Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 313 Mad Dogs

The stranger's boots crunched against the uneven dirt path as he approached the outskirts of the city. The air grew heavier with the stench of unwashed bodies and cheap ale, mixed with the faint metallic tang of rusting weapons. Makeshift tents and crude campfires dotted the area, their flickering light casting jagged shadows on the grimy surroundings.

As the man stepped into the camp, conversations hushed, and the general air of debauchery stilled, replaced by a wary tension. Heads turned to look at him—some with open hostility, others with thinly veiled curiosity. A few of the rougher types licked their lips, their expressions promising trouble if he wasn't careful.

The stranger ignored their stares, walking forward with the same deliberate pace he had displayed in the guild. His dark cloak billowed slightly with the motion, revealing hints of the simple but practical gear beneath. He stopped at what seemed to be the center of the camp, surrounded by a mix of lounging figures and men sharpening their weapons.

Then he spoke, his voice calm but loud enough to carry through the silence.

"I'm here to see the Mad Dogs. Is this the right place?"

For a moment, no one answered. The camp seemed frozen, as if waiting for a signal. Then a grizzled mercenary leaning against a barrel barked a laugh, his yellowed teeth glinting in the firelight. "And what if it is, eh? You here to join or to die?"

Another mercenary, this one with a scar running across his bald scalp, spat on the ground near the stranger's feet. "Got a death wish, walking in here like that? You don't look like you can afford us."

A third mercenary, a wiry man with a crooked grin, added, "Maybe he's lost. Or maybe…" His grin widened, his eyes flicking to the stranger's belt. "He's carrying coin we can lighten him of."

The stranger remained unfazed, his pitch-black eyes sweeping over the gathered men and women. His calm demeanor seemed to irritate them even more, the hostility in the air growing thicker.

"If this isn't the right place, I'll leave," the stranger said evenly. "But if it is, then fetch your leader. I'm here to talk business, not waste time."

The grizzled mercenary leaned forward, his yellowed teeth bared in a grin that promised trouble. "Our leader's a busy man, stranger. You can't just walk in here and demand to see him. There's a cost for taking up his time."

The wiry mercenary with the crooked grin chimed in, his voice dripping with mockery. "That's right. Call it a… guarantee. Show us you're serious, or turn around and crawl back to wherever you came from."

The stranger tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing but his expression otherwise calm. Slowly, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a single gold coin. Without a word, he flicked it onto the ground in front of the grizzled mercenary.

"Would this be enough?" he asked evenly.

The camp seemed to hold its breath for a moment as the coin clinked against the dirt, its golden sheen catching the flicker of firelight. The grizzled mercenary's eyes widened briefly before a wicked smile spread across his face. He bent down, scooping up the coin with a quick, greedy motion, then exchanged a look with the others. The wiry mercenary licked his lips, and the bald one cracked his knuckles.

"Well, well," the grizzled man drawled, his voice full of mockery. "Looks like the pup's got some bite. But…" He pocketed the coin and smirked. "You think one little coin's enough to deal with the Mad Dogs? Oh, you're in for a lesson, boy."

As if on cue, the surrounding mercenaries began to rise, moving closer and tightening the circle around the stranger. Their eyes glinted with malicious intent, and their hands hovered near weapons or clenched into fists. Some chuckled darkly, while others openly jeered.

The wiry mercenary leaned closer, sneering. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But not much sense, eh? Coming here all alone, flashing coin. What did you think was gonna happen?"

The stranger remained still, his posture unchanging, as he asked calmly, "Is this how it's supposed to be?"

The bald mercenary grinned, his scarred face twisted with cruel amusement. "Damn right it is. You walk into the Mad Dogs' den, you play by our rules. And rule number one? Don't show weakness."

The wiry one let out a cackling laugh. "It's your fault for coming here, pal. We're the Mad Dogs for a reason, after all. Ain't that right, boys?"

A chorus of chuckles and jeers rose from the gathered mercenaries, their confidence bolstered by the stranger's apparent lack of fear. The grizzled leader stepped closer, looming over him with a smirk.

"You made a mistake coming here alone," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Now let's see how deep your pockets really go."

For the first time, the stranger moved—his head tilting slightly to one side as he exhaled a soft, almost disappointed sigh.

"I see," he murmured, his voice barely audible but enough to quiet the laughter around him. Then, he straightened, his eyes scanning the group with cold detachment. "I was under the impression I was dealing with professionals. Perhaps I was wrong."

But then suddenly his mouth widened.

SWOOSH!

"Or not!"

As a sword was drawn.

The blade, slim and razor-sharp, shone with an otherworldly black hue, shadows coiling around it like living flames.

In an instant, he thrust it forward, piercing the grizzled mercenary's chest with pinpoint precision. The older man's eyes widened in shock, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as the black flames ignited from the wound, engulfing his body in an eerie, consuming blaze.

"Not professionals, then," the young man murmured, his voice carrying a biting edge. He yanked his blade free, the grizzled mercenary collapsing to the ground with a dull thud, his charred body crumpling into lifelessness.

"Kill him!" the bald mercenary roared, his voice trembling with both rage and fear.

The wiry mercenary lunged first, his dagger gleaming as he aimed for the young man's throat. But before the blade could connect, the stranger sidestepped with a graceful pivot, his sword slicing upward in a single, fluid motion.

SLASH!

The wiry man froze mid-step, his eyes flicking down to see a gash seared through his torso, black flames licking at the edges of the wound. He crumpled with a scream, his body consumed by the relentless fire.

"Two," the young man said softly, his tone almost conversational.

The next three came at him together, their weapons flashing in the firelight—an axe, a longsword, and a spiked mace. They moved with a crude but determined coordination, trying to surround him.

The young man didn't hesitate.

SWOOSH!

He ducked under the swing of the axe, his sword stabbing upward into the wielder's throat. Black flames erupted from the wound, consuming the man's head before his body hit the ground. Spinning on his heel, the stranger's blade met the downward strike of the mace, deflecting it with a sharp clang before slicing cleanly through the attacker's side.

CLANG! SLASH!

The fifth mercenary hesitated for a fraction of a second, his grip tightening on the longsword as fear flickered in his eyes. But the stranger gave him no chance to retreat. With a sudden burst of speed, he closed the distance, his blade slashing horizontally. The black flames followed the arc of the sword, engulfing the mercenary before he could even cry out.

Five bodies lay sprawled across the ground, their twisted, charred remains sending wisps of smoke into the night air. The other mercenaries, who had been so eager to jeer and mock just moments before, now stood frozen, their faces pale as they stared at the stranger.

He straightened, his sword still alight with the shadowy flames, and turned his gaze to the remaining mercenaries. His smirk was gone, replaced by a cold, detached expression that sent a chill through the camp.

"Anyone else?" he asked, his voice calm and almost mocking.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the crackling of the black flames.

"You….."

And there was one person who remembered who this guy was.

After all, there was only person who had used black flames while fighting. Someone whose name had spread quite far in the recent two months, after stirring trouble with all the people here.

"Are you the Sword Demon?"

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, as the last whisper of black flames died out, leaving only charred corpses and the acrid stench of burning flesh in their wake. The remaining mercenaries looked at the stranger with wide eyes, their earlier bravado replaced by a palpable fear that hung in the air like a storm cloud.

"You…" one of them finally managed, his voice trembling. He pointed a shaky finger at the young man, his face pale and glistening with sweat. "You're the Sword Demon, aren't you?"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, mercenaries exchanging panicked glances as recognition dawned. The Sword Demon—a name that had carved itself into infamy over the past two months. Tales of a lone swordsman who had dared to provoke and survive a confrontation with the Cloud Heavens Sect had spread like wildfire. Some whispered he was a demon himself, while others swore he was an outcast from a sect, wielding forbidden techniques. Whatever the truth, one fact was undeniable: he was dangerous.

The wiry mercenary who had earlier mocked the stranger stumbled backward, clutching at his bleeding side. "The Sword Demon… here? Why… why the hell would he come here?"

The stranger's dark eyes swept over the group, cold and unfeeling, as if weighing their worth. He said nothing, letting the silence and their growing unease answer for him. The shadows of his sword still flickered faintly, casting an eerie glow against his stoic features.

One of the older mercenaries, a grizzled veteran with a patch over one eye, stepped forward, his voice gruff but tinged with apprehension. "If you're really him, then what the hell do you want with us? You didn't come here just to make a mess of my camp, did you?"

The stranger tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "I told you when I arrived. I'm here to see the Mad Dogs. Now, fetch your leader before I decide to finish what I started."

The threat wasn't loud or overt, but it carried a weight that made the remaining mercenaries flinch. The grizzled veteran nodded stiffly, turning to one of his subordinates and jerking his thumb toward the largest tent in the camp.

"Go get Zirkel. Now."