Re: In My Bloody Hit Novel

Chapter 547: Dylan And Timothy Vs Holy Church

Timothy led Dylan to an old, abandoned hut nestled deep within a forest. The structure was small and worn, with wooden walls that had seen better days and a roof that sagged in several places. Inside, the air was musty, and the remnants of past occupants were scattered about—broken furniture, tattered curtains, and a few rusted tools. The ceiling had multiple holes, allowing the moonlight to filter through in patches. They were fortunate it wasn’t the rainy season, as the hut would have offered little protection from a storm.

Timothy motioned for Dylan to take a seat on an old, rickety chair, while he settled into a creaky armchair by the corner. They waited in silence, the sounds of the night filling the gaps. Dylan’s mind was a whirlpool of questions, but one in particular pressed forward.

"How did your father die?" Dylan asked, his voice soft but filled with curiosity.

Timothy sighed, his gaze distant as he leaned back in the chair. "After Victor took the throne, the royal army came under his command. My father, Captain Timi, was a loyal follower of Prince Chiron. He believed that Chiron had been framed and refused to acknowledge Victor as the rightful king. He was the one who formed the resistance, along with Chiron’s men and the orcs. because of their incredible battle achievements as a result of Prince Chiron’s conquests, they quickly amassed followers."

Timothy’s voice grew heavier with each word, the weight of his memories pulling him down. "For weeks, the resistance was a thorn in Victor’s side. They attacked supply units and became a terror to the king’s forces. My father was relentless, driven by his loyalty and sense of justice. Which was rare to see him have as he was a real irresponsible man, even abandoning me and my mother to go fight in the war or sleep with other women.

But this is one time in my life that I was actually proud of my father. When even the chiefs bowed their heads, submitting to King Victor’s tyranny, he stood firm against all odds."

Dylan listened intently, the dim light casting shadows on Timothy’s face, highlighting the sorrow etched into his features.

"King Victor eventually sent the royal army after my father," Timothy continued, his voice now tinged with a mixture of sadness and bitterness. "An epic battle of spiritual energy unfolded. My father fought bravely, but he was ultimately killed by none other than Commander Hardstone, his own brother."

Dylan’s eyes widened in shock. He remembered the deep bond Commander Hardstone had with his younger brother, Captain Timi. He knew Commander Hardstone, had met him once in Chanland Kingdom, and remembered how Hardstone spoke fondly of his younger brother, Captain Timi.

The betrayal must have cut deep.

"Commander Hardstone is bound by the blood oath contract to the throne," Timothy explained, his tone darkening. "Regardless of who sits on the throne. He must follow orders, no matter how much it pained him to kill his own brother."

Timothy’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white. "But I will have my revenge," he said menacingly, his voice low and filled with a deadly resolve. The intensity of his emotions caused him to clench the plate in his hand so tightly that it shattered, pieces scattering across the floor.@@@@

Dylan noticed the shards of the plate, glinting in the moonlight, and the fierce determination in Timothy’s eyes. This was a boy driven by the desire for vengeance, and Dylan could see that nothing would stand in his way.

The hut fell into silence once more, the gravity of Timothy’s story hanging heavily in the air. Dylan felt a newfound respect for the man before him, understanding the pain and anger that fueled his actions.

As they sat in the abandoned hideout, awaiting word from Timothy’s superiors, Dylan had a feeling that their fates were now intertwined in a complex web of loyalty, betrayal, and the quest for justice. Even though his was a much different form of justice, it was all still the same thing.

He began counting. "One... two... three..." His voice echoed ominously through the night. The tension grew with each passing second, but the hut remained silent.

As he counted down, the other men in robes at the side all got ready for battle. Some of them glowing with their spiritual energy. And certain treasures on their bodies glowing accordingly.

".... Nine..."

Suddenly, Dylan burst out of the hut, a rush of spiritual energy enveloping his body. His sword gleamed as he brought it down on the man counting.

The robed figure’s staff glowed with a holy light, forming a shield that intercepted the blow. *CLANK!*

The man smirked, "The blade of a heretic like you can never harm me. I bath in the holy light of the goddess."

Dylan’s eyes narrowed as he fed more of his power into the blade. It began to glow faintly with a copper hue, the force digging deeper into the shield.

The man’s smile faltered as he realized the shield was cracking. He backed off just in time to avoid a full slash, but not quickly enough to evade completely. The sword grazed his arm, drawing blood.

Dylan landed gracefully on the ground, a small smile playing on his lips as he leaped back, evading the retaliatory strikes from the other men in robes. One of them rushed to the injured man’s side. "Are you okay?" he asked urgently.

The injured man nodded, raising his head to glare at Dylan. "It is just a scratch from a pagan. Nothing our goddess cannot treat."

But as he spoke, a look of discomfort crossed his face. He clutched his stomach, his expression shifting from anger to confusion, then to sheer horror.

The same gruesome fate that had befallen others cut by Dylan’s blade began to unfold. Blood poured from his mouth as he doubled over, vomiting. His insides churned violently, and within moments, he was vomiting chunks of flesh. His comrades watched in terror, one of them even vomiting to the side at the grotesque sight.

The man’s eyes bulged in agony as his organs were expelled through his mouth. His intestines unraveled, and his lungs and heart followed, until he collapsed in a lifeless heap in a pool of his own blood. The remaining robed figures stared in horror, their confidence shaken by the sight of their comrade’s gruesome death.

Dylan, now standing defiantly before them, felt a surge of satisfaction. The fear in the eyes of his enemies was palpable. Timothy, watching from the shadows, felt a mix of awe and battle intent. The battle was far from over, but they had already dealt a significant blow to their adversaries.

Although a blow to morale, this was certainly not enough against these men.