Chapter 55: Bjorn the Butcher
The next few days passed in a blur.
Nothing major happened—at least, not on the surface. Count Valstein’s men were still scouring every corner of the northern territories, chasing shadows.
Chasing me.
The infamous Faceless Imposter.
It would’ve been flattering, really, if it weren’t also mildly terrifying. Posters had gone up in taverns and guardhouses. Rewards were announced. Patrols doubled. Rumors flew like birds drunk on gossip.
And yet... they found nothing.
No tracks. No witnesses. Not even a whisper of where I might be.
It was like I didn’t exist.
Which, ironically, was the point.
The Faceless Imposter wasn’t supposed to leave a trail. He was a myth, a whisper in the dark. An idea.
...And let’s be honest—how the hell were they supposed to find me in the first place?
I drank tea with nobles in the morning and polished silverware in the afternoon. I walked the halls of estates, bowed my head, kept my voice soft, and smiled like an obedient little servant.
No one suspects the help.
It was almost unfair.
I hadn’t even done anything yet—not really. Just some groundwork, a clean escape. The real show hadn’t even started.
And already, I’d made enough noise to rattle the upper crust.
The funniest part? Half of the gossip already assumed the Faceless Imposter was some foreign assassin or demon with no face. Theories ranged from disgraced nobles to shape-shifting monsters.
No one ever guessed the quiet attendant blending in behind the tea cart.
Not that I was getting cocky.
All it took was one mistake. One loose thread.
And everything would unravel.
But for now, I had time.
Time to plan.
Time to pick my first target.
And that target... was Bjorn the Butcher.
Wanted in the Draken Duchy.
I’d been gathering bits and pieces about him whenever I could—asking the right questions in the right places, listening in on drunk mercenaries at taverns, flipping through old bounty notes when no one was looking.
But most of what I found was vague. Rumors. Half-truths. Nothing concrete.
Still, the name alone sent chills down people’s spines.
Bjorn the Butcher.
At first, I thought it was just a nickname—maybe he used to work in a slaughterhouse or something.
But no.
He didn’t just butcher animals.
He butchered people.
And then, apparently, he ate them.
Yeah. Let that sink in.
Just thinking about it made my stomach twist.
It wasn’t just some exaggeration, either. The details were too consistent. Corpses carved up like livestock, bones missing, teeth marks found on ribs. Entire caravans gone missing near his last known location.
They said he used to be a chef.
Then something snapped.
He hides himself well. No one has been able to catch him till now, and that’s proof of that.
Even Duke Draken’s knights haven’t found him yet. Just his general location of hiding is available, and even that hasn’t been confirmed.
It is said he lives out in the frozen woods like some feral animal, picking off travelers and outcasts, dragging them into whatever cave or shack he calls home.
Since he went into hiding, the casualty rate has drastically reduced, but every few months, one person still disappears—and ends up being eaten.
He’s a ghost. A monster. A cautionary tale told to new recruits.
Exactly the kind of person the Faceless Imposter should erase.
Right now, all I wanted was to take that bastard’s head off, but I knew now was not the time.
I needed to become stronger. My mana capacity wasn’t large enough for a longer fight.
...And most importantly, all I had was information and nothing else.
...I did not know how to find him yet.
Not precisely.
Even the vaguest clue would help—some kind of anchor to pull him from the snow-covered shadows. But right now? I had no path forward.
Just a name. A legend. And a lot of teeth-marked bones.
That was the problem with hunting monsters.
You couldn’t rush it.
You had to become one first.
And I wasn’t there yet. Not even close.
My magic was shallow. My skills, while improving, were still raw. If I charged in now, I’d end up on his dinner plate before I even got a monologue out.
So I took a breath.
Focused.
The path to Bjorn started with preparation.
Connections.
Tools.
Training.
Information.
And as much as I hated to admit it... I needed allies.
Or at least useful pawns.
I wasn’t going to defeat a cannibal in the snow with attitude alone.
So, for now, all I could do was wait.
"Julies, what’s in my schedule?"
"Huh?"
At that moment, Alice’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked toward her and found that she was narrowing her bright red eyes at me in annoyance.
"I asked what’s next in my schedule."
Currently, it was Alice’s resting time, and it had ended a few moments ago.
So, she was... standing there in front of me, one hand on her hip, the other flicking a teacup handle back and forth like it owed her something.
I straightened instantly, adjusting my collar and slipping back into the quiet, subservient mask that had kept me invisible all this time.
"Apologies, Lady Alice," I said, bowing slightly. "It’s hunting time, My Lady."
Her eyes lit up immediately.
"Good. It’s practically an extension of my break. Lead the way."
Training and hunting—those were the things Alice genuinely looked forward to. In the short time I’d served her, it had become painfully obvious: she didn’t just tolerate these activities. She thrived in them.
"I hope we catch something more impressive than a snow lion this time," she said, stretching her arms with a grin. "Maybe a Yeti."
I blinked.
A Yeti?
She said it so casually, like we were going out to catch rabbits. Not one of the top three apex predators in the northern territories. Not a creature known for tearing armored knights in half like paper.
Seeing her already bubbling with excitement, I held my tongue for a second. It wasn’t just bravado—she genuinely looked hopeful.
That was the thing about Alice. Her enthusiasm didn’t always line up with common sense.
"Pardon the interruption," I said carefully, "but we’ll only be hunting within the Duke’s territory. The outskirts are strictly for wildlife—not monster dens. We can’t risk any unplanned encounters."
She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Oh? Says the man who dragged me to a snow lion den last week. Without guards."
...Right. That did happen.
I didn’t have a comeback for that, so I just looked away and cleared my throat. Maybe if I stayed quiet long enough, she’d let it go.
"It doesn’t matter," she said, already moving toward the weapons rack. "Hunting has its own kind of freedom."
Then, to my surprise, she didn’t reach for her usual broadsword or dueling rapier.
Instead, she picked up a dagger—and then, more unexpectedly, a bow.
"You know how to use one of these?" she asked, tossing the spare bow toward me.
I caught it by reflex, glancing down at the polished, curved wood. I recognized it. It had been mounted on the wall of her training chamber for weeks, practically untouched. I’d always assumed it was decorative.
"I can handle it well enough not to embarrass myself," I replied, testing the string’s tension.
She smirked. "Good. No better way to improve than with moving targets."
Great. Moving targets.
That almost certainly meant I’d be running more than shooting.
Still, it wasn’t a bad opportunity. Alice in motion was sharp, dangerous—but also honest. Her layers of noble etiquette peeled away when she had blood on her hands and dirt on her boots.
If I wanted to understand her better, this was the time.
So I followed her out into the white wilderness—bow in hand, nerves on edge, and a not-so-small hope that we wouldn’t run into anything with teeth longer than my forearm.
Because let’s face it:
The last thing I needed today was to be introduced to a Yeti’s digestive tract.