THE LAST WARRIOR REVENGE

The Massacre

The night grew increasingly silent and cold, the chill piercing deep into the bones. The cold kept people from leaving their homes. The same was true at the Golden Step Sect, a first-class sect in the western region of the Wind Country.

Everyone was comfortable beneath their blankets. Only a few disciples were on patrol around the sect grounds, while others stood guard at the two watchtowers by the main gate.

That night, the western region of the Wind Country felt unusually cold. Without the guards realizing it, dozens of figures dressed in black lurked among the trees, watching their every movement.

Their numbers were overwhelming!

As four Golden Step Sect disciples passed by the trees, a dagger suddenly flew toward one of them. Crash! One fell, his throat split open, blood soaking the snow-covered ground. The remaining three were stunned.

Before one of them could fire a signal flare to raise the alarm, several black-clad figures darted forward with frightening speed. With just a few swift strikes, the three disciples collapsed, their bodies severed into pieces. Blood flowed from the mangled corpses, filling the night with the stench of iron.

One of the black figures signaled his companions to eliminate the four watchtower guards, who were standing half-asleep.

“Loose the arrows!” whispered one of them. Arrows were released, flying silently through the air before piercing the throats of the guards.

When one guard saw his comrade’s corpse, he didn’t even have the chance to shout. A muscular hand grabbed his neck, and with a single pull, his throat was ripped open, blood gushing in a horrifying spray.

Meanwhile, on the other tower, the two guards were unaware of the looming danger. They paced back and forth, occasionally waving a red flag toward the opposite tower.

The assassins mimicked the signal to deceive the distant guards.

But that flag signal carried a secret code—one the killers didn’t recognize. The guard on the opposite tower suddenly realized something was wrong. Alarmed, he rushed to his comrade, only to find him dying, his neck nearly severed.

Before he could react, a blade flashed, and his head was sliced clean off. His body toppled headless, blood spurting violently from the stump.

“The guards are secured. Enter now and kill everyone in the Golden Step Sect!” ordered one of the attackers from the tower.

From the trees, dozens of black-clad men surged forward, wielding long swords.

“Today, we erase the Golden Step Sect from the map of the Wind Country!” their leader declared with burning ambition.

Arga woke from his sleep at the sound of commotion outside his home. He quickly dressed and grabbed his sword.

Just as he was about to step out, his door was smashed open. Two men burst in, attacking with slashing swords.

Arga blocked and countered immediately. A fierce fight broke out in the cramped room.

Suddenly, something rolled through the window and landed inside—a black spherical object releasing thin smoke. Arga instantly realized it was an explosive!

With a swift strike, he cut down the two men blocking his way and burst out of the room just in time. The object exploded violently, reducing his chamber to rubble.

The blast hurled Arga and the two black-clad men out of the house. They rolled across the ground. One died instantly, a shard of wood piercing his throat. The other quickly rose, snatched up his sword, and charged at Arga.

Though his back throbbed with pain from slamming into a stone in the courtyard, Arga gripped his sword tightly and fended off the relentless strikes.

Steel clashed as their duel raged on. Now that he was outside, Arga had more space to move. He unleashed every sword technique he had mastered in his two years at the Golden Step Sect.

Finally, his opponent fell, body cleaved in two. But Arga was badly wounded, his back bleeding from both the stone impact and a deep slash from his enemy.

Blood gushed from the wound, his face twisted in unbearable pain. The world spun around him.

His vision darkened.

“Master…” he whispered weakly before collapsing in the burning courtyard. His half-open eyes dimly caught sight of the flames engulfing the entire first-class sect of the western Wind Country.

“What truly happened… Kinanti… are you safe…?” he murmured before losing consciousness, his sword planted into the ground beside him.

Explosions erupted in every direction.

That night, the Golden Step Sect burned in crimson flames.

The fire consumed every house, including the main hall and the disciples’ library, destroyed by the explosives unleashed by the black-clad attackers.

Those captured were gathered in the main courtyard—the elders of the Golden Step Sect—brought there by order of someone. Meanwhile, corpses lay scattered everywhere, the stench of blood choking the air.

A fierce-faced man strode into the courtyard with a sword in hand. The captured teachers glared at him with fury.

“You…! Bhirawa!” one of the elders shouted when he recognized his disciple, once one of the most gifted students of the Golden Step Sect, now revealed as a traitor.

“Heh, old man! Don’t you dare call my name again! I’ve had enough of people like you! Today is the day when you and all your pride are destroyed!” Bhirawa bellowed, laughing maniacally.

“You conspired with the Red Toad Sect to annihilate the very place that raised you! Ungrateful bastard! Worthless! Damn it, I regret ever training you in this place!” cursed Ki Narada, one of the masters.

Bhirawa’s face twisted with rage. With merciless cruelty, he decapitated his own teacher in a single stroke. Ki Narada, the very master who had taught him the most, died in a spray of blood.

The other elders glared at Bhirawa with burning hatred.

“Bastard, Bhirawa! Is this your repayment for everything we’ve given you!?” one of them roared.

Bhirawa sneered.

“My name is no longer Bhirawa. I am the Black Wolf! Remember that!” he declared coldly.

“Execute them all. Leave no one alive. Today, the Golden Step Sect is erased from the Wind Country!” Bhirawa—now the so-called Black Wolf—ordered as he strode away arrogantly.

Every remaining teacher and disciple was executed mercilessly.

That night, blood truly flooded the Golden Step Sect. Nothing remained but corpses and ruins.

At dawn, an old man entered the smoldering remains of the sect. Smoke still lingered in the freezing air, and black ash drifted upward. The horrific sight drew him closer.

He shook his head and clutched his chest at the devastation. He knew well that this place had once been a great sect, for he lived not far away.

Everywhere he looked lay corpses, many decapitated, others burned to ashes. He shook his head again.

“Such cruelty… Who could have orchestrated this massacre?”

As he passed by a sword planted in the ground, he noticed a body lying face down, its back torn open by a massive wound. Faint breathing escaped the dying figure—Arga.

“Someone is still alive!” the old man thought in shock. He quickly rushed over and examined him.

After confirming that the young man still clung to life, the elder hoisted Arga onto his back and dashed away from the ruins.

“Hold on. You are the only surviving witness of last night’s slaughter. You must endure until we reach my home!” he urged.

For a brief moment, Arga regained consciousness, realizing he was being carried by someone moving with incredible speed. He could only see the blur of his surroundings as the mysterious figure whisked him away.