Warriors will die if they charge.

In a fit of rage, fueled by his desire for rare cards and his frustration with losing every game for the past two weeks, Marcus beat Trish to a bloody pulp.

He muttered complaints as he punched Trish, who was lying on the ground:

"Can't you be a little more lenient when playing cards? Card games are about social etiquette. Look at Lorra, even though she's sure to win, she at least gave me some face and let me win a few rounds."

Two hard punches landed on Zhuo'er's face, which was now completely devoid of a nose. Marcus paused for a moment, then delivered another powerful blow.

"But what about you? I didn't win a single round from start to finish! Do you know how much damage this does to a child's fragile heart? It made me afraid to look for missions for half a month, worried that my terrible luck would get me some junk!"

Finally, when the drow became a headless corpse, Marcus stood up, wiped the blood from his fists and the non-existent sweat from his forehead, and let out a long breath:

"Ah, that feels much better, Grandmother Camilla. You weren't lying, five gold coins really can make for a good night."

As the corpse of the drow slowly disappeared, Camilla emerged from the shadows of the carriage, her face ashen, like a pig's liver.

She treated him like prey, while he treated her like a boxing gym.

Grandma slapped the wheels hard, shouting through the dull creak of the wooden planks, "Lazybones, get up and get to work! Take this kid into the tent, and I'll settle your wages for this month."

A strange, neither-male-nor-female voice came from inside the carriage, its tone decadent and slick.

"This is a warrior who won't be easily tempted; the reward won't be low."

"Whatever you want, just hurry up and get rid of it, we need to find another place."

Marcus drew his longsword from the headless warrior's corpse, and stared warily at the writhing figures in the carriage.

He's not stupid, he's just a bit straightforward.

After Lawson sneaked into the tent, there was no sound inside—no men's panting, no women's screams, and no noise of the bed being moved.

Meanwhile, Red Feather, the fighting rooster that had been standing beside him with its bright eyes, searching for insects and grass seeds on the ground, was now frozen in place, completely still.

The only explanation is that he unknowingly fell into the veil of desire as well. The words he used to stall for time were seen by Camilla as his deepest desires. She thought that the reason he came to the red-light district was because he was dissatisfied with the cold woman at home and wanted to seek more tender comfort.

A figure slowly emerged from the carriage. His/her black hair fell over his/her shoulders, his/her handsome features were gentle, and his/her delicate face showed the angularity of a child, like a child who had not yet shown obvious gender characteristics, exuding an androgynous beauty.

The purplish-red open-front vest partially covered her milky-white skin, but could not conceal her high, firm breasts. The black leather pants that clung to her lower body featured a protrusion that clashed incongruously with her glamorous upper body.

The lazybones leaped off the carriage, stretched languidly, and, still seemingly half-asleep, rubbed his bright, star-like purple eyes with his fingers. With a hint of weariness, he spoke to Marcus, who was holding a sword:

"Friend, put down your sword. Fighting is too crude."

He raised his palms to his chest, his fingertips forming an orchid shape, and twirled in place, elegant as a black lotus, bowing slightly.

"My name is Hurt Barlow, knight of the god of pleasure, the embodiment of desire, the most beloved in your heart."

No, the most desirable person I desire is the King card with the wine glass pattern. I wish all the cards in my hand were of the King's thick beard and the Queen's fawning smile.

A perverted woman who is neither male nor female is not my sweetheart.

As for the god of pleasure? Oh no, this place actually harbors lewd elements!

Marcus muttered to himself, then imitated Hurt's gesture, bowing slightly: "Marcus Norfitz, the gambling king of Riverside Town."

Hurt tiptoed and gracefully took a few steps on the wet ground, his eyes fixed on his leg posture, as if judging whether the movement was as standard as he remembered.

"Gambling King? You're a follower of De La Liga, I love your thirst for money and luck."

"In Linhe Town, we don't believe in God, and no god would want to visit such a poor and desolate place."

"Are you prepared to draw your sword against me, Mr. Marcus Norfitz?"

"Hmm...actually, it's not bad to fight occasionally."

Marcus drew his sword on guard. The androgynous monster instilled a strong sense of danger in him; hidden beneath its elegance and languor was a deadly sharpness.

The Warrior's Handbook doesn't record any deaths at the hands of androgynous perverts, but there are quite a few deaths caused by swords and spells.

It's a binary choice: if the pervert uses a sword, the probability of death is higher; if he uses a stick, then there's no threat at all.

Hurt sighed with regret, slowly drawing his longsword from behind his waist. He raised his wrist to shoulder level, the tip of the sword pointing downwards, his body slightly tilted, like a dancer preparing to begin.

He lightly touched the ground with his toes, his body gliding nimbly through the hazy night, the tip of his sword like a venomous snake, piercing the air.

Marcus felt as if a thin purple filter had been applied to his eyes. He glanced at Camilla and saw that his kind grandmother was holding a huge skull, with strange wisps of purple smoke emanating from her eye sockets.

Just as the tip of Hurt's sword was about to touch his wrist, the speed bump took effect. Marcus, anticipating the slight delay, rotated his wrist and parried the thrust with his sword. Seizing the opportunity, he flipped the blade and swung it forward in a fierce crescent arc.

The arc swept past Hurt's towering peaks. His body was extremely flexible, and after being hit by the speed bump, he instantly changed speed, narrowly and precisely dodging the counterattack.

Hurt slid back half a step, his purple eyes flashing: "Interesting. This sword strike should have severed your tendons."

"Unfortunately, while you're good with your mouth, your swordsmanship isn't up to par."

"hehe."

A cruel smile spread across Hurt's exquisite face as he moved again, pressing forward with a series of high-level thrusts. The slowing effect made each attack a half-beat slower, allowing Marcus to barely keep up with the fierce stabs.

But this beautiful knight seemed to be using this thrusting motion to test why Marcus's originally slow movements would suddenly quicken every time the blade was about to strike.

Continuously change the frequency and speed of the thrusts.

His relentless attacks put Marcus under immense pressure, sometimes causing his body to react too slowly to keep up with the stabbing trajectories his eyes caught, forcing him to rely on muscle memory to frantically slash forward in defense.

"You're gripping your sword too tightly. Loosen your grip and feel its breath."

Marcus glanced at the hilt of the sword and found that his hands were gripping it tightly like a monkey gripping a stick. He loosened his grip, placed his index finger on the guard, and made sure he could rotate the sword freely.

Suddenly, Hurt's sword became a blurry shadow, grazing Marcus's forearm. The knight, who had landed a blow, turned gracefully, raised his sword before him, and licked the oozing blood with his scarlet tongue.

"It tastes pretty good, not that awful rouge smell. Are you still a virgin?"