to mental suggestion.
Demons are not known for fair dealings; they typically employ some tricks."*
Magic?
Alan's hands moved instinctively, tracing a strange pattern in the air before Grellia.
In an instant, Alan felt a slight drain of his power, while Grellia's gaze began to lose its focus, but her trembling ceased.
It seemed to be effective.
"Relax… follow me."
After a considerable pause, Alan squeezed out two syllables from his altered vocal cords, and Grellia slowly lifted her head to look at him before rising and following behind.
Well… this made things much easier.
With that thought, Alan strode toward the basement door and delivered a powerful punch, shattering the wall as the door was far too small for him.
"What's happening in there… ugh!"
Upon seeing the gaping hole in the wall, the remaining witch hunters outside the basement drew closer, only to be flung back, crashing against the adjacent walls, unable to disentangle themselves.
"Ah… ah! A monster!"
As soon as the witch hunters set their eyes on Alan, their swords fell from their grasp, and with a terrified scream, they fled in a mad dash.
Pathetic.
These seemingly strong young men were akin to newly evolved little demons in Alan's eyes—like wooden puppets, utterly incapable of resistance.
If all his enemies were like this, his task would be a breeze.
"Ugh… not exactly fragrant."
Alan wrinkled his nose at the surrounding stench.
This place resembled a sewer; the walls were constructed of green stones, hastily piled together without any mortar, giving it a crude appearance.
The Middle Ages? Or perhaps even earlier?
Alan had countless questions swirling in his mind for Grellia, but considering her mental state, he decided to suppress his inquiries for now.
First and foremost, he needed to find a secluded spot to figure out where they were and how to escape this so-called *Byronvale*.
With that in mind, Alan sniffed the air; little demons had an acute sense of smell, rivaling that of trained hounds. However, having lived amidst the stench of blood in hell, that talent had received little use.
But now, Alan could easily discern other scents from the foul odor that wafted through the sewer.
"Blood… from those I just killed, excrement, sewage, women's cosmetics, and spoiled food… this smell seems like fresh air; it's likely the sewer exit, but there are many human scents. It's better not to go there if I'm not absolutely certain… wait, what's this?"
Alan paused his sniffing, glancing at a side passage.
A fishy odor, moistness, and circulating air.
If he guessed correctly, this should lead to the sewer's outflow, and outside that outflow, there should be a moat.
With that thought, Alan scooped up the lethargic Grellia and headed in that direction.
...
"You're sure you're not mistaken? That little girl truly summoned a demon?"
Outside the sewer, in the Bishop's Square.
Ever since Bortan's forces had captured Byronvale, this place, once a sanctuary for the temple to preach its doctrine and distribute food, had transformed into the largest barbecue pit… no, crematorium in the North, or perhaps even more bluntly, a place of execution.
Indeed, the witch hunters under King Bortan had arrived in Byronvale the day after the army breached the castle gates. Although they did not engage in battle, they were experts in hunting down and torturing.
In no time, every mage in Byronvale had faced repercussions, from former advisors of the king to street astrologers, even elderly herbalists were not spared. These leather-hatted individuals pointed to the ointment for leg pain, claiming it to be a product of witchcraft, thus arresting an almost seventy-year-old woman.
After a brief "investigation," those who survived the torturous "interrogations" involving branding irons, whips, and various cruel instruments eventually confessed to being heretics, disbelievers in the divine, and attempting to overthrow the regime through magic.
Following that, the procedure was simple.
An iron pole was erected in the Bishop's Square, the accused bound to it, surrounded by wood, drenched in oil, ignited, and then they watched as those bound begged for mercy, howled in agony, and struggled violently, causing the surrounding wood to crackle. The smell of roasting flesh mingled with the horrific screams, casting an ominous shadow over the entire Byronvale, leaving a chilling atmosphere that was terrifying in its methodical execution.