dmims Chapter 178 "The Cold-Hearted"
Chapter 178 "The Cold-Hearted"
Chapter 109 "The Cold-Hearted"
"Hey, Lightning Boy!" A mercenary glared angrily at the heavily armed Lightning Legion soldiers.
Behind the soldiers were the captured high-ranking officers, knights, and squires of Valantis.
"These are our prisoners, and we have the right to take them to court for ransom! You have no right to touch them!"
Yes, this was indeed the rule of the time: captured knights and soldiers, and even ordinary conscripts and auxiliary soldiers, could be put on the negotiating table as bargaining chips to obtain corresponding ransoms from their families or countries.
Moreover, for these mercenaries, killing these prisoners was tantamount to destroying their enormous bounty on the spot. They didn't want to return home penniless after the war, which was far removed from their expectation of "getting rich." Tiberius's order to massacre them directly deprived them of their most important economic gain.
"Habrol—" Tiberius coldly swept his gaze over the scattered soldiers, completely ignoring them, and directly ordered Habrol to step forward. "Bring me my riding whip!"
"Tiberius—" Habroy looked at the prisoners with some reluctance, but when he looked at Tiberius, he swallowed the words he wanted to say.
He actually opposed killing these prisoners as well.
Imagine if you were captured one day, and if your reputation was "merciful and brave" (meaning you often won battles and were kind to prisoners), then there's a high probability that your reputation would save your life.
However, if it is "cruel and ruthless" (often winning battles but being quite merciless to prisoners), then — leaving a whole corpse is already a mercy from the King of Light.
But Habroy knew that Tiberius was a determined young man who would not change his mind because of opposition.
"Bring me my riding crop!" Tiberius shouted. "Didn't you hear me? I told you to bring me the riding crop!"
"Boy—you wait! When the Imperial army arrives, you, your uncle, and all those pathetic scum under your command will be hanged on the black wall!" The company commander, the "Uncrowned Prince," knew he was doomed. Under the shadow of death, he let out his final roar.
His hands were tightly bound to a wooden stake, the rough hemp rope leaving his wrists covered in purplish-blue marks. His ornate armor had been stripped off by the soldiers, leaving him only in a coarse hemp coat.
"You will be hanged by the Imperial army, your corpses hung on the black walls to flutter in the wind, becoming pathetic decorations! You may win once, ten times, even a hundred times! But when the Imperial's war wheels are about to crush you, not even the Targaryen's dragonfire can protect you!"
"Enough with the noise!" Tiberius said coldly. "Is that your last words? Then you can die!"
Tiberius said nothing more. The leather creaked slightly in his metal-gloved hands. He stood behind his company commander, facing the mercenaries.
"Watch," Tiberius's voice was eerily calm. "Watch them all."
Tiberius wrapped the riding crop around the company commander's neck, the handle on the left and the whip on the right. He raised his knee and pressed it against the prisoner's back.
This is a pose that has nothing to do with execution—it looks more like a horse trainer taming a wild horse.
Then he began to tighten.
The first few seconds were eerily silent: the executioner's hands instinctively reached for the leather straps around his neck, his nails digging into the whip. A hoarse, hissing sound came from his throat, like a broken bellows.
Tiberius did not pull hard. He applied pressure slowly and steadily, his arm muscles bulging.
The prisoner shuddered violently. He let out a short, sharp "hoarse" sound, like a sob abruptly interrupted.
His survival instinct kicked in, and he began to struggle. His hands, bound behind his back to the stake, twisted in vain, his shoulders hunched as he tried to reach the tight leather cord with his chin. But Tiberius held his head firmly in place with his other hand, which was clad in an iron gauntlet.
What followed was a silent struggle of pure strength. Tiberius leaned back, his teeth clenched, veins bulging on his forehead. The whip dug deep into the flesh of the captive's neck, leaving a pale indentation, which quickly swelled to a deep red due to lack of oxygen and pressure, then turned purple.
The prisoner's struggles went from fierce to limp. His eyes were wide open, bulging outwards, bloodshot instantly. Rain fell on his wide-open pupils, but could no longer cause him to blink.
His mouth opened, emitting a silent scream, his tongue uncontrollably sticking out slightly. His legs kicked unconsciously in the mud, stirring up a cloud of sludge, but the movements became smaller and smaller.
Finally, a violent spasm from deep within his chest coursed through his body, and all his strength vanished instantly. His head snapped back, then relaxed completely, his neck tilted to one side at an unnatural angle, his pupils dilated, reflecting the gray sky and the cold rain.
Tiberius did not immediately release his grip, but maintained that position for a few more seconds before slowly releasing the pressure. The whip loosened, leaving two deep, wet welt marks on the prisoner's purplish-black neck.
He tossed aside the lifeless body like a broken tool, letting it slump into the mud with a dull "plop".
The corpse's eyeballs bulged out, staring at some empty point in front of it, but there was only a gray sky and bare tree branches.
"Now," Tiberius's voice was completely flat.
"Everyone, kill the prisoners, and I'll give five gold coins for each head, officers and soldiers alike; or don't kill them, and you won't get a single gold coin. The choice is yours!"
Another bugle call sounded in the distance.
Tiberius turned around, his chest rising and falling slightly, his breathing a little heavy. He lifted the gauntlet, which was stained with mud and some unknown water, and casually tossed the whip back to Habroy.
"Are you deaf? Do it!" Dmitri shouted at his Lightning Legion soldiers, ordering them to execute the prisoners.
"The ruthless one—" a soldier whispered.
"The Cold-Hearted One!"
"The Cold-Hearted One!"
"The Cold-Hearted One!"
Wave after wave of noise, each one louder than the last, overwhelmed Tiberius.
These voices contained both fear and dread, as well as admiration for his courage.
"That's good, at least that sounds much better than 'the weakling.'" Tibbs nodded slightly.
"Let our soldiers execute them quickly, with flails, daggers, and spears, as if they were working in the fields," Tiberius ordered Dmitri. "But be swift, after all—"
He looked into the distance. Under the gloomy sky, there were faint traces of city walls in the distance, and to the left of the city walls, the rushing river silently flowed into the River of Controversy.
"Now is our chance to make a fortune!"
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