Lucian turned the question back on them with a knowing smile: "The Eastern Exile Lands only have thirty or forty people who could be called big shots — it's not hard to guess. You can't possibly be subordinates of the nine city lords, can you? If you were, why would you need to hide your faces and refuse to give your names?"
The clatter of rapid metal clashes echoed from the back of the tavern. The secret chamber seemed to be underground, and the scuffle between the apprentice knights was causing the tavern floor to tremble slightly.
Seeing this, the patrons began filing out. They weren't afraid of blood, killing, or combat — living in or passing through the Eastern Exile Lands long enough, they had long grown numb to such things and were utterly indifferent. What they feared was that the fighting in the underground chamber would damage the foundation and bring the tavern crashing down on their heads.
Lucian shoved his hands into the pockets of his long frock coat and strolled unhurriedly toward the front door. There was no shortage of guides among the Shahran exiles here. He and
Seeing Lucian leave without a word, the one-eyed leader hoisted his greatsword, shot him a puzzled look, then — wisely keeping his mouth shut — turned to work with another swordsman to block the bartender and the tavern owner who had come running at the noise. After all, from Lucian's earlier display, he could clearly judge that the man possessed the strength of a full knight. Lucian might not dare offend the person backing them, but if he kept being arrogant and goading him, being quietly killed and dumped in the forest would probably be the best outcome.
In the Eastern Exile Lands, without an absolutely powerful backer, no matter how ruthless, arrogant, or crazy you were, you learned to endure and bide your time against anyone stronger than you — because those who didn't had all become food for the beasts of the forest, or raw material for necromancers...
These were the bare, naked rules of sword and magic!
Lucian walked along at an unhurried pace, watching idly as the white-haired tavern owner fought the leader's greatsword with sword and shield. Their swordplay was simple and crude, carrying the unmistakable style of the Shahran Empire.
"How dare you start a fight in Tarant Tavern! Aren't you afraid of the wrath of the city lords?!" The tavern owner's original strength came from a potion-awakened bloodline — he was an apprentice knight. But he was old and frail, and his bloodline ability seemed to enhance strength and agility rather than supernatural power. So his fierce battle with the leader, who was in his prime, couldn't be decided quickly. Still, anyone who could keep a tavern running in the Eastern Exile Lands certainly had a powerful person backing them.
The leader swung his greatsword down, only to have it blocked by the shield. He quickly reversed his grip and struck with the pommel, deflecting the tavern owner's longsword. Seizing the opening, he sneered: "If we hadn't found Leo, of course we wouldn't dare start a fight in Tarant Tavern. But right now Leo is hiding in your secret chamber! He's the bastard who ruined our young master's plans — even if this goes before the lord's council, the city lords won't say a word. At most they'll tell us to compensate you for the damage to your tavern!"
By now, more than half the customers had fled. The once-crowded hall had thinned out considerably. Lucian was halfway to the door when a tremendous boom shattered the entrance — the entire door blew apart and flew inward, sending shards tumbling back that left several drunkards bleeding from their heads.
Lucian tilted his head just enough to dodge a flying splinter and saw a large group pour through the doorway. Most of them wore black scale armor similar to the one-eyed man's style. Leading them was a young man with a gray-white cigar clamped between his teeth. He wore none of the leather armor, scale mail, or half-plate common among adventurers. Instead, like Lucian, he was dressed in thoroughly "Holm-style" attire — a white shirt, brown vest, black double-breasted frock coat, and a tall matching top hat. His face was lean, his nose straight, his features decent enough, but his black eyebrows were wild and his whole face radiated arrogance and cold menace.
Flanking him were two men of dangerous bearing. The one on the left was equally Holm in style — short in stature, shoes polished to a gleam, pale gray eyes utterly devoid of warmth. The one on the right was tall and brawny, slouching in a brown leather cuirass, muscles bulging, each heavy footstep making the floorboards groan.
The young man surveyed the tavern hall, pulled up a chair by the entrance, and sat down. He extended his right hand, and a fair-haired woman knelt before him to undo his cufflinks, her expression vacant, wearing a pale blue gown in the Tiria court style with a generous expanse of white skin bared at the chest.
"Sir Arolim, please go apprehend Leo for me," the young man said with a broad smile. After days of pursuit, he was finally about to catch the man who had ruined his plans, and the rage he had never fully vented flared up once more.
Arolim, short and compact, replied in a tone flat and even: "Yes, Young Master Warren."
His polished black shoes tapped lightly against the floor and the man became a streak of afterimage, hurtling toward the back of the tavern. At the same time, he unleashed a knight's aura without restraint. Many patrons who hadn't had time to leave found their limbs going weak, unable to move forward — blocking Lucian's path.
By the time Lucian squeezed through the crowd and reached the front door, Arolim was already carrying Leo back. It wasn't that apprentice knights were far inferior to full knights — Lucian himself, before taking the Bloodline Purification Potion, could spar with ordinary knights using agility alone — but rather that Leo had been surrounded by several apprentice knights and, worn down from a prolonged fight, no longer had any way to resist a full knight.
Seeing Leo captured, the tavern owner and bartender abandoned their fight with the one-eyed man and his swordsmen, standing nearby with shield and longsword, pondering how to plead for mercy and what price they would have to pay.
Lucian studied Leo with mild curiosity. In Arolim's grip, unable to struggle, was a middle-aged man with graying hair, haggard and wretched, eyes squeezed shut, wrinkles fanning from the corners.
With a thud, Arolim dropped Leo at Young Master Warren's feet.
A layer of black flame burned across Leo's body, as though it had devoured all his strength, leaving him unable to even crawl upright.