After losing the first prisoner, Hao returned to the battlefield, determined to capture another. The clash raged on, but both forces were locked in a stalemate. The city's troops were starting to exhaust their strength. Even though only thirty minutes had passed, they had already poured everything they had into trying to eliminate the defenders of the Second Gate. Yet, they hadn't realized just how strong their opponents truly were.
The City Lord scanned the chaotic battlefield, his expression grim. Our forces are getting exhausted… His gaze shifted toward Shen Yue, who stood calmly atop the walls, untouched by the battle. He hasn't even joined the fight… I think we're going to die today, the City Lord thought, despair tightening its grip around his heart. He wasn't alone in that feeling—every soldier on the field shared the same dread.
Meanwhile, on the other side, Hao managed to capture another prisoner and retreated from the battlefield, where Elder Linghui and the others were waiting for him.
After meeting up with Linghui, Hao caught his breath and frowned.
"How are we going to get our answers?" he asked. "If we torture them, they just commit suicide before saying anything."
Linghui looked at him and gave a faint smile. "You take me too lightly, Hao. The Beggar Sect was once the best at gathering information."
He then turned his gaze toward the prisoner, who was trembling under the weight of his stare. Slowly, Linghui raised his hand and began forming a series of intricate hand signs. The air around him seemed to twist, and the prisoner's pupils dilated.
It was the Art of Bewitching—a forbidden illusion technique that made the human mind bend to one's will.
The prisoner's body went rigid. Then, with a blank expression, he bowed his head and spoke in a deep, hollow voice:
"Glory to the Blood, my lord."
Everyone around them froze in shock. Even Hao took a step back, eyes wide. How could a mere beggar use such a technique?
Linghui's tone turned cold. "Tell me—what is my name?"
The prisoner replied without hesitation, "Your name is Lord Dong-ha."
"And who am I?"
"You are the retainer of the Third Blood."
"Good. Now, tell me—how many retainers does each Blood have?"
"Every Blood has five retainers," the prisoner answered.
Linghui's eyes narrowed. "Then how many Bloods exist within your organization?"
"We are the Five Bloods," the prisoner replied mechanically.
As the information sank in, Linghui's expression darkened. He finally understood the structure of their mysterious enemy—an organization divided into five powerful Bloods, each commanding its own loyal retainers.
"Okay—why, you kidnap young son of the Baek family, why do you gather every Murim force here? And why this city?" Linghui demanded.
The prisoner's voice came out flat and mechanical. "We did not intend to capture him. We were short on materials — he happened to be here, so we used him as material. As for gathering them in an one place: we will eliminate every single one of them so we can announce ourselves to Murim. People will fear the Bloods and learn how powerful our organization is. Why this city? Because we need materials to grow stronger. We can gather everything in one place — this city was selected by the Fifth Blood."
Hao eyes narrowed. "What materials are you talking about? What does this city have?"
"Human blood," the prisoner replied. "There are many civilians in this city."
A cold sweat ran down everyone's spines. Hao glanced toward Soho. "Does that mean they're targeting the civilians?"
Soho jaw tightened. "All the civilians are in the shelters, but all our forces are fighting at the Second Gate. If the enemy breaches there, who will defend the shelters?"
Without hesitation Hao stepped forward. "I'm going there. There's no other way — even if I can save one person, I will." He looked at Linghui. "Please take care of my brother."
Before Linghui could respond, several monks suddenly shouted, "We will go with you! Even if it means certain death!"
Hao studied them for a long second, then gave a single order. "No. There must be someone who can get out of this city and warn the temple and other forces about what we've learned." The monks began to protest and cry. Hao placed a steady hand on the head of four monks. "I will come back. Be safe."
Soho stepped up. "Shall we go?"
Hao fixed him with a hard look. "Why are you coming with me?"
Soho's reply was blunt. "You cannot order me. I'm not your brother."
Hao sighed but nodded. "Fine. But before we leave—I want the name of your leader."
The prisoner tried to answer, but his body convulsed. His lips twisted; then, in an instant, his chest ruptured. Blood sprayed across the floor.
Linghui face went stone-cold. He studied the scene and said quietly, "It seems speaking the name of their leader is forbidden."
After witnessing the gruesome end of the prisoner, Linghui, Hao, and Soho stood in heavy silence. Finally, Linghui spoke, his tone calm but urgent.
"I'll inform the City Lord. He needs to know that the Bloods are targeting the civilians—and everything else we've learned. If we're lucky, they might send reinforcements."
Even as he said it, Linghui knew how hopeless that sounded. He could see it in Hao's and Soho's eyes—they had already made their choice. They were heading toward certain death, and no words of reason could stop them. Deep down, Linghui wanted to go too, but fear held him back. He told himself it was foolish to think reinforcements would arrive in time… but hope, even fragile, was better than nothing.
Hao turned to Linghui and the monks, his gaze firm. "Then we'll meet again—after some time."
Soho nodded beside him, determination burning in his eyes.
Without another word, the two of them sprinted toward the city center, where the shelters were located—their only thought to protect the civilians. At the same time, Linghui gathered his courage and ran back toward the battlefield, determined to tell the City Lord the truth and pray that help might somehow arrive.