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Chapter 90: Festival

Rackenshore, a modest city perched on the edge of the Empire of Arcanis, hummed with a newfound energy.

Nestled against the backdrop of jagged mountains, the city had long been a place of tension, its people bearing the brunt of the Empire's ambitions. But today, the streets were transformed.

The war had finally ended, and Rackenshore was free to celebrate.

Bright banners of crimson and gold, the colors of the Empire, fluttered from every rooftop and balcony, catching the soft summer breeze that carried the scent of roasting meats and fresh-baked bread.

The central square, usually a place of hurried transactions and wary glances, had become the heart of the festival. Stalls lined the cobblestone paths, their owners shouting to passersby, offering everything from spiced wine to intricate trinkets.

At the center of the square stood a grand statue, newly erected to commemorate the Empire's victory. The figure of a stern-faced Major of the city, sword raised in triumph, loomed over the festivities, a reminder of the price paid for this celebration.

Yet, the people did not shy away from its shadow. Instead, they danced beneath it, children darting through the crowd with laughter that had been absent for far too long.

The streets of Rackenshore buzzed with conversation, the air thick with the sounds of lively chatter and the scent of summer blooms. Farmers and their families filled the square, their faces flushed with the rare joy of peace.

"I tell you, Beric, I haven't seen a haul this good in years," an older man with weathered hands and a broad smile remarked, lifting a mug of spiced wine to his lips. His name was Corwin, a farmer whose fields had been the lifeblood of his family for generations.

"Aye, Corwin," his friend Beric responded, a grin splitting his sun-tanned face. "The land's been good to us, even with the war hanging over our heads. But I won't lie—I'm glad we don't have to send any more of our best crops to the front lines."

Corwin nodded, his expression turning serious for a moment. "We gave what we could, but it's been hard on everyone. My boy, Lyle, he's been worried we'd lose the farm if the taxes kept rising."

Beric clapped Corwin on the back, his voice reassuring. "Well, Lyle can rest easy now. The war's over, and we've got a good harvest ahead of us. We'll fill our own tables before we fill the Empire's stores again."

Nearby, a young woman named Greta, her arms full of vibrant wildflowers, joined the conversation. "It feels strange, doesn't it? Not having to look over our shoulders anymore, worrying if this season's crops will go to our families or the soldiers."

Beric nodded, his gaze drifting to the statue of the Major in the square's center. "We've all made sacrifices, but today… today's different. We can finally enjoy the fruits of our labor."

Greta's eyes sparkled with a mixture of relief and hope. "And we can plan for the future now, plant what we want instead of what's needed for rations. My father's been talking about expanding the orchard—says we might finally be able to afford it."

Corwin chuckled, raising his mug in a toast. "Here's to that, Greta. May your orchards grow as full as your heart."

As the three continued to talk, their voices blending with the general hum of the festival, the crowd's attention was drawn toward the center of the square.

There, atop a small platform draped in the Empire's colors, stood the baron overseeing Rackenshore.

Baron Edris Wyndhall, a man of middle years with a dignified bearing and the crest of his family—a silver tree on a field of green—emblazoned on his chest, raised a hand to the crowd. His presence commanded respect, yet his eyes held a warmth that endeared him to the citizens.

"My friends, my fellow citizens of Rackenshore," Baron Wyndhall began, his voice carrying easily over the gathered throng. "Today, we celebrate not just the Empire's victory but our own. We have endured hardships together—together, we have supported our soldiers and our Empire with the bounty of our lands. And now, we reap the rewards."

The crowd erupted in cheers, the noise a cathartic release after months of tension.

Baron Wyndhall continued, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Let this festival be a reminder that the strength of Rackenshore lies not just in our soil but in our spirit. As we move forward, may our fields grow ever more bountiful, and may our hearts remain ever united."

Corwin, Beric, and Greta joined in the applause, their hands meeting in a shared rhythm of gratitude and hope. Around them, the celebration surged with renewed vigor, the citizens of Rackenshore buoyed by the words of their baron.

"Baron Wyndhall's a good man," Beric said, his voice filled with respect. "He knows what we've been through, and he's stood by us through it all."

Corwin nodded in agreement. "He has. And now we can stand tall, knowing our work has brought us here."

Yet the gaze belonging to Greta was not the same as the others.

It was a little different. There was a small hatred on her face. An expression that many others have missed.

–RING!

But amongst the music and the cheerfulness of the festival, her expression had disappeared without being noticed by anyone at all.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, the festival in Rackenshore showed no signs of slowing down.

The music grew louder, the dances more exuberant, and the laughter more uninhibited as the people celebrated the end of their long ordeal.

The stalls were still bustling with activity, though the barrels of spiced wine were rapidly emptying, and the scent of roasted meats mingled with the sweet tang of spilled ale.

Children, tired from hours of play, were now clinging to their parents, their eyelids heavy but their spirits still high.

The more seasoned citizens, too, were beginning to feel the effects of the day's festivities. Many had found their way to the long wooden tables set up in the square, their faces flushed from drink and cheer, sharing stories of past harvests and dreams of a prosperous future.

Yet, amid the revelry, Greta moved quietly, her steps steady and purposeful. She offered polite smiles and nods to those who greeted her, but her mind was elsewhere.

The flicker of hatred that had crossed her face earlier was now buried deep within, hidden behind the practiced calm of someone used to keep her true feelings to herself.

As the night wore on, the festival began to wind down. The music slowed to a softer, more languid pace, and the once-roaring fires in the square burned low.

Drunken voices rose in song, the lyrics slurred and joyous, as groups of friends leaned on one another, staggering through the cobblestone streets toward their homes.

Greta, too, finally turned her steps toward home. Her family's inn, The Verdant Hearth, stood on the edge of the square, a sturdy stone building with warm lights glowing from its windows.

The inn had been in her family for generations, and it was as much a part of Rackenshore as the fields and orchards that surrounded the city.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Greta was greeted by the familiar sounds of her family's bustling establishment. The common room was filled with patrons, many of them regulars, who were either too drunk to find their way home or preferred the company of others to an empty house.

Her mother, a robust woman with a no-nonsense air, was behind the bar, expertly filling mugs of ale while her father moved among the tables, chatting with guests and ensuring everyone was well cared for.

"Greta! There you are," her mother called out as she caught sight of her. "Come and help your father with the guests, will you? It's been a busy night."

Greta moved swiftly through the common room of The Verdant Hearth, balancing trays of ale and plates of steaming food with the practiced ease of someone who had grown up in the bustling inn. The warmth of the hearth fire mixed with the hearty laughter and lively conversations, creating a cozy and welcoming atmosphere.

"Greta, another round here!" called a group of farmers huddled around a table near the fireplace. Their faces were flushed with drink and cheer, and they waved their mugs in the air, signaling their need for more ale.

"Coming right up!" Greta responded with a smile, expertly weaving her way through the crowded room. As she approached the table, she caught snippets of their conversation.

"Did you hear about old man Rake's harvest? Biggest one in years, they say," one of the farmers said, his voice slurred but enthusiastic.

"Aye, I heard. We might finally get some good prices at the market this year," another added, raising his mug in a toast.

Greta set down the fresh mugs of ale, and one of the farmers, a burly man with a bushy beard, gave her a grateful nod. "Thanks, lass. You're a blessing, you are."

She offered a polite smile in return and moved on to the next table, where a group of merchants were engaged in a heated discussion about the best trade routes now that the war was over. The clinking of coins and the rustling of maps punctuated their conversation, and Greta couldn't help but listen in as she served them their drinks.

"The southern pass is open again, but the tolls are higher than ever," one of the merchants complained, shaking his head.

"Better to pay the toll than risk the old forest road," another countered, taking a deep swig of his ale. "Bandits are still lurking there, I hear."

As Greta continued to move through the room, her hands busy but her mind elsewhere, she suddenly felt a shift in the atmosphere.

The lively chatter and laughter seemed to quiet just a bit, as if the very air in the inn had thickened with unspoken tension.

"Ohh…..Lively, isn't it?"

And she heard the voice of someone she disliked from the bottom of her heart.

Chapter 91: Wanderer

"Ohh…..Lively, isn't it?"

Greta's heart sank at the sound of that familiar, grating voice. She turned slowly to see the young man striding into the inn, his bulky frame taking up more space than necessary as he made his entrance.

His rough, unshaven face was split into a wide grin that never reached his cold eyes, and his swaggering gait was accompanied by the sound of heavy boots clomping on the wooden floor.

"Well, well, if it isn't the lovely Greta," the young man drawled, his voice dripping with mockery as he approached her.

His name was Radgar, and he had become a thorn in the side of many in Rackenshore since his recent elevation to the baron's garrison.

Behind him, a group of similarly rough-looking men followed, all of them wearing the same smug expressions. They were his cronies, fellow soldiers who had taken to exploiting their new positions with disturbing enthusiasm.

The other patrons of the inn shifted uncomfortably, their previous lively conversations now reduced to uneasy murmurs as Radgar and his entourage made their presence known.

Greta forced herself to remain calm, though her stomach churned with unease. "Good evening, Radgar," she greeted him politely, though her tone was far less warm than it had been with the other guests.

Radgar's grin widened as he stepped closer, invading her personal space. "Oh, don't be so cold, Greta. We're here to celebrate, just like everyone else. Why don't you bring us a round of your finest ale? And maybe a little something extra, just for me?" His eyes roved over her in a way that made her skin crawl.

She knew exactly what he meant by "something extra," and it took all her willpower not to recoil in disgust. But she couldn't afford to provoke him—not when he had the baron's favor and the power to make life difficult for her family.

After all, with the recent war that was happening around the Valerius Plains, most of the soldiers from the garrison had been sent to the war. That was why there was a need for new recruitment, and that was also why people like Radgar were also chosen for this place.

But, there can be nothing done. With how the finances of the city being tight and the manpower being short, things were really hard for both Baron and the citizens.

Considering the bandits that had frequently appeared, the importance of the soldiers increased.

That was why no one could oppose—at least not the common folk.

"I'll get your drinks," she replied evenly, turning away to head back to the bar. As she did, she heard the snickers and crude comments from Radgar's companions, their voices carrying through the inn like an unpleasant stench.

As Greta prepared the drinks, she could feel the eyes of the other patrons on her, their sympathy mixed with helplessness. Radgar had made it clear to everyone that he was untouchable, and anyone who dared to stand up to him would pay the price. Even Baron Wyndhall, who was generally well-regarded by the people, seemed either oblivious or indifferent to the abuses carried out by his new soldier.

When she returned to the table with the tray of ale, Radgar reached out to grab her wrist, pulling her closer than was necessary. "Why don't you stay a while, Greta? We could use some company," he said, his breath hot and foul against her skin.

Greta gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay calm. "I have other customers to serve, Radgar. Please, let go."

Radgar's grip tightened, his fingers digging painfully into Greta's wrist as his expression darkened. The cheerful façade he wore moments ago slipped, revealing the simmering anger beneath. "I said sit here," he growled, his voice low and menacing, sending a chill down Greta's spine.

Greta's heart raced, her breath catching in her throat as she felt the full weight of Radgar's dominance.

'Why?'

She asked herself. For this reason, she needed to endure such a thing.

Her body stiffened, and she instinctively tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron, unyielding and cold. A shiver ran through her as fear settled deep within her chest, constricting her lungs and making it difficult to breathe.

She glanced around the room, hoping—praying—that someone would step in, that someone would have the courage to stand up to Radgar.

But all she saw were lowered gazes and averted eyes. The patrons who had been so lively moments before now seemed to shrink into themselves, unwilling to draw Radgar's attention.

Her gaze then met her father's across the room. He stood behind the bar, his hands clenched tightly around a mug, the knuckles white with tension. His eyes were filled with sorrow and helplessness, a reflection of the same emotions that Greta felt.

He looked like he wanted nothing more than to come to her aid, but the knowledge of what Radgar could do—what he had the power to do—kept him rooted in place.

The weight of her father's sadness and powerlessness bore down on Greta, adding to the crushing despair she felt. She was trapped, caught between her own fear and the reality of her situation.

There was no one who could help her, no one who would stand up to Radgar, not even the man she loved most in the world.

As if sensing the shift in her emotions, Radgar's expression changed once more. The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by that unsettling, too-bright grin he often wore. He let out a loud, forced laugh, the sound grating against Greta's nerves. "Ah, don't be like that, Greta! We're just having a bit of fun, aren't we?" he said, his tone suddenly light and jovial, as if he hadn't just threatened her.

He loosened his grip on her wrist, though he didn't let go entirely, his thumb tracing slow, possessive circles on her skin.

'Disgusting…..Disgusting….Disgusting….'

The shift in his demeanor was disorienting, the sudden change from anger to false cheerfulness making Greta's head spin. She knew better than to believe the mask he wore now—it was just a cover for the darkness that lurked beneath.

But just as the nausea threatened to overwhelm her, the door to the inn burst open with a loud bang, causing every head in the room to turn in unison. The sudden noise sliced through the oppressive atmosphere, and for a brief moment, all eyes were on the entrance.

Standing in the doorway was a young man, slightly above average height, around 180 cm. His clothes were rough and travel-worn, the kind a weary traveler might wear after days on the road.

His face was shadowed by the hood of his cloak, and though his features were hard to discern, it was clear that he was a stranger—someone unfamiliar to the people of Rackenshore.

The room held its breath as the newcomer stepped inside, his movements slow and deliberate.

He ignored the curious and wary gazes of the patrons, his presence unsettling the previously boisterous atmosphere. It was as if his very entrance had cast a shadow over the room, one that made even the most brazen hesitate.

'Who is he…?' Greta wondered, her discomfort momentarily pushed aside by this new arrival. The man's silence was almost eerie, and there was something about the way he moved—purposeful, unhurried—that made him seem as though he was in control of the entire room without saying a word.

Trailing closely behind him was a small cat, its sleek white fur a stark contrast to the roughness of the traveler's attire.

The cat moved with the same quiet grace as its master, curling around his neck like a living scarf, its bright eyes scanning the room with an intelligence that belied its size.

Radgar's grip on Greta's wrist loosened as his attention shifted to the newcomer. The forced smile slipped from his face, replaced by a scowl of irritation. "Who the hell is this?" he muttered under his breath, his gaze narrowing as he watched the stranger's every move.

The traveler paid no mind to Radgar or anyone else in the room. He moved toward an empty table near the far wall, his steps barely making a sound on the wooden floor. Once there, he pulled out a chair and sat down, the cat leaping onto the table with effortless ease.

For a moment, silence reigned. The tension in the room was palpable, the patrons unsure of what to make of this mysterious figure. Even Radgar, who thrived on asserting his dominance, seemed momentarily at a loss.

Greta, still standing by Radgar's side, felt a flicker of something she hadn't allowed herself to feel in a long time—hope.

It was faint, almost fragile, but it was there. The stranger's arrival had disrupted the oppressive control Radgar held over the room, if only for a moment.

'Could this be… a chance?'

The thought was barely formed before Radgar let out a derisive snort, the moment of hesitation gone. He released Greta's wrist completely, turning his full attention to the newcomer.

"Hey, you!" Radgar called out, his voice carrying across the room. "You've got some nerve, barging in here like that."

But that hope was soon crushed.

After all, the traveler was also targeted by Ragna and he was also not spared.

Chapter 92: Tension

"Hey, you!" Radgar called out, his voice carrying across the room. "You've got some nerve, barging in here like that."

The traveler didn't respond. He merely reached up to scratch the cat behind its ears, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he hadn't heard Radgar at all.

Radgar's eyes narrowed, and the men at his table exchanged uneasy glances. Greta could sense the tension building again, the room teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

But the traveler remained unfazed, his silence and stillness somehow more unnerving than any words he could have spoken. The cat purred softly, its eyes half-closed as it enjoyed the attention, utterly unconcerned with the brewing storm around it.

Greta's heart pounded in her chest as she watched the scene unfold. She knew Radgar well enough to know that he wouldn't let this perceived slight go unchallenged. Yet there was something about the traveler that made her think he wasn't someone to be trifled with despite his rough appearance.

Radgar took a step forward, his posture aggressive. "I'm talking to you, traveler. You'd better show some respect or—"

The traveler finally lifted his head, his hood falling back just enough to reveal piercing pitch-black eyes that seemed to hold a depth of experience far beyond his years.

He didn't speak, but the look he gave Radgar was enough to stop the man in his tracks. And then the newcomer slowly lowered his hood, revealing the face underneath that caused a ripple of surprise to pass through the room.

He was indeed young, as many had suspected, but his features were striking. His skin was pale, almost luminescent in the dim light of the inn, with a chiseled jawline and high cheekbones that gave him an air of refinement.

His face was smooth, devoid of the roughness of a seasoned warrior, but there was something about his expression—calm, composed, and slightly cold—that suggested a life far from ordinary.

What caught everyone's attention, however, was not just the traveler's youth or the sharpness of his features but the long scar that marred the right side of his face, running from his brow down past his cheek.

It cut through the pristine white of his skin like a jagged reminder of violence, giving him a menacing edge despite the otherwise handsome visage.

The most unsettling aspect, though, were his eyes—pitch-black, like twin voids that seemed to absorb the very light around him. Those eyes, filled with an unnerving depth, held Radgar's gaze firmly, freezing him in place. The silence that followed the reveal of the traveler's face was thick and oppressive as if the very air in the room had solidified.

Radgar blinked, a momentary flicker of doubt crossing his face. 'He's just a kid,' he thought, trying to dismiss the sudden fear that had gripped him. 'A damn kid with a scar.'

But the doubt lingered, gnawing at the edges of his bravado. How could this young man, barely more than a boy, with his rough clothes and traveler's gear, make him feel so… intimidated?

Radgar clenched his fists, trying to force the unease away, telling himself that the kid's cold demeanor and scar were nothing to fear.

The traveler, seemingly unbothered by the attention, turned his gaze away from Radgar and looked over to Greta, who was still standing nearby, her body tense and uncertain.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm and steady, carrying a surprising amount of authority. "I'd like a meal, please. Something warm."

The request was simple and polite, but it was the complete disregard for Radgar's presence that made it sting. Radgar's jaw tightened, his face turning a shade of red as he realized he was being ignored. The crowd in the inn watched with bated breath, sensing the confrontation that was about to unfold.

Greta hesitated for a split second before nodding, grateful for the distraction from Radgar's unwelcome attention. "Of course," she replied, her voice soft but steady. She quickly moved toward the kitchen, eager to fulfill the traveler's request and to put some distance between herself and Radgar.

But as she turned away, Radgar snapped. The humiliation of being dismissed by this stranger in front of the entire inn was too much for him to bear. He took another step forward, his posture more aggressive than before. "Hey! I'm talking to you, you little shit!" he spat, his voice loud and furious.

The traveler didn't react immediately, still focused on Greta's retreating form. But when he did turn his attention back to Radgar, it was with an expression of cold indifference, as if the larger man's outburst was nothing more than an annoyance.

Radgar's anger flared even hotter, fueled by the disdain he perceived in the traveler's eyes. He was used to being feared, respected—or at the very least, obeyed—especially now that he had the backing of the baron. This boy's calm defiance was something he wasn't prepared for, and it set his blood boiling.

"You think you can just walk in here, ignore me, and get away with it?" Radgar snarled, his hand moving to the hilt of the sword at his side. "I'll teach you some respect."

The young man's lips curled into a smirk, the expression clearly mocking Radgar. His pitch-black eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and challenge as he leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Really? And how exactly do you plan to teach me this… respect?" he asked, his tone dripping with condescension.

The taunt hit its mark. Radgar's eyes flared with anger, the heat of his fury making his vision narrow to the smirking face before him.

The blood pounded in his ears, drowning out the murmurs of the onlookers as his grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. The young man's calm defiance, the audacity to mock him in front of everyone, was more than Radgar could bear.

"Who the hell do you think you are, you little shit?" Radgar spat, his voice low and dangerous. "You must be new around here, so let me educate you."

Radgar's words dripped with venom, but they also carried a weight that sent a ripple of unease through the crowd.

There was a reason why Radgar commanded fear in Rackenshore beyond his position in the garrison and the baron's backing. Radgar wasn't just any soldier—he was an Awakened, a man who had unlocked a level of power beyond that of ordinary folk.

To even be considered for the garrison, one had to be at least a 1-star Awakened, someone who had tapped into the latent energy within themselves, enhancing their strength, speed, and abilities far beyond normal human limits.

Radgar had been fortunate enough to possess the talent to Awaken, a fact that he wielded like a weapon to assert his dominance over the people of Rackenshore.

The room seemed to shrink around them, the tension mounting as Radgar's anger grew. The other patrons exchanged nervous glances, fully aware of what Radgar was capable of. His temper was notorious, and everyone knew that once it was unleashed, there was no turning back.

The young traveler, however, didn't flinch. If anything, his smirk grew wider, as if he found the whole situation entertaining. He leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but edged with a sharpness that cut through the tension. "Oh, I'm well aware of what you are. A 1-star Awakened, right?" He paused, letting the words sink in, his smirk never faltering.

"But tell me, do you really think that makes you strong?"

The question hung in the air, its implication clear. Radgar was indeed stronger than the average person in Rackenshore—stronger than any of the patrons in the inn and stronger even than most of the garrison. But the way the young man spoke, with such confidence and derision, suggested that he didn't consider Radgar's Awakening to be impressive at all.

For a split second, Ragna considered that maybe this bastard might be a child of a noble or something. But there was no way a noble's child would have such a scar on his face.

Radgar's rage exploded. "You little bastard!" he roared, drawing his sword fully and advancing on the traveler with murderous intent. The patrons gasped, some shrinking back in their seats, others instinctively reaching for their own weapons, though none dared to intervene.

The young man remained seated, his eyes never leaving Radgar's as the larger man loomed over him, sword poised to strike. But instead of fear, his expression held nothing but a smirk. The same smirk that was there.

"You think you can just mock me and walk away?" Radgar snarled, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "I'll show you what happens to those who disrespect me!"

Radgar's sword gleamed in the dim light of the inn as he raised it, ready to bring it down on the traveler with all the force.

SWOOSH!

The blade fell down as it reached the young man.

SPURT!

And following that, blood spurted to the ground.

Chapter 93: Tension (2)

SILENCE!

The inn fell into stunned silence, the air thick with the sudden, sharp scent of blood. Every eye was fixed on the scene, the tension that had built to a fever pitch now breaking with the sight of crimson splattering across the wooden floor.

The sound of the sword cutting through the air and the subsequent spurt of blood seemed to echo in the minds of everyone present, a brutal punctuation to the violence that had erupted so suddenly.

Radgar stood frozen, his sword still raised, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. His eyes were wide, his expression a mix of rage and disbelief. For a moment, it was as if he couldn't comprehend what had just happened.

The young man, still seated, had not moved from his chair. His smirk had not faltered, and his pitch-black eyes remained fixed on Radgar.

But the blood—everyone could see it now—was not his. It was Radgar's blood that stained the floor, dripping steadily from a deep gash across his forearm, where the traveler's unseen blade had cut through flesh and muscle with precise, lethal efficiency.

The patrons, who had shrunk back in their seats, now stared in a mixture of horror and morbid fascination.

While fights had broken out in the inn before, and there had been threats and bluster aplenty, this was the first time they had seen blood spilled so openly in this place—especially the blood of a man as feared as Radgar.

The shock of it reverberated through the room, turning the once lively inn into a space of hushed whispers and fearful glances. No one dared to move or speak too loudly lest they draw attention to themselves.

Radgar, still reeling from the sudden wound, staggered back, clutching his arm. His sword clattered to the ground, forgotten in his pain and confusion.

The look on his face was one of utter disbelief—disbelief that this young man, whom he had dismissed as a mere traveler, had not only mocked him but had drawn his blood with such ease.

The young man slowly stood up from his chair, his movements calm and deliberate. As he rose to his full height, the small cat that had been sitting on the table hopped back onto his shoulder as if it, too, were unfazed by the violence that had just occurred.

The traveler's eyes never left Radgar, his expression unreadable as he regarded the man who had tried to cut him down.

"You… you bastard…" Radgar hissed through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with a mixture of pain and anger. But the fire that had driven him moments before had dimmed, replaced by a growing fear that he could no longer hide.

The traveler finally spoke, his voice as cold and cutting as the blade that had wounded Radgar. "I told you," he said softly, the words barely more than a whisper, yet carrying the weight of a death sentence. "You made a mistake."

The inn remained deathly quiet, the tension so thick it was almost suffocating. Greta, who had returned from the kitchen just in time to witness the aftermath, stood frozen in place, her eyes wide with shock.

The sight of the blood on the floor, the realization that the young man had drawn it without so much as standing up, filled her with a mix of fear and awe.

The men who had followed Radgar into the inn were now standing in a tight cluster, their faces pale with fear and anger.

The sight of their leader, Radgar, cut down so effortlessly had shaken them to their core, but there was something else gnawing at them—an indignation that burned just beneath the surface.

They had spent months, even years, building their reputation in Rackenshore, thriving on the fear and respect that their newfound power had afforded them.

And now, in mere moments, that reputation was crumbling before their eyes.

Radgar, though wounded and clearly in pain, couldn't let go of the humiliation. His gaze flicked between the young man seated before him and his own men, and the rage that had fueled him moments before began to rekindle.

He hated this, hated the fact that he had been bested so easily, hated the idea that the people in this inn—people who had once cowered before him—were now watching his downfall.

He gritted his teeth, trying to push through the pain and the fear that threatened to overwhelm him.

'I can't let it end like this,' he thought, his pride screaming for retaliation. His eyes met those of his men, and in that brief exchange, a silent understanding passed between them.

Each one of them nodded, their expressions hardening as they prepared to restore their shattered honor.

But before they could take a single step, the young man raised his head, his black eyes locking onto theirs with a calm, cold gaze. His voice, when he spoke, was soft but carried a chilling certainty that made the blood in their veins turn to ice. "What you're thinking right now… is not a good idea."

The men froze, their bravado faltering as the young man's words cut through the tension like a knife. They exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier confidence wavering under the weight of his gaze.

But then, one of them, a burly man with a scarred face, managed a smirk, his attempt to regain control evident in the forced expression.

"And why's that, huh?" the man sneered, his voice tinged with a bravado that rang hollow in the silence of the room. "You think we're just gonna let you walk out of here after what you did to Radgar?"

The young man didn't blink, didn't move. His expression remained unchanged, the calm in his eyes unwavering. "Because once my blade is drawn," he said quietly, his words laced with an edge sharper than any sword, "it never goes back into the sheath without cutting."

The meaning behind his words was clear—deadly clear.

"Hence, I suggest you stand back…..Or else, I will not show any mercy this time."

The moment the young man's words hung in the air, the men felt it—a cold, suffocating pressure that seemed to descend upon them, wrapping around their chests and squeezing the breath from their lungs.

It wasn't just fear; it was something far more primal, something that clawed at the deepest recesses of their instincts.

'What is this…?' one of the men thought, his heart hammering in his chest as a wave of sheer terror washed over him.

It wasn't just the young man's calm demeanor or his threatening words—it was something far darker, something raw and unbridled, that filled the room like a dense, suffocating fog.

The intent they felt wasn't just any ordinary killing intent—it was bloodthirst, pure and unfiltered.

It was the kind of bloodthirst that only a seasoned killer, one who had taken countless lives, could exude. The air was thick with it, heavy and oppressive as if they were standing in the presence of a beast, a predator that had no qualms about tearing them apart.

Their instincts screamed at them to run, to flee from this force that was so much greater than anything they had ever encountered. The young man before them was no mere traveler—he was a slaughterer, someone who had bathed in the blood of others, someone who knew how to kill and wouldn't hesitate to do so.

"Young man."

The oppressive atmosphere in the inn was suddenly punctuated by a voice, deep and resonant, coming from the entrance.

All eyes turned toward the source of the voice. Standing in the doorway was an old man, his figure broad and imposing despite his age. His belly was large, a testament to a life well-lived, but there was no mistaking the strength in his stance or the authority in his presence.

His face, though lined with the wrinkles of time, radiated a fatherly warmth and calmness that contrasted sharply with the suffocating tension in the room.

The young man, still seated at his table, slowly turned his head to regard the newcomer. The bloodthirst that had hung in the air like a thick fog seemed to waver, its oppressive weight shifting slightly as the old man's calm voice cut through the silence.

"Young man," the old man repeated, his tone gentle but firm, "it's better for you to control that bloodthirst. You're suffocating everyone here, not just those fools." He gestured with a broad hand to the other patrons, some of whom were visibly struggling to breathe under the weight of the young man's raw, unfiltered killing intent.

It was only then that the young man seemed to notice the effect he was having on the others in the inn. The smirk that had played on his lips faded slightly, and his eyes softened as he surveyed the room.

The faces of the patrons were pale, their eyes wide with fear. Some were gripping the edges of their tables, their knuckles white, while others were gasping for breath as if the very air had been stolen from their lungs.

For a split second, the young man said nothing.

"Sigh….."

Then, with a slow, deliberate breath, he closed his eyes and released the bloodthirst he had been exuding. The effect was immediate.

The oppressive weight lifted from the room, the air seemed to clear, and the patrons let out a collective sigh of relief as the pressure on their chests eased.

The old man nodded approvingly, his gaze steady as he approached the young man's table.

The fear in the room didn't dissipate entirely, but it lessened significantly with the old man's presence as if his very being was a calming balm against the terror that had just gripped them all.

"Thank you." the old man said, his voice kind but with an undertone of sternness, as he turned to look at the Radgar and others.

"Leave this place in this instant, you fools. Don't you read the atmosphere?"

The old man's voice, though calm, carried an unmistakable authority that sent a shiver down the spines of Radgar and his men.

His words were a command, not a suggestion, and the weight of his presence made it clear that defiance was not an option.

Radgar, still clutching his wounded arm, felt a surge of humiliation wash over him. He had already been bested by the young traveler, and now this old man was ordering him around as if he were a child.

But the pain in his arm, coupled with the oppressive atmosphere that still lingered in the room, sapped any lingering defiance from him. The memory of the bloodthirst that had nearly crushed him was too fresh, too vivid.

The others, who had been on the verge of drawing their weapons in a desperate attempt to salvage their pride, suddenly found themselves unable to meet the old man's gaze.

"Tch."

And with a click of their tongue, Radgar turned on his heel and hurried toward the door, his steps uneven as he tried to maintain some semblance of dignity despite his defeat. His men followed suit, their expressions a mix of fear and shame.

The bravado that had fueled them earlier was gone, replaced by a desperate need to escape the situation as quickly as possible.

The patrons watched in silence as Radgar and his cronies fled the inn, their hurried footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

The door swung shut behind them with a finality that seemed to seal their fate, leaving the inn once again in the calm, almost sacred, silence that had descended with the old man's arrival.

"Tsk. Youngster these days."

The old man spoke and then walked towards the bar.

"Greta, give me a beer."

And requested a beer.

Chapter 94: A talk ?

Greta was shaken by all the things that happened there. Was she supposed to be happy, or should she feel fearful? She did not know the answer clearly.

"Young man."

But the moment he appeared at the door, she knew she was in safe hands.

"It's better for you to control that bloodthirst. You're suffocating everyone here, not just those fools."

The fact that he was here meant things would be more stable from now on. After all, even Radgar or his group would not be able to do anything in his presence, and she hoped the same would hold true for the young man.

Since he was one of the people she liked and respected a lot.

"Greta, give me a beer."

Greta nodded as he made his request, the tension that had gripped her beginning to ease. She turned to fetch the beer for the old man, but as she reached for a mug, she suddenly remembered the meal she still needed to prepare for the newcomer.

'What do I do?'

Her hand hovered over the mug, torn between fulfilling the old man's request and attending to the young man who had so dramatically altered the course of the evening.

She glanced between the two men, her hesitation evident in her eyes. The old man, who had been a source of comfort and authority, and the young traveler, whose presence still lingered like a shadow over the room.

Greta's mind raced, trying to decide who to prioritize, not wanting to slight either of them.

The old man, being perceptive, noticed her dilemma immediately. He gave a soft chuckle and waved his hand dismissively, his fatherly smile returning.

"It's fine, Greta," he said gently. "Go on and get that young man his meal first. I can wait. I'll take my beer from Maren."

He nodded toward the other bartender, Maren, who was wiping down the counter nearby. Maren, a burly man with a gruff exterior but a kind heart, caught his gaze and gave a quick nod of understanding.

Relieved, Greta smiled gratefully at Harlan. "Thank you, Uncle Harlan. I'll be right back with your beer after I take care of this."

Harlan waved her off again, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "No rush, my dear. Take your time."

With that, Greta turned and quickly made her way to the kitchen, her steps lightened by the old man's understanding.

She busied herself with preparing the meal for the young traveler, her hands moving with practiced ease as she put together a hearty plate of roasted meat, fresh bread, and vegetables.

All the while, her mind lingered on the events of the evening, the contrast between the men who had shaped it so profoundly—one with calm wisdom, the other with a dangerous edge.

As she plated the meal and carried it back to the main room, Greta's thoughts drifted back to the young man. Who was he, really? And what had brought him to Rackenshore? She couldn't help but wonder if there was more to his story, something deeper that had yet to be revealed.

When she approached the young traveler's table, she placed the meal in front of him with a smile. "Here you go, sir," she said softly. "I hope it's to your liking."

The young man looked up at her, his expression softening for the first time that evening. "Thank you," he replied, his voice quiet but sincere. He glanced at the plate before him, then back at Greta. "I hope you are relieved now."

Greta blinked, taken aback by the young man's words. How could he know? This was something she had kept hidden, something that most outsiders wouldn't notice, especially not someone just passing through. Her surprise must have shown on her face because the young man's expression softened further, and a hint of regret flickered in his dark eyes.

"Relieved?" she repeated, her voice a little shaky as she tried to process what he had just said.

The young man nodded, his gaze steady and kind in a way that contrasted sharply with the fierce presence he had exuded earlier. "Yes. Those men. They've been giving you a hard time, haven't they?"

Greta's breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words seemed to stick, her mind racing to make sense of the situation. She had grown so accustomed to hiding her discomfort, to putting on a brave face for the sake of her family and the patrons, that hearing someone acknowledge her suffering so plainly was both shocking and oddly comforting.

"How did you know?" she finally managed to ask, her voice barely above a whisper. She felt exposed as if he had seen right through her carefully constructed facade.

Greta's breath hitched as the young man's smirk widened, his dark eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint. "I just guessed," he said, his tone light and teasing. "And you confirmed it."

Realization dawned on her, and she felt a rush of embarrassment mixed with irritation. He had played her, using her own emotions against her to draw out the truth. She had fallen for his bluff, and now he was clearly enjoying the moment. Greta's cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation as she stared at him, her earlier gratitude quickly turning into annoyance.

"So, this was all a game to you?" she snapped, her voice rising with frustration. "You were just playing around?"

The young man's smirk didn't fade. Instead, he raised his hand to his chin, tapping it thoughtfully as if considering her words. "A game…" he mused, his tone still light but with a hint of something deeper. "Isn't life just a game where the strong ones are the players?"

Greta's irritation faltered, her mind scrambling to find a response. The flippant way he spoke, as if the world and all its hardships could be reduced to something as simple as a game, left her momentarily speechless.

She opened her mouth to retort, but the words wouldn't come. The way he said it, so casually, so matter-of-factly, made her question the life she had lived.

And being just a countryside girl, she did not know many things as well.

"That….." So, she could not say anything at all.

The young man watched her, his expression still holding that playful edge, but now there was something else there, too—an underlying seriousness that belied his earlier teasing.

At least, that was for a split second before his smirk returned.

"Ah… I'm sorry if I've spoken a bit too deeply," he said, his tone lighter now as if brushing off the weight of his previous words. "It's been a while since I've had a conversation with someone."

Before Greta could respond, the cat perched on his shoulder suddenly snarled at him, its eyes narrowing in displeasure. With a quick, sharp swipe, it batted at the young man's head, its tiny claws making contact with his cheek. The sound was more of a warning than a serious attack, but it was clear that the cat was not pleased with him.

The young man didn't flinch, though. Instead, he chuckled softly, reaching up to gently scratch the cat behind the ears. "All right, all right, I get it," he said, still smiling. "I suppose I should have said I haven't talked with a human for a while?"

The cat's snarl faded into a soft purr as it leaned into his touch, clearly appeased by his attention. Greta watched the exchange with a mix of amusement and surprise. The young man's demeanor, which had been so intense just moments before, now seemed almost… normal. His interaction with the cat was tender, affectionate, and utterly at odds with the dangerous aura he had exuded earlier.

And at the same time, his words….They implied that he had been talking with someone other than a human.

"That… Is that a…" she stammered, her curiosity and disbelief getting the better of her.

The young man's smile widened as he met her gaze, clearly enjoying her reaction. "That's right. She's my contracted familiar," he confirmed, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

'Wow… A contracted familiar!' Greta thought inwardly, her mind racing with the implications. Contracted familiars were rare, not just because they required a significant bond between the summoner and the creature but also because it was rare to find someone Awakened with the power to form such a bond in the first place.

But as she looked at the cat, who was now purring contentedly under the young man's touch, she couldn't help but feel a pang of confusion. 'A cat as a contracted familiar?' she mused, her thoughts reflecting the surprise she felt. From what little she knew, familiars were often depicted as more ferocious or mystical creatures—beasts of power that matched the strength of their masters.

She had heard stories of mighty wolves, fierce eagles, and even serpents with scales as hard as steel. But a cat? It was unexpected, to say the least.

The young man seemed to sense her thoughts, his grin turning slightly teasing as he continued to scratch the cat's ears. "Not what you expected, huh?" he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I suppose you were thinking of something more… intimidating?"

Greta nodded, unable to keep her thoughts from spilling out. "I've just never seen a contracted familiar like her before. The stories I've heard… they usually talk about fierce beasts, not… well, not cats."

The young man chuckled softly, clearly entertained by her reaction. "True, most people expect something more dramatic. But don't let her appearance fool you." He glanced at the cat, who had now settled comfortably on his shoulder, her eyes half-closed in contentment. "She's far more than meets the eye."

Greta tilted her head, intrigued by his words. "Really? What can she do?"

"You would not want to see."

"Ah…." She imagined this small cat storming through the battlefield with her tiny structure….And for some reason, she could not do so. "Pfff….."

She could only laugh slightly.

"You should keep doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Smile. You are beautiful when you smile."

Chapter 95: A talk ? (2)

"Smile. You are beautiful when you smile."

Greta's cheeks flushed a deep shade of red at the young man's words, the compliment catching her completely off guard. She wasn't used to hearing such things, especially not from someone like him.

The way he said it, so casually yet sincerely, left her momentarily speechless. She lowered her gaze, suddenly feeling shy and self-conscious, the warmth of the compliment settling in her chest.

She had received compliments before—remarks on her hard work, her kindness, even her looks—but none had made her feel quite like this. It was as if he had seen something in her that she hadn't even noticed in herself, and that thought both flattered and embarrassed her.

After a moment, she gathered the courage to look back up at him, intending to thank him or say something—anything—to acknowledge the compliment. But when she raised her head, she found that he had already turned his attention back to his meal, his focus now entirely on the food before him, as if the conversation had never happened.

The ease with which he had shifted his attention only added to her confusion. For him, it seemed, the compliment had been nothing more than a simple, honest observation delivered without any expectation of a response. And now, he was back to being the mysterious traveler, with his enigmatic air and his unusual familiar.

Greta stood there for a moment longer, her mind a whirl of thoughts and emotions, before she finally turned away, a small smile playing on her lips despite herself.

His words lingered in her mind, making her feel lighter and more confident, and she couldn't help but replay them over and over as she went about her tasks.

********

I could feel Vitaliara's sharp gaze on me as I picked up my fork, her tail flicking with barely concealed irritation.

[You… You did it on purpose, didn't you?] she accused, her voice echoing in my mind with a mix of exasperation and amusement.

I didn't bother hiding my smirk as I cut into the roasted meat. "What are you talking about?" I asked innocently, not bothering to look at her.

[You know what I'm talking about,] she shot back, her tone carrying the distinct air of someone who was used to my antics. [Complimenting that girl like that. You enjoyed watching her squirm, didn't you?]

I chuckled softly, savoring the tender meat as I chewed. "Perhaps. But can you blame me? People are always so honest when they're caught off guard. It's fascinating."

Vitaliara let out a huff, her tiny paws pressing lightly on my shoulder as she leaned closer, her presence warm against my skin. [You're hopeless, you know that? You could have just let the poor girl be, but no, you had to go and make her blush.]

"She needed it," I replied, my tone softening slightly. "You saw how tense she was. A little kindness goes a long way, especially for someone who's been dealing with men like those."

Vitaliara paused, her irritation fading as she considered my words. [True,] she admitted, her tone more thoughtful now. [But still, you didn't have to toy with her emotions like that.]

"It wasn't my intention to toy with her," I said, pushing my plate slightly to the side as I took a sip of water. "She's been through a lot, and sometimes a simple compliment can do wonders. Besides…" I glanced at Greta, who was now busy behind the bar, her cheeks still faintly pink. "She deserved to know that she's more than just a caretaker in this place. She's stronger than she realizes."

Vitaliara was silent for a moment, her gaze shifting between Greta and me. [You really mean that, don't you?]

I nodded, my expression serious. "I do. People like her… they're the backbone of places like this. They keep things running, even when the world around them is falling apart. It's easy to overlook that strength, but it's there."

I still remember that time when I was in the army. At that time, Clara also got hit a lot, and there were many men who wanted to be with her.

At that time, I knew she had it hard since when she was just a non-awakened woman, she constantly needed to be on alert.

'Sigh…..'

Then, remembering that somehow made me reminisce about the past. However, it was far, long gone.

In any case, since I knew what kind of hardships people like this girl faced, I decided to give a little help that I couldn't at that time.

That was it.

[But, why did you enter like that? Everyone looked at you like some sort of monster.]

"That….I just wanted to look cool."

[Here, I thought...]

"What? You thought what?"

[Nothing.]

"Hehe….It is a man's romance to do such things, you know."

Vitaliara tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as if she were considering something deeply. [You know, Gerald had his share of antics like that, too. I suppose this really is a men's thing.]

I couldn't help but chuckle at her comment. "It's a universal truth," I said, nodding in agreement. "Every man, given the right situation, would act the same way. There's something about making an entrance, especially when it means standing up for someone who can't do it themselves."

Vitaliara let out a soft purr, her earlier amusement returning. [I guess I'll never fully understand it, but as long as you're not causing too much trouble, I'll tolerate it.]

I grinned, feeling a sense of camaraderie in our shared moment. "I'll try not to overdo it," I promised, though we both knew that was unlikely.

There was something satisfying about those moments, where I could combine a bit of theatrics with a genuine desire to help. It wasn't just about looking cool; it was about making a statement, about showing strength in a way that words alone couldn't convey.

With that, I returned to my meal, savoring each bite. It had been far too long since I'd had a proper, cooked meal like this, and I could feel the warmth spreading through me as I ate. The flavors were rich and comforting, a stark contrast to the rations I'd been surviving on for so long.

There was a simple pleasure in this, something grounding about sitting in a warm inn, eating good food, and bantering with Vitaliara.

For a moment, it almost felt like the world outside didn't exist—that there was no looming danger, no need to keep moving, just the present moment.

As I ate, I glanced around the room, noticing how the tension had eased. The patrons were gradually returning to their conversations, though they still shot the occasional glance my way. But the fear was gone, replaced by a cautious curiosity. It seemed that the old man's presence had done wonders to calm the atmosphere, and I was grateful for that.

[Enjoying yourself?] Vitaliara asked, her tone light as she sensed my contentment.

"I am," I admitted, taking another bite of the roasted meat. "It's been too long since I've had a meal like this. I almost forgot what real food tastes like."

[Then savor it,] she replied, her voice carrying a note of satisfaction. [You've earned it.]

I nodded, saying, "That is my intention." And then continued eating.

As I continued eating, savoring each bite, Vitaliara's voice cut through my thoughts. [You know, that girl been throwing you some quick glances for a while now. Seems like she really liked you.]

I glanced over at the bar, catching Greta's gaze just as she quickly looked away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "It's nothing," I said, my tone light. "Just a momentary thing. She'll forget about it soon enough."

[Will she?] Vitaliara mused, her tone teasing. [Humans have a funny way of holding onto things, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.]

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "It's not like that. Besides, you do know my circumstances."

[Yeah….] Vitaliara didn't press the matter further, instead shifting to a more serious topic. [But what about those men? How do you plan to deal with them?]

The question brought a chill to my demeanor, and I felt my expression harden. My eyes grew cold as I thought about that guy and his cronies.

"This world is what it is," I replied quietly, the warmth from earlier fading from my voice. "If I kill them here, another group just like them will take their place. The problem isn't with individuals like them—it's with the lack of a governing force in this city."

I took another bite of food, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "But that's changing. The war is finished, and soon, this territory will become more stable. The power vacuum that allowed people like Radgar to thrive will be filled, and order will be restored."

[And you're not interested in bullying the weak for no reason,] she added, more a statement than a question.

"Exactly," I said, smiling at the fact that she knew me well. "I am only interested in strong people."

I mumbled. "Though that is under the pretense of 'no reason.'"

[Yeah….If you want to rise in the ranks, you need to be ruthless.]

"What do you think the master would have done?"

[Gerald? He would have killed them, most likely.]

"Really?"

[Yeah…..He was not….not that gentle when he was young, let's say.]

"I will take that as a compliment."

[…..]

Vitaliara paused, her curiosity piqued. [Then what do you plan to do now?] she asked, her tone expectant.

I took a final sip of water, savoring the calm before the next step. "What else?" I replied with a slight grin. "I'm going to get a new weapon, of course."

Vitaliara tilted her head, a hint of skepticism in her voice. [In this small city? How will you find a blacksmith here?]

I couldn't help but chuckle at her doubt. "How will I find one, huh?" I said, leaning back in my chair with a satisfied smile. "I've already met him."

After all….

There was a reason I came to this city out of all.