The Scum Emperor's Redemption System

"Over there!" A sharp, youthful voice sliced through the chaos like an arrow, demanding attention with an urgency that left no room for hesitation.

Heads turned as one, their gazes locking onto the boy—no older than thirteen—whose ragged breath barely betrayed his steel-like resolve. It was that same boy they took in. And this was no ordinary child.

He bore the unmistakable signs of a young Peliotus Warrior: lean but powerful muscles, a cold fire in his eyes, and a stance that spoke of deadly precision.

The Peliotus were infamous, whispered about in dread-soaked taverns and sung of in grim battle chants—warriors forged in the crucible of discipline before they could walk, trained to fight as fiercely as the beasts they tamed.

"Tch, the brat was from the Peliotus," Tina spat, her voice trembling with equal parts irritation and dread. Her fists clenched, knuckles whitening around the hilt of her blade as she eyed the boy like he was a viper poised to strike.

"Yeah, no mistaking it," Uzak muttered, gritting his teeth as his sword clanged against the hefty blade of a seasoned Peliotus warrior—a mountain of a man whose every swing left a storm in its wake. "I-I've heard the stories! Kids trained to slit throats before they learn their l..letters. T-Tradition, honor, or whatever... Sounds more like cruelty to me!"

"Cruelty?" The towering warrior before him laughed—a sound as bitter and sharp as shattered iron. "You speak of cruelty, Valtirium dog? You, whose people burn villages for sport and call it justice? Tyrants like you don't get to preach."

The warrior's words were punctuated by the symphony of battle: the ring of steel against steel, the sickening thud of flesh meeting earth, the anguished cries of soldiers swallowed by the unforgiving tide.

Blood slicked the ground beneath the towering trees, seeping into roots that had drunk their fill of centuries of violence. The air reeked of iron and death, thick enough to choke even the most seasoned of fighters.

And yet, the true terror lay beyond the clash of swords. In the shadows lurked the beasts, their glowing eyes piercing through the murk.

Some were no larger than wolves, cunning and swift, while others towered like nightmares given flesh—hulking abominations of claws and teeth, their fur matted with gore.

The ground trembled as one particularly massive dire wolf prowled into view, its maw dripping with the remnants of its latest kill.

The warriors, skilled though they were, became prey under the canopy of blood-stained leaves. Men were crushed beneath the weight of the monstrous warriors or—when fate was feeling especially cruel—ripped apart by the jaws of the ravenous beasts.

The Peliotus made no distinction between life and death; every fallen foe was but sustenance for their war-bound companions.

As the boy raised his spear—a weapon too large for his slender frame but wielded with terrifying ease—he called out again, his voice cutting through the storm of battle like a promise of doom. "For Peliotus! For the unyielding!"

Uzak and Tina exchanged a glance, their breaths ragged but their resolve unbroken. "We're not making it out of this one alive, are we?" Tina whispered, a smirk ghosting across her lips despite the despair.

Uzak grinned, though the weight of the dire wolf's shadow loomed over him. "If we're going down, we'll make sure they remember us."

"How boring," came a voice, cutting through the chaotic symphony of battle with the calm disdain of someone observing a tedious chore.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

It was Denzelle. He stood off to the side, his posture relaxed, arms crossed, as though the carnage around him were little more than a passing inconvenience. The others couldn't help but side-eye him, their expressions a mix of disbelief and exasperation.

"The hell are you talking about, Denzelle?" Tina snapped, her blade gleaming with fresh blood as she whipped her head toward him. "You've barely fought!"

He sighed, his head tilting slightly as if her accusation were a particularly dull riddle. "These people," he began, gesturing lazily to the battlefield strewn with bodies, "are just a bunch of lower rankers. Cannon fodder. Probably eager to curry favor with their so-called lord."

Tina bristled, her knuckles whitening around her sword hilt. "And you would know this how, exactly?"

Denzelle smirked faintly. "I read, Tina. You should try it sometime."

Of course, he would know. As the third son of the illustrious Arctera household—scholars whose knowledge rivaled the archives of kings—Denzelle had likely studied every tribe and beast on this battlefield before he ever picked up a sword. That he chose to wield one at all was something of a mystery, considering his disdain for anything that required physical effort.

"Whatever," Tina snarled, turning back to the fray. "Talk less. Fight more."

Denzelle rolled his eyes, drawing his blade with a languid motion, as though even the act of arming himself was beneath him. "Fine. I'll handle this."

The moment the sword left its sheath, the world shifted. It was subtle at first—a faint hum, like the lowest note of a requiem—but quickly grew into an oppressive weight that blanketed the battlefield.

The air grew thick and stifling, as if the very essence of life had been drained from it. Colors dulled, sounds faded into a muffled echo, and a sense of dread settled over everyone, friend and foe alike.

A dark aura, swirling with streaks of crimson and black, coiled around his blade like a serpent. The energy pulsed, alive and hungry, silencing even the bravest of warriors mid-charge. It was as though the world itself recoiled in fear.

And then he moved.

Denzelle was a blur—no, less than a blur. He was a phantom, a streak of darkness darting through beasts and men alike. One moment, he was still, his sardonic smirk intact.

The next, he was everywhere, his blade singing through the air in a series of arcs too swift for the eye to follow.

At first, nothing seemed to happen. The enemies he passed remained frozen in place, their weapons half-raised, their faces twisted into expressions of shock. But then it began.

With a wet, sickening splurch, blood erupted in fountains, spraying in every direction. Bodies collapsed in heaps, their forms crumbling as though they were no longer flesh but ash, disintegrating into the earth in grotesque clouds of red and gray.

What little remained was unrecognizable—limbs twisted and warped, faces erased by whatever unnatural force Denzelle had unleashed.

For a moment, the battlefield was silent, save for the faint rustle of falling ash. Denzelle stood in the center of it all, his blade resting casually on his shoulder, the aura fading as swiftly as it had appeared.

He yawned. "See? Easy. You're all just overcomplicating things."

Tina stared, her mouth agape. Uzak, barely holding back a curse, muttered, "And here I thought you were just dead weight."

Denzelle turned to them, his expression one of mild annoyance. "Can we leave now? This has been painfully beneath me."

Fialova burst through the thick of the chaos, her movements a blur of speed and purpose. Argider slumped unconscious across her back, her slight frame jostling with each stride.

Though Fialova's newfound powers made her swift as the wind, they were still unfamiliar, her steps occasionally faltering as she adjusted to the surging strength coursing through her veins.

She skidded to a stop in the clearing where Denzelle stood alongside Uzak and Tina, the latter still cursing under her breath between parries.

The battlefield stretched around them in a grotesque tableau of fallen warriors and circling beasts, but Fialova's focus was on the immediate task: escape.

"These fighters..." Fialova's voice was steady, but her eyes flicked uneasily over the trembling warriors still holding their ground. "They're just here to delay us, aren't they? Nothing more than a distraction."

Denzelle didn't bother looking up from where he leaned casually against a tree, his blood-streaked sword still resting on his shoulder. "Obviously," he said, his tone dripping with disinterest. "Peliotus warriors don't fight like this. They're too proud. Headstrong. These lot? They're terrified. It's written all over them."

Fialova glanced back at Argider, adjusting her position to keep the unconscious woman secure. "I'm taking her Majesty out of here," she said firmly.

Uzak approached, his breathing labored, the edges of his armor dented from countless blows. He frowned, gesturing at the limp figure on Fialova's back. "What happened to her? Is she hurt?"

"She..." Fialova hesitated, then sighed. "She passed out. From... vomiting too much."

There was a collective groan from the group. Even Tina, in the middle of cutting down an opponent, managed an incredulous, "Are you kidding me? Now of all times?"

"Wonderful," Uzak muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Our fearless leader, brought down by her stomach."

"Focus," Denzelle snapped, pushing off the tree with an air of authority that was at once effortless and infuriating. "She's not useful to us like this, so get her out of here. I'll hold things down here. Just keep moving—get past this mess so we can deal with the Empress Dowager already."

Fialova nodded, her grip tightening on Argider. Without another word, she bolted toward the treeline, her strides swift and sure.

Tina and Uzak turned their attention back to the fight, blades flashing as they carved a path forward, while Denzelle remained where he was, surveying the chaos like a disinterested god.

As Fialova sprinted through the forest, the trees became a blur of green and shadow, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands.

The sounds of battle faded behind her, replaced by the rhythm of her own breathing and the rustle of leaves underfoot.

She could feel the weight of Argider shifting with each leap, but her focus remained unbroken.

"Just hold on," Fialova muttered under her breath, though whether she spoke to herself or the unconscious Argider, she wasn't sure.

Above, the canopy grew thicker, blotting out the last rays of the sun. The shadows deepened, and for a brief, chilling moment, it felt as though they were running not toward safety, but into the jaws of something far worse.