Dazed from the beating, Leo had only avoided passing out thanks to his "Frost Giant" bloodline. When he heard Lucian's words, he struggled to open his eyes. In his gaze mingled disbelief, irrepressible elation, and gnawing worry — could this seemingly young gentleman actually handle Warren and his father?
The tavern owner hadn't expected Lucian to make such a direct, almost commanding demand either. Did he have no idea who Warren was — or who his father was?!
"Hahaha!" Warren let out two laughs of sheer incredulity, barely restraining his fury, and said in a sinister tone: "Sir, why on earth would I let you hire Leo first? Do you really think he'd be foolish enough to come back to the Eastern Exile Lands after leaving with you? Don't you find your tone rather offensive? Do you think you can bear my anger in his place?!"
Each rhetorical question laid bare Warren's foul mood. A deal to curry favor with a certain duke of the Shahran Empire had been ruined by Leo. He'd finally caught the man and was ready to vent his fury, only for some baffling stranger to appear and try to stop him. Warren had originally intended to maintain basic courtesy and follow the principle of not offending mysterious strangers of unknown origin, but Lucian's tone had been calm and indifferent — as if issuing orders to a subordinate. Apart from his father, the nine city lords, and the great nobles of the Shahran Empire, no one had ever dared speak to him in that tone!
As Warren's expression shifted, the short and vicious Yarolim stepped forward, a pair of pitch-black daggers in each hand, poised as though about to lunge. The full force of a knight's aura bore down on Lucian without restraint.
If Lucian was suppressed — or even made to tremble with fear — that would prove his strength was lacking, and they could take him down on the spot!
This was a preliminary probe. Warren would never let someone play the part of an unfathomable enigma, merely spout a few words, and expect to cow him into submission.
Yarolim's icy gray eyes locked onto Lucian's, projecting the full weight of his will.
Suddenly, he saw a flash of ashen light flicker through Lucian's brown pupils and vanish, carrying with it the scent of ancient decay that seared itself into his mind.
Immediately after, extreme itching and agony erupted across Yarolim's body without warning. The tavern patrons across from him — gathered behind Lucian — couldn't help but cry out in horror. They could see the skin on the backs of his hands and face rotting away in large patches, yellowish pus seeping through. The sight was absolutely ghastly.
Yarolim knew he'd been struck by Lucian's magic. His body immediately transformed into layers of black flame, but the rot seemed capable of infecting even illusory fire — one by one, the flames turned yellow and sputtered out.
Warren, the other tall and powerfully built man at his side, and the remaining black-scaled swordsmen all witnessed Yarolim's plight. In the span of just a few seconds, Yarolim had been reduced to a state of near helplessness. He had barely managed to halt the rot spreading across his body and stood gasping for air in great heaves. Full recovery, if it came at all, would take a very long time. Meanwhile, Lucian stood with his hands still tucked into the pockets of his black double-breasted frock coat, watching the scene with a faint smile. He made no move to press the attack, nor did he attempt to worsen the rot.
A third-circle necromantic spell — Rot Curse!
"A necromancer?" Warren asked, struggling to keep his voice level, though a hint of fear bled through. Necromancers had never enjoyed a good reputation. Cruel, mysterious, dark, and terrifying — such descriptions seemed to define them and illusionists alike. This was especially true in the deep north, where many mages of ancient lineage were known to roam.
Lucian smiled but said nothing.
The other tall, powerfully built knight lowered his head and whispered a few words into Warren's ear.
Warren rose to his feet, his expression shifting between shadow and light, and asked: "So you're a mid-tier mage, sir. Might I ask whether you hail from the Arcane Council, or from elsewhere in the north?"
The tavern owner, the black-scaled swordsmen, and the other patrons all stared at Lucian with a mixture of doubt and alarm. No wonder he'd dispatched Yarolim, a proper knight, with such ease — he was a mid-tier mage!
Don't let the unassuming title of "mid-tier mage" fool you. They might be a dime a dozen at Arcane Council headquarters, but their counterparts of equal rank were called Great Knights and bishops. Outside a handful of places — the Holy City of Rance, the Sky City of Allingor, Rantat, Altor, Tria, St. Ivarburg — such individuals were capable of presiding over an entire city. In the Eastern Exile Lands, aside from the nine city lords who were Heaven Knights, Golden Knights, or high-tier mages, the remaining twenty or thirty lords held ranks no higher than Great Knight or mid-tier mage.
And a mid-tier mage, even one at only the third or fourth circle, with access to the Flight Spell and all manner of mysterious and uncanny magic, possessed strength fully comparable to a Great Knight — an entire rank above.
Lucian extended his right hand — sheathed in a white glove to conceal the Holm Crown Ring — and adjusted his monocle. His tone remained flat: "Where I come from doesn't matter. What matters is that I want to take Leo with me. The question is whether you'll agree, Mr. Warren."
This arrogant, brazen attitude reminded Warren of the prodigies from the Arcane Council — especially those of the Pale Hand. His thoughts racing, he forced a smile and spread his hands: "In the Eastern Exile Lands, it's either gold or power. Since you've demonstrated the latter, sir, allow me and my men to take our leave."
Warren, who had built his substantial enterprise in the Eastern Exile Lands under his father's protection, understood the rules of this place all too well. The moment someone appeared whose strength he couldn't contend with — someone for whom even invoking his father might prove futile — his vicious arrogance could instantly transform into polite deference and a willingness to back down. After all, if he recklessly offended a powerful figure with Arcane Council backing and was killed on the spot, not a single member of the Eastern Exile Lands' Lord Council besides his own father would waste their strength avenging a fool!