The tavern was enveloped in shocked silence following the loud bang of the mug that shattered on Twicher's head.
For a moment, the men hesitated, contemplating their next action. However, these were not men of thought—thugs like them were known to lash out first and think later.
But, as Aric had said, terror is a powerful tool. It was enough to make them think twice, especially since Twicher was no ordinary thief among them, and yet the man before them had disrespected him so blatantly.
They had to ask themselves: Could they afford to act recklessly?
"This won't do," Aric muttered, throwing the mug's handle onto the wooden table, all that was left of it. "Do you not feel a sense of duty? As henchmen, should you not avenge him?"
Aric posed his question to the tavern full of thugs, who remained still and silent, their drawn weapons clenched.
"Who are you?" one of the thugs finally spoke.
Aric shook his head. "Wrong question. That's useless."
He leaned on the table, raising his hand as if to emphasize his next words. "What you should ask is: What do I want?"
Aric clasped his fingers and stayed silent, leaning back as though waiting. Moments passed before one of the thugs stood up.
"I'm tired of this nonsense. What do you want?" he growled, brandishing his machete.
Aric pointed at him. "Wonderful question," he said, pushing himself off the table and walking around the tavern slowly. "At first… it was your lives. I mean, I am just passing through, so why not get rid of you lot? It would add to my list of heroics."
Then he stopped.
"However, I had a better idea. Rather than waste your lives, why not use them for something worthwhile? So, I guess what I'm saying is… you're now all under new management. And don't worry, I'll take it up with Borag when I see him."
"Bullshit!" one of the men shot up from his table.
"Oh?" Aric's head tilted, intrigued.
"You're gonna have to do your managing in the afterlife," the thug, a man in ragged clothes clutching a knife, barked.
He tapped the men closest to him, who began standing, readying themselves for a fight.
"Yes… yes, that's it," Aric smiled as he watched the men prepare to attack. He reached under his cloak, retrieving white bandages.
"You see…" Aric began, wrapping the bandages around his hand, "I do try to offer the carrot before the stick. But if I'm being honest, I always hope the carrot is never taken. I'm a firm believer in teaching through… physical methods."
"Do you see how many people are in front of you? You're two boys and a girl," the thugs tried to intimidate, referring to Serina and Lerai.
"Please, don't worry. They won't be intervening," Aric assured, turning to the bartender. "What kind of wood is this? How easy is blood cleaned from it?"
"Not easy at all," the bartender shook his head with a sigh.
"Well… that's a shame."
Aric moved, almost blurring as he reached the nearest man, his hand swinging across his jaw, sending a mix of blood and loose teeth flying. As the others tried to process what had happened, Aric's fist moved a sceond time and struck the man's throat, crushing his cartilage.
The man gasped for breath he couldn't seem to draw, collapsing to the floor before anyone understood what had happened.
Aric was a trained warrior, but now he was more than that—he was a martial artist, possessing ki as well.
And although these thugs were cold, ruthless, and unsympathetic killers, they were still human.
Their strength lay in numbers, which proved useful against the powerless travelers of Ezra's path. But their numbers were useless against a skilled cultivator.
"Please, there's no point in hesitating. None of you will be leaving here untouched."
One by one, the thugs steeled their nerves and lunged at Aric, weapons drawn, faces displaying anger and something akin to fear. The first attacker, the man with the machete, charged recklessly, bringing his weapon down with a wide, heavy swing.
Aric was faster, sharper.
He sidestepped with an almost lazy grace, his bandaged fist snapping forward and striking the man square in the jaw with a loud crack.
The machete-wielding thug stumbled back, his head whipping to the side as blood sprayed from his mouth. Aric followed through with a knee to the man's stomach, sending him crashing into a nearby table, splintering wood and knocking mugs to the ground.
Another thug leapt at him from the side, a knife aimed at Aric's ribs. With a fluid twist of his body, Aric caught the man's wrist, wrenching it painfully as the knife clattered to the floor.
In the same motion, he drove an elbow into the thug's nose, shattering it with a sickening crunch. The man let out a howl of pain, clutching his face as he staggered backward, blood pouring between his fingers.
From behind, two more thugs rushed at him, thinking to overwhelm him with numbers.
Aric spun on his heel, his foot catching one in the knee with a brutal kick, the joint bending at an unnatural angle. The man screamed as he collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony.
The second thug swung a club toward Aric's head, but Aric caught the weapon mid-swing, wrenching it from the man's grasp. With a swift motion, he slammed the club into the thug's ribs, sending him crashing into a nearby wall.
The tavern was now a scene of chaos. Men groaned on the floor, clutching broken limbs and gasping for breath.
Aric slithered like a shadow through the fray, his movements precise, economical, and brutal. He was careful not to kill—his blows were meant to incapacitate, not end lives—but the damage was severe. Bones snapped, teeth flew, and blood splattered across the wooden floor, seeping into the cracks of the old planks.
"You're all hesitating," Aric said, his voice calm, almost bored, as he stood over the fallen thug. "There's no point in dragging this out."
———
The one-sided assault went on for a while. The stench of sweat and blood had now overcome the lingering smell of alcohol and beer.
Blood smeared the floor, staining the tavern with crimson streaks. Serina and Lerai, who had been watching from the sidelines, looked on in silence. Aric, standing in the center of the mess, was untouched, his breathing calm, his expression composed.
[Stamina: 15/70 (Low)]
He wiped a speck of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, surveying the broken bodies littered around him. None of them were dead, but they would carry their injuries—and the memory of this night—for a long time.
He rubbed his bandaged hand across the blood-smeared table closest to him, but it did little to remove the crimson stains.
Aric turned to the bartender, who stood behind the counter, quiet. "You're right," Aric said, his voice casual. "Blood really doesn't clean easily from wood."
Suddenly, the doors of the tavern swung open, and a man clad in mismatched armor and a dark cloak stepped in. His hair was fiery red, just like his eyes.
As he walked inside, he surveyed the carnage around him—from the incapacitated thugs to Aric, whose bloodied bandages were the only sign of his involvement in the altercation.
"I seem to have missed a lot," the man remarked, his tone strangely calm.
"Ah, Borag," Aric said with a faint smile. "I had begun dreading having to hunt you down, but since you're here, I should wake Twicher up so we can have an important conversation."