Chapter 21 Village Tyrant

Half an hour ago...

At the corner of a narrow alley in the village, a group of loafing young men gathered. One youth with purplish bruises fading from his face leaned at the forefront, gazing at something.

The last young man to be called finally showed up, belatedly. He chuckled sheepishly upon seeing the bruise on the face of the leading youth and stutteringly asked, "...Bor... Boris, bro? Your, your face again..."

Boris's irate palm immediately smacked across the foolish Hawk's head.

"Shut your damn stammer, shut your stinking mouth, I know what's with my face!"

"Ow... I... I was just asking out of concern..."

Hawk, rewarded with a slap, dared not speak further, and seemed to sulk as he moved towards the rest of the group.

The rough-looking youths who arrived earlier whispered to Hawk with a snicker, "Don't get on his bad side, it's just the old cripple's wife... the lioness. Brother got a beating last time and has been holding a grudge these past few days."

"Damn it, you think I'm deaf? I just let that bitch off easy because she's a woman," Boris glared nastily.

His cronies quickly shut their mouths, but inwardly they murmured, ...how merciful he has been for so many years, always beaten black and blue and never won once, right...

"Enough of that chatter, see that guy?" Boris pointed towards the unfamiliar youth outside the alley.

The small-time hooligans crowded over to take a look.

Not far at a tailor's stall, a disheveled, bare-chested youth, his pants tattered, seemed to be haggling with the tailor woman.

"Don't recognize him, a new face."

"Never seen him before, some beggar who wandered into our village?"

The lot of them jabbered away with their various opinions.

"Where are your eyes? Would a beggar have so much money to buy so many clothes and shoes? Look at that thing on his waist!" Boris impatiently reminded his useless followers.

They then noticed the sword on the waist of the youth who looked like a beggar.

Swords weren't unusual; the big households in the village all had them. But this sword was different; upon closer inspection, the scabbard was made from strikingly fine materials—its lacquered surface smooth and sleek. Even though a rag wrapped the entire hilt and mouth of the scabbard, concealing the main decorations, the exposed guard still showed off intricate, ornate carvings.

"Hey, that kid looks like a wild man. Where did he get such a fancy sword?"

"Seems... quite valuable."

Their cronies spoke, eyes shining.

"You country bumpkins don't understand anything, it's more than just valuable."

Boris licked his lips, his eyes growing cold as he continued, "I've seen the sword of the Baron. Not even the Lord's sword has a scabbard as luxurious as this! This kid isn't some wild man; probably a runaway slave of some Noble Master, and surely stole that sword from his owner."

"Ah? ...Seriously?"

The little ruffians looked at each other, astounded.

"Why are you so stupid, take a good look at that kid's face. He's covered in dirt alright, but his features are quite handsome. Check out that soft and tender skin, have you ever seen a beggar like that? He's probably a male pet slave raised by some Noble Master since childhood," Boris smacked his lips, feeling that his deduction was very sound.

"...Noble Masters have women and they play with men? That perverse?"

"Bullshit, what do you know, that's called high society!"

"Right, right, right, could the interests of our Noble Masters be the same as us plebs?"

The cronies excitedly chirped, feeling as if they were broadening their horizons.

"Isn't Big Brother smart, then we should quickly report this to the village elder, capture him and send him back to the Noble Master, wouldn't that be a great service?" one of the cronies excitedly suggested to his big brother.

"Idiot, why involve the villagers? If he gets taken back, we won't get a thing from it," Boris looked at him with frustration: "Besides, even if we bring the kid back to his master, how much would the Noble Master reward us with?"

The cronies then realized the intent of their big brother, but some couldn't help but secretly lose their nerve, "Uh, so big brother, you're suggesting we... we're going to...?"

"...Since he's a runaway slave, who's going to care if he lives or dies. Find a place to surround him, make him hand over the sword, and if he resists... we'll gut the little brat and throw him in a ditch where no one will find him, heh heh, I can sell that treasure sword in the city for at least fifty gold crowns! When that happens, there'll be a share for everyone getting the money," Boris grinned wickedly.

"How... how much?!"

The small-time hooligans, who had merely joined in for the excitement, suddenly bulged their eyes and gasped in shock.

The sum estimated had their legs turning to jelly, "Fi... Fifty gold crowns!?"

Knowing that an ordinary farmer, even in a good year, could hardly save up to seven or eight Silver Nalers after scrimping and saving all year long... fifty gold crowns, was a fortune they would never see if they worked in the fields until they died.

The cronies could hardly breathe with the realization.

With this one heist, even if they only got a little spill-off, they would all become rich!

"Look at you all, without a shred of ambition." Watching his excited underlings, Boris secretly reveled.

He had not made an empty boast. Out of curiosity, he had asked the village's old cripple blacksmith what the Lord's sword was worth, and the answer had truly been staggering.

And the sword on the youth's waist, even just by looking at the scabbard, was sure to be prettier than the Baron's, and if the blade inside was intact, it was probably worth far more than fifty gold crowns. He had intentionally understated it.

"Got everything with you?" Boris scanned the crowd.

"Don't worry, bro, we've got it all." A few small-time hoods patted the daggers and knives at their waists, originally thinking they were just for show during a fight, but it turned out they really needed them.

"Remember, once I lure him into the woods, you guys don't talk, just follow my commands."

Boris ordered viciously, and suddenly, when he saw that Hawk's waist and hands were empty, he flew into a rage, "Are you fucking here for a picnic? Where's your dagger?"

"I... I thought, it was... just a fight..." Hawk explained with a pained expression, shaking all over.

"Forget it; you're useless anyway." Boris spat on the ground.

"Bro! That guy's gone!"

"What? You idiots can't keep an eye on him."

"He seems to have gone out of the village."

"Then what are you waiting for? Go find him!"

...

...At the river bank at the end of the village, the ruffians surrounded the three foreign youths.

"You guys want something?" Leon rested his left hand on the Sword hilt, impatiently staring down the gang of clearly ill-intentioned thugs.

Hearing Leon's foreign accent, Boris sized up the three in front of him with a steely stare. Rotating his gaze over them, he had thought there was only one, but to his surprise, that kid had companions by the river—and no wonder he bought so many clothes.

Seeing that their hair was still damp and they had changed into new clothes after washing, even the kid he had set his sights on no longer looked haggard. Now clean and tidy, he seemed spirited, almost resembling a noble's son at first glance.

But... Boris glanced at the worn clothes they had changed out of, thrown to the side, and then at the tall youth wearing tattered Chain Armor outside his clothes. He became even more certain of his earlier speculation.

Definitely all escapees! Maybe even criminals, a delicate male pet slave, a big laborer, and one who's nondescript... maybe a handyman? How'd that Sword end up on his waist? Never mind, doesn't matter.

Three runaway slaves, all of them tall and well-built, but we have the numbers on our side.

"Is it your place to ask, kid?" Boris barked aggressively, casually concocting an accusation, "I'm the captain of the village Militia, and I suspect you few are Kantadar spies. Now, come quietly with us."

Leon snorted in amusement. These thugs, either with a dagger or a short sword, and one even with a sickle, were clothed in short tops and hemp pants, their shabby appearances far from impressive, and they didn't even have a cheap Spear to their name—they dared to call themselves Militia?

"We're just passing through, not looking for trouble. Just spit out what you want already."

"Spies won't admit they're spies. I advise you, kid, to cooperate with the inspection and hand over your weapons! Starting with the Sword on you! Otherwise, don't blame me for not being nice." Boris drew his short sword, his threat unmistakable.

His henchmen followed suit, drawing various weapons.

Leon paused, realizing they were after money. He shook his head as his patience wore thin.

"Unfortunately, this Sword is the only valuable thing we have left." He drew his long Sword, flashing the blade: "If you really want it, you might as well exchange it for your life."

Boris didn't care what the young man was saying; he was only delighted internally.

With the tattered cover gone, the exquisite gold and gem inlays on the Sword hilt and the dazzling silver glint of the unsheathed blade were plainly visible. The sword, straight and beautiful with no damage, had fine engravings that even a layman could appreciate.

Worth more than fifty gold crowns, absolutely more!

The hooligans' eyes were practically blinded by the magnificence of the treasure sword.

"Hard words fail to convince damned fools." Leon narrowed his eyes; he had encountered many demons and ghosts along the way, but he had yet to kill a living person. Now, shedding blood for the first time on these treacherous village thugs seemed unavoidable.

Lokhak sneered, unhooking the broken sword full of notches from his waist: "No more talking with them, Leon. I can take care of these stinking fish and rotten shrimp myself."

Azeryan also drew his dagger, but his mind was rapidly weighing the pros and cons.

He wasn't worried about these despicable thugs; rather, his concern was whether killing a few local ruffians might lead to a warrant in a foreign land.

"Boris, what stupid thing are you doing now?"

Suddenly, a crisp girl's reprimand came from behind the thugs.

The gang of ruffians instinctively shrank their necks, their faces fearful as if mice had encountered a cat.

Boris's face froze as well.

As if he could still feel the aching bruise on his face, Boris, feeling thwarted once again, squeezed out the name he both constantly remembered and deeply hated through clenched teeth.

"Olivia...!"

Grinding his teeth, Boris looked behind him.

A petite, golden-haired girl in a long dress approached the riverbank.

Her pretty ponytail swayed from side to side with her steps behind her head, signaling the mounting anger on her cold, stern face.

In her hand was just a wooden stick picked up from who knows where, but in her grasp, it seemed as formidable as a sharp Sword.

"Bro, the Golden Lion is here... What do we do? Should we... just call it quits today?" one of the henchmen suggested with a guilty look, urging Boris to reconsider.