West Village—screams, wails, and furious roars rang out without end.
Flames and blood continued to spread.
The Purging Knights were slaughtering the refugees who lived here, subjecting them to the most brutal massacre.
Old men, children, men, and women alike were all prey to be hunted. It was a scene of unimaginable cruelty.
A group of ordinary people stood no chance against the Purging Knights. Even against ordinary Purging Knights, they had no power to fight back.
Yet amid the slaughter, the distant, crystalline sound of a harp rang out from time to time.
Looking closely, one could see a handsome knight clad in silver armor, with long red hair and his eyes closed, killing people with the weapon in his hands.
It was an ornate metal longbow with several silver strings, turning the bow into a harp-bow.
He plucked those strings, producing clear and pleasant notes. Yet accompanying them were blades of wind that stole lives.
Refugees were effortlessly slain from afar, with each attack cutting down groups at once. A large number of Purging Knights had gathered here and surrounded West Village, leaving the refugees nowhere to flee.
The ordinary warriors stationed here, along with the Hassans of the Hundred Faces, had already been slain. Not a single one escaped.
This man was Tristan, the sorrowful member of the Knights of the Round Table.
Amid the cold-blooded slaughter, Tristan spoke. "How tragic. Fleeing, roaring, resisting—all are pointless."
"In this world fated for destruction, the King has bestowed upon you the most merciful end. You should accept it with gratitude. Why persist in this futile resistance? It will only bring you more pain."
"Moreover, the actions of us Knights of the Round Table are equally tragic. We should have found this place ourselves, yet we needed the King to