Fortunately, the metal-skinned warrior didn’t seem to be among the crowd. From what Luke had said, the only ones who had managed to crawl back from that slaughter were either mid-ranked Circle Warriors or powerful mages. Not a single low-ranked fighter had survived.

Cassian let out a quiet breath of relief. At least he wouldn’t need to hide his face—not yet. That was impossible anyway, not when he had to gather information. Even if he couldn’t uncover the traitor, any scraps of intelligence could tilt the scales in his side’s favor—if not against the entire cult, then at least here on this battlefield.

With the tension easing from his chest, Cassian allowed himself to focus again. He glanced around, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, before turning back to Luke. "So," he asked, voice casual but edged with intent, "Any suggestions on who I should make my first slave?"

"Mmm... let me think. Any gender’s fine, or do you have something specific in mind?" Luke asked, his slit-like eyes narrowing as he scanned the crowd.

Cassian’s gaze swept the fighters as well. "Female. Preferably tall, muscular—but not hideous. Scars are fine. Adds character. But no ogre-faced types..." His voice was casual, almost offhand, though a subtle edge lingered.

Luke chuckled and nodded, only for Cassian to add, almost as an afterthought, "And make sure she’s strong. Second Circle if possible—or at least on par with one. I’ve got no use for weaklings... they break too easily."

Luke’s amusement flickered into faint surprise. When he’d glimpsed Cassian’s domain earlier, he had been certain the man was only a First Circle warrior. A lone red ring—that was all. For mages, fighting above one’s level was possible with enough mana or a well-prepared spell. But Circle Warriors were a different breed. Domains mattered, techniques mattered, but the raw strength boost from advancing to the next Circle wasn’t so easily bridged.

Yes, a lower-ranked warrior could topple someone a stage above—if they possessed an exceptional mana cultivation method, a rare domain, or sheer overwhelming skill. Luke himself had one of those advantages, which allowed him to punch above his weight. But even then, defeating a higher Circle warrior was never simple.

Cassian, however, carried himself with a quiet confidence that suggested otherwise. "Preferably one who uses a sword," he added smoothly. "Got anyone in mind?"

Luke’s slit eyes shifted, scanning the fighters again. A crooked grin tugged at his lips as he drawled, lacing his tone with sarcasm, "Well, now you’re finally giving me something specific..."

He took his time, pausing after a long look across the crowd. Finally, he gestured lazily to their left. "There. How about her? The one with the big falchion strapped to her back. Looks like she ticks most of your boxes."

Cassian followed Luke’s gesture and studied the woman. Luke hadn’t exaggerated—she stood nearly eye to eye with him, lean but packed with solid muscle. For all her size, her face held a striking beauty. One side of her head was shaved, the rest braided into a tight line that flowed into a thicker braid down her back, giving her the look of a hardened warrior.

Luke’s voice slid in, dry and dismissive. "Muscular, yeah. Not my type. Pretty face, though rare, that weapon is still considered a sword."

Cassian inclined his head, eyes catching on the falchion strapped across her back. He remembered the blade’s shape—broad near the tip, tapering as it neared the hilt. Heavy, brutal, but still elegant. "She’s good," he admitted.

But then his gaze drifted. In the same group, another fighter caught his attention. This one also wore her hair in braids—brown strands woven at the sides, with the longer top spilling freely down to the middle of her back. She matched the first in height, muscle, and fierce bearing, but her face...

Her face was distinct. Refined, almost ethereal, the kind that made Cassian think of elves. If only her ears had been longer, the illusion would have been perfect. Her pale skin gleamed faintly, like polished porcelain.

Cassian’s eyes lingered as he spoke, tone deceptively casual. "What about the blonde one in her group?"

"Oh, her?" Luke’s eyes slid toward the silver-haired woman, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "She’s good too. But she won’t accept your challenge—at least not without her former master’s say-so. See that old bastard in the middle of their group?"

Cassian’s gaze followed, landing on a man who wasn’t quite what he expected from Luke’s tone. Middle-aged, with a patchy white beard and matching streaks in his hair. His bearing was unassuming, but the robes marked him clearly as a mage. What unsettled Cassian more was the void he felt when he tried to sense the man’s strength—nothing. That only ever happened with warriors well above his level, mid-ranked Circle fighters or mages past the rank of Solvaris.

As if to confirm his suspicion, Luke leaned closer, voice low and deliberate. "That man is the strongest one here. A Luminara. He leads the squads that break castles and fortresses too stubborn to fall. Ruthless doesn’t begin to cover him. When this war began, he took this very village with only twenty men under him. Two weeks, that’s all it took—not because he couldn’t end it sooner, but because he wanted to see how long the villagers could endure."

Luke’s smile thinned into something cruel. "He starved them out, burned their food storages, cut off every path of escape. Then, when they were weak, he poisoned their water and cursed them with sickness. Broke them piece by piece before claiming the ruins."

Luke’s expression twisted, disgust and anger bleeding into his features as if old memories had clawed their way back. "You know... I’ve always thought of myself as evil," he muttered, leaning back with a sigh. "I’ve killed plenty—on the battlefield, off it, people who never raised a weapon at me." His lips curled into a sharp smile. "You know, Innocent ones. And why? Simple—because I enjoy killing. Always have."

The smile faltered, replaced with something darker. "But torture? No. Never my thing. I don’t need to hear someone scream to feel alive." His gaze hardened, voice dropping lower. "And what I saw here, when we were ordered to ’clean up’ the village... that was worse than any torture I could imagine." His tone carried both disgust and a strange bitterness, though he tried to bury it beneath a mocking grin.