Don't Want to Be Ordinary Even Though I'm an Extra Character-Chapter 58: [57] The Fall of a Tyrant

-Third Person POV-

The soft night breeze rustled through the dense forest, a quiet lullaby to the darkness that consumed the land. Yet the stillness sharply contrasted the carnage that had unfolded. Corpses littered the ground, their blood soaking into the cold, unyielding soil. Shadows moved silently among the trees, their eyes scanning the area with practiced vigilance.

"What’s next?" whispered one of them, their calm voice slicing through the silence.

"The Baron’s castle," replied a broad-shouldered man, his tone deep but controlled.

"Isn’t the leader handling things at the castle?" asked another shadow, smaller and nimble, their movements cat-like in their agility.

"Yes," the broad-shouldered man confirmed with a slight nod. "Our task is to clean this place. No one must know what happened here."

The others nodded, their movements synchronized, trained to blend into the silence.

"As per our code," murmured one, like a mantra.

"Yes, as per our code," the rest echoed, their voices resolute and disciplined.

They began their grim work. Effortlessly, they dragged lifeless bodies into pre-dug pits. No sound escaped but the faint rustle of breath and the occasional crack of branches underfoot. Even in this task, their movements were a dance of precision and mastery.

Once the corpses were buried, one of them sprinkled a pungent liquid over the ground. A small fire flared, burning away any remaining traces of blood.

"We’re finished here," the broad-shouldered man said, his gaze fixed on the silhouette of the Baron’s castle in the distance, looming like an ominous shadow.

"The leader is already there," murmured the smaller figure, narrowing their eyes. "All we need to do now is wait."

The group exchanged glances before vanishing like wraiths into the dark. The forest grew silent once more, as if it had never witnessed such bloodshed.

The Baron’s Castle

Inside his stuffy, opulently decorated study, Baron Darren paced back and forth. His rotund figure and flushed face betrayed a volatile temperament. His desk, cluttered with administrative paperwork, was neglected—a mere facade to feign the appearance of a "busy" noble.

"DAMN IT!" he roared, stomping his foot so hard the sound echoed in the small chamber. "Why is there no word?! I never should have trusted those worthless bandits!"

An elderly servant standing rigid in the corner tried to calm the raging storm. "But, my lord... they were successful twice before. The goods they stole brought significant profit—"

"SILENCE!" Baron Darren slammed his hand on the desk, making the servant flinch. "Two successes mean nothing if I can’t ensure the next one! I can’t let these disruptions ruin my grand plans!"

Baron Darren was the very portrait of a noble blind to responsibility. As a baron—the lowest rank in the aristocracy—he constantly sought ways to live in excess. Every coin in his coffers came from the sweat and tears of his overburdened populace, who endured exorbitant taxes, forced labor, and harsh policies.

But his "golden age" was short-lived. Two consecutive years of failed harvests had plunged his territory into crisis. His people, already impoverished, were now fighting to survive. Yet fear of their lord kept their anger smoldering quietly beneath the surface.

"We’re still awaiting word, my lord," the servant murmured cautiously.

The Baron sneered, his eyes narrowing venomously at the older man. "If I don’t hear something within the hour... I’ll deal with them myself! I’ve no need for men who keep me waiting!"

Outside the castle, shadows slithered closer—wolves closing in on their prey. Time was running out for Baron Darren.

The sky that night was as black as ink, devoid of stars. Only the faint glow of torches, carried by the rough hands of weary peasants, illuminated the area. They had gathered outside the castle gates, their faces hardened with anger, desperation, and an unyielding determination.

Low murmurs of discontent swelled into a furious cry.

"How much longer will we let that bastard crush us under his boot? Enough!"

"That Baron has drained us dry! Tear his castle down!"

Armed with rudimentary tools—pitchforks, sickles, and wooden axes—they advanced. The castle gates loomed before them, imposing like a giant ready to crush their spirits. Yet something strange caught their attention: no guards stood watch. The soldiers who usually patrolled the entrance were nowhere to be seen.

A man holding a torch high stepped forward, his voice filled with suspicion. "What is this? A trap?"

Before anyone could answer, a calm, deep voice called out from the shadows near the castle.

"There is no trap. The guards and soldiers have already been dealt with. Now it’s your turn to take back what’s yours."

The voice’s owner emerged—a man clad in a long black coat, its hem fluttering slightly in the breeze. His face was partially obscured, but his tone alone kindled a blaze of courage in the hearts of the peasants.

"Rise, and reclaim your dignity."

With that simple declaration, their anger ignited into action. They surged forward, slamming against the castle gates with all their might. The heavy doors, previously so intimidating, now felt fragile before their righteous fury.

Inside the castle, an obscene display of luxury greeted their eyes: red carpets, golden statues, and lavish furniture—all symbols of their suffering and exploitation.

"Baron! Show yourself!" a hoarse voice roared, thick with rage.

In his study, Baron Darren trembled, sweat streaming down his face. His eyes darted to the door, which quivered with each pounding blow from the mob outside.

"NO! This can’t be happening! I am a BARON!" he bellowed, retreating further into the room as if the title could shield him from retribution.

The door finally gave way, crashing open to reveal a horde of furious peasants. Their eyes burned with rage and resolve, their every step resonating with decades of bottled frustration.

One man swung his pitchfork, splintering the wooden desk in front of him.

"This is all your fault! Without me, you’d have nothing!" the Baron shouted, his voice tinged with desperation as he tried to twist the narrative.

But no one believed him anymore.

"Without you, we wouldn’t be starving!" one farmer yelled back.

"Without you, our children wouldn’t be dying from your taxes!"

The peasants closed in, their tools gripped tightly in calloused hands. Darren stumbled backward until his back hit the cold stone wall. He fell to the ground, his defiance giving way to panic as he clasped his hands in a pathetic plea.

"W-Wait! I can pay you! I have gold, land—I can give you everything!"

But his desperate promises fell on deaf ears.

They hadn’t come to negotiate.

Darren’s screams echoed through the castle halls, swallowed by the relentless roar of the vengeful crowd.

Outside the Baron’s castle, Sarasota’s leader leaned against the cold stone wall, watching the orange glow of flames consume the structure from within. The flickering light reflected in his eyes, a silent testimony to the complete downfall of yet another corrupt noble.

"And with that," he murmured quietly, "another tyrant falls."

He turned away, his shadow melting into the darkness, leaving the townspeople to reclaim their future for themselves.

###

Three days had passed since the uprising in the western coastal region. News of the event finally reached Arkan, who was busy managing operations in the Marquis’s domain.

They went too far, Arkan thought, exhaling slowly. Sarasota had a reputation for efficiency, but this time, they had far exceeded his instructions. All Arkan wanted was evidence to humiliate the Baron—not dismantle his entire regime.

Still, he couldn’t complain. The problem had been resolved, and the loose ends tied up without his direct involvement. Yet hearing about it through marketplace gossip rather than Sarasota’s own report left a sour taste in his mouth.

That day, Arkan was out buying supplies in the busy market. Amidst the cacophony of haggling vendors and bustling shoppers, he felt something unusual—a prickle of awareness, the distinct feeling of being watched.

He casually veered into a dim alleyway, stopping at its corner to wait. Moments later, a figure emerged, their face partially concealed by a dark cloth.

"You’re here," Arkan said without pleasantries, narrowing his eyes. "Your work was impressive, I’ll admit. But I’d say you went overboard. I asked you to collect evidence, not raze everything to the ground."

The man shrugged, showing no sign of remorse. "With all due respect, it was simpler this way. The Baron made it easy for us to finish the job. He was careless, and his people were already at their breaking point."

Arkan let out a small scoff. "Fine. I won’t make an issue of it. But this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind."

The man’s eyes sharpened. "We upheld our end of the deal. Now it’s your turn."

Arkan paused, aware of how critical this moment was. He needed to maintain a delicate balance—offering enough to satisfy Sarasota without giving away too much.

"Hm..." he mused, stroking his chin as if deeply considering. "I’ll give you some of the information as a gesture of goodwill. But for the rest, I’ll need more time. This isn’t something I can afford to handle recklessly."

The man’s demeanor darkened. "Do you think you can play games with us?"

It was then that Arkan realized he was far from alone. The alley had become a den of serpents, shadows lurking in every corner.

Damn, he cursed internally. I’ve walked straight into their lair.

"No games," Arkan said quickly, forcing his tone to remain firm. "I’m offering you a lead that’s valuable enough to act as proof. There’s someone named Hassan in the eastern desert regions—a member of a hill tribe. I don’t know the exact location, but I do know that he has ties to Hassan-i Sabbah. Perhaps a descendant, given the history surrounding his name. Hassan-i Sabbah himself is shrouded in mystery, known only in circles like yours."

"How can we trust your words?" the man asked sharply.

Arkan’s chest tightened. The tension in the air was palpable, each shadow in the alley feeling like an invisible gaze locked onto him.

"I’m not toying with you," he said, his voice steady despite the cold sweat tracing down his spine. "This is credible. Hassan in the eastern desert holds ties to Hassan-i Sabbah. It’s not an empty claim, but one rooted in your own history. If you want to uncover the truth, this is where to start."

The man tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "And how do we verify that you’re not lying?"

Arkan drew a deep breath, racking his brain for details. From the novel, he recalled a crucial phrase—a cryptic mantra attributed to Hassan-i Sabbah himself, used as a seal of legitimacy in the world’s underbelly.

Taking a risk, he spoke the words with measured resolve:

"La shay’a waqi’un moutlaq bale koulon momkine."

(Nothing is absolute; everything is possible.)

The man froze. The air grew heavier, laden with an electric charge. Faint murmurs began to echo from the shadows, a ripple of astonishment coursing through the hidden watchers.

"...That phrase..." the man muttered, his voice a low rumble. "Very few know of it."

Arkan shrugged, feigning nonchalance despite the hammering of his heartbeat. "I told you I know more than you think. This isn’t something I pulled from thin air. I have sources you won’t find anywhere else. Now, do you understand why I won’t hand over everything at once?"

The man stared at Arkan for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Fine. You’ve shown enough courage to stand in our den and speak truths only a handful are privy to. But don’t take this as a victory." He stepped closer, his piercing gaze locking onto Arkan’s. "We’ll investigate this lead. If you’re lying..."

He trailed off, but a gesture of his finger slicing across his throat made the threat crystal clear.

"I have no reason to lie," Arkan said calmly, though the sweat on his back betrayed his nerves. "After all, this partnership benefits us both, doesn’t it?"

The man’s thin smile carried an edge of menace as he backed away into the shadows. "We’ll contact you again. Next time, be ready."

As the figure vanished, Arkan remained in place, his breath heavier than usual. He scanned his surroundings, ensuring he wasn’t being followed before stepping out of the alley.

Haah... you dodged the noose again, Arkan. But you’re playing with fire this time.