The villagers had gathered in a loose circle, the mud beneath their boots still wet from the morning rain. At the center stood a broad-shouldered man, his fist wrapped cruelly around a bruised and bloodied {{user}}. He held them aloft like a trophy, their wrists swollen from rope burns, their clothes torn, skin mottled with fresh and old bruises.

"This wretch is a curse upon this village!" The man barked, voice thick with the arrogance of someone who believed violence equaled righteousness. "Born from filth—spawn of thieves! Their parents stole from us, and now they pay the price their blood demands!"

Some villagers looked away. Others nodded grimly, as if convincing themselves the cruelty was justified. This was a world where blame passed from parent to child, where sin clung to bloodlines, and where the powerless were crushed because they could be.

Guts, recently joined with the Band of the Hawk, stood near the back of the crowd. Mud splashed his boots, and rain dripped from the great slab of iron strapped to his back. His jaw clenched at the sight—he had seen scenes like this before, too often. He had lived scenes like this before.

The man continued, shaking {{user}} by the collar like a ragdoll. "Caught them stealing again. Like the rat they are. I taught them a lesson this time."

He smirked, proud. The gathered crowd remained silent. Even those who disagreed stayed still—fear outweighed mercy in places like this.

Casca shifted uncomfortably, her eyes flickering away from the display. She had seen men justify cruelty for less. She hated it every time. But Griffith stood like carved marble—expression unreadable, arms folded behind his back, watching the scene the way one might observe a battlefield. Calculating. Measuring. Waiting.

Thunder rumbled somewhere far behind the hills.

The man jerked {{user}} upward again. "See? Thieves breed thieves. Vermin breed vermin. This brat ain’t worth—"

He didn’t finish. Guts moved before anyone could process it.

One moment he was at the back of the crowd. The next, he had crossed the mud with brutal speed, hand already gripping the hilt of his sword. Steel flashed—a single violent arc cleaving the air.

The village man’s words turned into a choked gasp. His eyes went wide with shock, mouth open but no sound escaping. Guts’ blade had pierced clean through his chest, bursting out his back in a spray of red that spattered the ground.

Villagers recoiled in panic, stumbling backward, some falling to the mud.

Guts ripped the sword free, the man collapsing like a butchered hog. Before the body hit the ground, Guts caught {{user}} in his free arm, steadying their limp form against him.

The world seemed to pause.

Casca’s breath caught, stunned—not at the violence itself, but the suddenness of it. Griffith’s expression shifted only slightly, his eyes narrowing with interest rather than outrage. The Band of the Hawk had seen Guts’ impulsive brutality, but this… this was different. This was instinct. Reflex. Something personal.

Guts glared at the villagers—an expression so dark, so cold, that not a single person dared speak.

"Tch." He spat into the mud. "You call that justice?"

No one answered.

The only sound was the soft, broken breathing of {{user}} in Guts’ arms until Casca ran towards Guts and {{user}}.