Demon Hunter and His Cabin
Chapter 407 - Chapter 407 Chapter 407 Please Choose a Way to Die

Chapter 407: Chapter 407: Please Choose a Way to Die Chapter 407: Chapter 407: Please Choose a Way to Die The room wasn’t large, with only a wooden bed and a chair aside from a few other pieces of furniture, and no decorations or personal items in sight.

Clean and tidy.

So ordinary that it offered no clues.

“Strange, all the other rooms in the castle are in ruins,” said Goway, puzzled, “so why is this one kept so clean, as if someone has been living here all along.”

Suddenly, she spun around.

“The door!”

Roger looked in the direction of her voice and saw that, where they had just entered, the previously shattered wooden door had reassembled itself, looking as though nothing had changed.

Except for the color of the door.

It was no longer the red of fresh blood but just the ordinary color of natural wood.

“Creak.”

Roger stepped forward and opened the wooden door.

Warm sunlight fell on his face.

It was the sun’s last rays, not blinding but comfortable enough to feel the warmth.

In the distance, there was a smooth lake, its waters reflecting the fiery red sunlight like a beautiful ruby.

On a lounger by the lake, an old man with a fishing rod sat quietly, his silhouette aged.

Before Roger could say anything, the old man on the chair hushed them in a low voice, “Shh… Don’t talk.”

“The fish has taken the bait!”

He tilted his head as if he could really hear the sound from under the water.

The fish opened its mouth to swallow the bait, its soft lips pierced by the sharp hook, and in the next second, the old man’s wrist flicked, the fishing rod soared high, and a big fish was flung into the air. It accurately landed in the fishing basket.

The old man’s other sleeve was empty, and he set down the fishing rod, leaned over to pick up the bucket lid, and covered the struggling fish.

Roger could see clearly that there were exactly three fish in the bucket.

He turned his head to take another glance at the wooden hut behind him, seeming to understand something.

The old man turned around and looked at the three of them.

“You could have had a chance,” he said, a trace of regret in his eyes.

“What chance?” Henrik asked.

“The chance to live.”

“That cute little bird…” he glanced at Goway, “perhaps it’s all arranged by destiny.”

Roger’s pupils contracted slightly; it seemed that at the Tomb of King Arthur, this old man might have already sensed something.

He had chosen not to act at that time, perhaps to avoid exposing himself. Yet, after all the twists and turns, everything had come full circle, maybe just as he said.

“How should I address you?”

“Bedivere.”

The three of them held their breath.

“The first and the last knight.”

Goway bit her lip, “My brother inherited the name of Tristan, and only a few days have passed, yet I have the fortune to meet another Heritage Knight.”

“And it seems like he plans to kill us.”

“What about the vaunted chivalry of knights?”

“All because we discovered your secret?”

“The secret of collecting the souls of ordinary people near the Tomb of King Arthur?”

Goway clenched her fists. What happened to Grace made it very hard for her to have any positive feelings about Heritage Knights and the Round Table Knight Order.

“Your brother became a Heritage Knight?”

Bedivere sighed.

“That’s truly a fate more despairing than death.”

“Haha.”

“The honorable Round Table Knight Order.”

Bedivere gripped the fishing rod tightly, and as he raised his hand, it transformed into a glittering Longsword.

“You have no need to fight us,” said Roger, his lips barely parting, “what you’ve done in the castle might seem terrifying, but you haven’t harmed many lives. Even if we tell others, it won’t have any effect on you.”

Bedivere obstinately shook his head.

“You don’t understand, don’t understand what being a Heritage Knight means, nor do you understand the role I play here.”

“There’s no such thing as an inheritance, is there?”

Goway yelled, “The so-called successor is nothing but a container, a vessel meant to hold the soul of the original knight!”

Bedivere chuckled, “This is hardly a secret among higher Transcendents, but it has nothing to do with whether I should kill you or not.”

“Does an elephant need a reason to crush an ant?”

“The only thing you can blame is your bad luck…”

Before he finished speaking, an ice arrow shot rapidly from a distance.

With a flick of his wrist, Bedivere’s Longsword shattered Henrik’s sneak attack.

“A Second Tier Secret Blood Witch, a Second Tier Blood Hunter.”

“And you…”

His gaze settled on Roger.

“Odd little fellow, you might have some tricks up your sleeve, but, unfortunately, in the face of absolute strength, none of that matters.”

Bedivere stepped forward, his weapon flaming intensely in his hand.

“Although I am old, to kill you…”

“One sword is enough!”

“Whoosh!”

The flames engulfed the entire space, and for an instant, even the afterglow of the setting sun was overshadowed by the brilliance of this sword!

But within those flames, a figure stepped out.

Roger had donned a black tight combat suit at some point, ignoring the surrounding flames, as he placed the Cursed Sword in the path of Bedivere’s attack.

“You may be an elephant.”

Roger let out a cold laugh.

“But are we ants to be trampled at will?!”

“Your power?”

A trace of surprise crossed Bedivere’s face; he had misjudged, for the young man before him was not a deceiving Second Tier.

He was Third Tier!

Bedivere was obviously a master of close-quarter swordsmanship, and although Roger’s overall strength had reached Third Tier, his physical condition had become a temporary weakness.

It was one thing to fight monsters, but against a powerful physical force like Bedivere with terrifying energy and exquisite swordsmanship…

Even a minor deficiency in physical condition could be grossly magnified and turned into an irreparable vulnerability.

The combat suit, transformed from a cloak, tightened sharply as dark energy flowed into the Cursed Sword, and Roger hesitated not to activate a function inherent to the Cursed Sword.

[Blood Feast]: When the wronged souls cloaking the sword reach saturation and the Curse Power is activated, the dark energy stimulates the user’s body, causing it to erupt with strength far beyond its normal state.

While augmenting attack power, it also rapidly heals wounds on the holder, but this process accelerates the erosion of dark energy on the holder’s body and mind.

Roger shouted, and under the invasion of the dark energy, his physical condition nearly doubled!

The edges of his cheeks bristled with blood vessels like spider webs, his pupils became nearly pitch black, and the veins around his eyes looked as though they were about to burst, giving him the appearance of a demon crawling out of the Abyss.

“This weapon?” Bedivere exclaimed in shock.

Murderous intent burst forth from Roger’s chest, his power erupting as he pressed forward forcefully.

“In the castle, you played us all, making us perform according to the script you wrote.”

Driven by his fierce strength, Bedivere’s body staggered backward as Roger advanced with momentum.

“Now, I have crafted my own story for you.”

After a brief charge, Roger roared.

[Heavy]

Boom!

Bedivere was like a shell hit by a cannonball, flying over a dozen meters before crashing with a thunderous noise into the lake far away.

Waves rippled spreading across the lake, now tinged red like spilt blood.

Roger exhaled.

Dark smoke swirled from his mouth and nose.

“The process of the story isn’t important.”

“What matters is the ending.”

“I’ve prepared 15 ways for you to die…”

“Please pick one!”

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