CHAPTER 472: CHAPTER 472: ONLY A FEW OF YOUR MEN DIED ON THE WAY

The air was thick enough to cut with a blade.

Twelve men stood at the forest’s edge another twelve behind Cyrus, each one painted with the same red mark—three long stripes clawed across their chests like a brand of belonging. Their hair was tied back with bones and feathers, their skin glistening with sweat and dust. They looked wild, but not stupid. The kind of men who had seen blood often enough to know how it stains.

Their eyes swept across the village. Children hid behind huts. The firelight flickered on spear tips. The villagers’ laughter from moments ago had vanished completely. Only the distant hiss of burning wood remained.

Valen stepped forward first, placing himself between the strangers and Ophelia. His hand tightened around his spear until his knuckles turned white. He said quietly, "Ophelia, go inside."

But she shook her head, her eyes never leaving the men. "No. I’m not leaving you. You’ll just do something reckless."

Valen’s jaw flexed. "Please."

She crossed her arms, defiant. "No."

And by the time they were done whispering, it didn’t matter anymore—because the men had already moved closer, forming a wide semicircle that trapped them all inside.

Cyrus stood in the center, perfectly still.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, flat, but it carried the weight of command. "State your reason for coming here."

The leader—tall, broad, his jaw painted black like charred bone—grinned lazily. "We are not here to spill blood," he said.

Cyrus’s pink eyes glinted faintly in the light of the flames. "You already did."

The leader’s smirk faltered for a second. "Oh, please," he said with a laugh, waving his hand. "Only a few of your men died on the way. You have enough left. Be grateful we stopped when we did."

The villagers murmured uneasily.

Cyrus didn’t blink. "Say what you came for."

The man smiled wider now, enjoying the attention. "We are here for one thing," he said, his tone mocking, almost playful. "And that is—the woman."

The silence that followed was so sharp it hurt.

Everyone understood at once.

They didn’t need to ask which woman.

Even the fire seemed to dim.

Ophelia’s throat tightened. She didn’t dare look at Cyrus, but her fingers curled against Valen’s arm. The villagers knew exactly what the stranger meant. Every trouble that had ever touched their home, every danger that had crawled out of the wilderness—somehow, it had always found its way here through her.

Through Isabella.

Not that anyone ever blamed her. They couldn’t. She was their chaos, their light, their goddess.

The stranger tilted his head, studying Cyrus. "Give us the woman who is rumored to be your goddess," he said mockingly. "Not that we believe such a thing. A woman, a goddess?" He chuckled, glancing back at his men. "Tell me, brothers, have you ever seen a woman strong enough to move mountains?"

The men laughed with him, their laughter harsh and echoing like metal striking stone.

Cyrus said nothing. His expression didn’t change.

Valen stepped forward instead. "We don’t know who you’re talking about."

"Oh, please," the leader said, rolling his eyes. "Do not play dumb with me. The rumors reach every tribe, every campfire, every city that still stands. Word says your little village thrives while others rot. That a woman lives here who performs magic. That she makes water appear from thin air. That she heals wounds. That she builds things no one understands."

His gaze flicked around the square. His lip curled slightly as he took in the carved tables, the polished handles, the wooden frames—objects far too refined for a village this small.

"I see you’ve been busy," he murmured, circling slowly. "All this, for a village without magic?"

Ophelia’s voice rose before anyone could stop her. "She’s not here," she snapped. "So you can go back to wherever you came from. And even if she was, what makes you think we’d ever hand her to you?"

Valen groaned softly, covering his face. "Ophelia..." He turned to her, whispering gently, "Don’t."

But Ophelia’s glare didn’t waver.

The leader looked amused. "Such spirit. You must be one of her followers."

Cyrus’s voice cut through, low and sharp. "Leave my village."

The leader turned back to him, eyes glinting. "And if we don’t?"

Cyrus didn’t move. "Then I will make you."

The men laughed again, cruelly this time. "Oh? And should we be frightened of you, little snake?" the leader said mockingly. "Your goddess isn’t here to protect you."

Then, slowly—too slowly—Cyrus changed.

His eyes bled from pink to deep, cold red. The ground trembled faintly beneath him. A low hiss slipped through the air as his body shifted, bones rearranging, muscles tightening. From the base of his spine unfurled a massive tail—red, scaled like polished stone. It coiled behind him, thick as a tree trunk and twice as long.

Gasps echoed from the villagers. Even the raiders froze.

In his human form, Cyrus looked harmless. But like this—he was something else entirely. Beautiful and terrifying all at once.

The leader’s smirk wavered. "Ah," he said quietly, almost impressed. "So you are a snake beastman."

His gaze slid over Cyrus from head to toe, lingering on his bare arms. Then his smile returned, sharp and cruel. "But... you have no stripes."

Everyone stilled.

Apparently, everyone in this world knew what that meant.

No stripes meant no rank. No victories. No acknowledged strength.

No power.

In their world, stripes were more than paint. They were earned—carved into skin by battle, blessed by blood.

So as far as these raiders were concerned, Cyrus wasn’t dangerous. He was pitiful.

A whisper traveled through their group: "He’s unmarked."

"Maybe we should leave," one of the younger men muttered nervously. "They said the woman isn’t here. And look at him—he’s a snake. They’re dangerous."

The leader didn’t respond. His jaw flexed.

But before he could speak, a voice rang out—smooth, amused, and utterly out of place.

"Oh no, no, no..." it drawled, dripping with lazy delight. "Why are you thinking of leaving now? It’s just getting good."

The sound came from above.

Every head turned.

And there he was.

Perched casually on a tree branch like it was his throne, legs crossed, a golden goblet in his hand. Wine—or something red—shimmered inside it.

Zyran.

His hair fell in careless waves, catching light like molten bronze. His smile was sharp, reckless, the kind that could start wars and call it art.

He tilted his head, studying the armed men beneath him. "Did I miss introductions?" he asked lightly. "You all look so serious. It’s almost depressing."

The leader’s face hardened. "Who the hell are you?"

Zyran grinned wider, resting his chin on his palm. "Just a passerby," he said sweetly. "But you, my friends—" his gaze flicked down to Cyrus, then back to the men— "you picked the worst village to walk into."

A breeze stirred, scattering ash and leaves through the air.

Valen’s grip on his spear tightened. Ophelia’s eyes widened. Cyrus didn’t move, but his tail twitched once, coiling slightly tighter behind him.

The raiders shifted uneasily.

Because for the first time since stepping into the village, the laughter was gone.

Zyran’s smile never wavered, but his voice dropped—silken, deadly.

"Now," he said softly, "why don’t you tell me again who you came for?"