The thug's throat worked visibly as he swallowed, his scarred knuckles turning white where they gripped the edge of the table.
His two companions shifted uneasily in their seats, hands still hovering near their daggers.
A single bead of sweat rolled down the thug's temple.
The room was deathly silent.Kier didn't move, didn't blink. He simply waited.
The thug's breathing quickened. You could see the calculations flashing through his eyes—weighing his pride against his life. His fingers twitched slightly before finally releasing the edge of the table.
With obvious reluctance, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small purse. He slammed it onto the table hard enough to make the coins inside rattle.
For several long seconds, nobody in the tavern dared to speak.
The metal weight sitting on the table felt heavier than the entire room itself. Even the drunken customers near the back had gone silent, their eyes shifting nervously between Kier and the three thugs.
The fat man's face twisted with humiliation as veins slowly bulged near his forehead. His pride had been shattered in front of everyone.
Then the chair beneath him screeched violently across the floor as he stood.
"You think this proves anything?" he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "You little bastard..."
The two men beside him rose immediately as well, their earlier laughter completely gone.
One instinctively reached toward the knife hanging at his waist while the other cracked his knuckles loudly, trying to regain the intimidation they had lost moments ago.
Around the tavern, several people quietly stood from their seats and backed away toward the walls. Nobody wanted to get caught in what was clearly about to happen next.
Kier, however, remained seated.
Completely calm.
He rested one arm lazily against the chair while looking up at the thug with almost bored eyes, as if the situation still hadn't become interesting enough for him.
"You lost," Kier repeated. "So unless your math skills are worse than your gambling, the boy owes you nothing."
The thug slammed both hands onto the table again, leaning forward aggressively. The lantern between them shook violently from the impact.
"You got guts talking to me like that."
Kier slowly lifted his eyes toward him.
"And you cheat children for pocket money," he replied calmly. "I guess we both have hobbies."
A few people near the back accidentally laughed before immediately covering their mouths.
The thug's expression darkened even further.
Bron sighed deeply and dragged a hand down his face.
"Yep... there it is," he muttered. "Now he's provoking them on purpose."
Meanwhile, Clad remained perfectly still, though his attention sharpened slightly. He was more concerned about what would happen if Kier finally stopped holding back.
The fat thug suddenly grabbed the front of the table and flipped it over with a roar.
Wood crashed loudly across the floor as mugs and lantern oil scattered everywhere.
The customers closest to the scene stumbled backward in panic.
"You think one lucky roll makes you untouchable?!" the thug shouted as he stepped forward.
Kier didn't even flinch when the table crashed down. He remained seated with the same calm demeanor, watching the thug approach with a slight tilt of his head.
Around them, the tavern erupted into chaos. Customers dove for cover behind overturned chairs and bar stools while the barkeeper shouted obscenities from behind the counter. The two remaining thugs flanked their leader, moving slowly and carefully.
"Untouchable?" Kier echoed softly.
His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair.
"No. But significantly less fragile than a drunk with a bad temper and a grudge against children."
The bruised boy quickly crawled away from the center of the room, terrified.
Kier finally stood, intimidating slowly...
The lazy smile faded from his face as he brushed dust from his coat.
Compared to the massive thug standing in front of him, Kier looked almost small.
Yet for some reason, the moment he rose to his feet, the atmosphere inside the tavern changed completely.
The fat man's breathing came in ragged bursts, his knuckles pale as they clenched and unclenched at his sides. His two cronies shifted uneasily, watching their leader's face contort with barely restrained rage.
"You mouthy little—" he spat, stepping forward with lurching movements.
A vein throbbed visibly at his temple.
His companions spread out to either side. The shorter one drew his knife with practiced ease while the taller one simply cracked his knuckles with ominous intent.
Kier didn't retreat.
He merely exhaled, as if bored by the theatrics, before moving—so fast that his shadow blurred.
One moment he was standing still.
The next, the thug's knife clattered uselessly to the ground, kicked from his grip by a boot moving faster than the eye could follow.
The taller thug lunged with a snarl, but before his fist could connect, he was already doubled over with a grunt.
Kier hadn't even turned to look at him.
The casual backhand that sent him stumbling into a table was almost an afterthought.
"You're making a mess," he said coolly, glancing at the spilled oil from the overturned lantern.
The fat man's nostrils flared, his face turning an ugly shade of red.
He charged with a roar, swinging wildly.
The tavern held its breath.
Kier didn't move at first. He simply let the fat man swing, letting his massive fist close in on his face.
At the last possible instant, he leaned his head back just enough for the blow to graze past his jaw.
The thug's momentum carried him forward, and for a brief moment, it seemed he might actually catch Kier off guard.
But then Kier stepped inside his reach and moved with ruthless efficiency.
One elbow slammed into the thug's ribs hard enough to make him gasp.
A knee drove into his gut with crushing force.
As the man doubled over, Kier grabbed a fistful of his collar and drove an uppercut straight into his chin.
The fat man's feet left the ground.
He crashed backward onto a wooden table, smashing it apart beneath his bulk.
Splinters flew in every direction as he sprawled there, stunned and coughing blood.
The tavern erupted into panicked chaos.
The remaining thug lunged with a knife, but he had already committed too early.
Kier sidestepped and caught his wrist with one hand, twisting sharply.
The thug screamed as his fingers spasmed open involuntarily, the knife clattering to the floor.
Kier didn't stop.
He pivoted and drove his heel into the side of the man's knee.
A sharp crack echoed through the tavern.
The thug folded with a howl and crashed down beside his leader.
Silence followed.
Broken tables littered the floor. The fat thug wheezed, his eyes glazed with pain as he tried to push himself up, only to collapse back onto the shattered remains of the table.
His companion writhed on the floor, clutching his knee while ragged whimpers escaped his lips.
The shorter thug—the first to lose his knife—lay curled on the floor, blood trickling from his nose.
Kier stood in the center of the wreckage.
His muscles remained taut, coiled like a spring, though his face was a mask of calm.
The tavern remained frozen.
Not a single soul dared move.
The fight that had moments ago shaken the entire building had ended so abruptly that many of the patrons still struggled to believe what they had witnessed. Mugs remained suspended halfway to lips. Conversations had died mid-sentence. Even the musicians in the corner sat motionless, their instruments forgotten in their hands.
The only sounds that remained were the pained groans of the fallen thugs and the faint crackling of the lanterns hanging from the thick wooden beams overhead. Their warm light flickered across the tavern, illuminating overturned chairs, shattered pieces of tables, and spilled drinks that slowly dripped across the floorboards.
Kier slowly exhaled.
The breath escaped his lungs in a controlled stream as he allowed his body to relax ever so slightly. The tension that had filled the room moments ago began to dissolve, replaced by stunned disbelief.
His muscles remained taut beneath his clothes, ready to react if necessary, but his expression never changed. He stood in the center of the wreckage as calmly as if he had merely finished a casual conversation.
The fat thug glared up at him through watery eyes.
Blood stained the corner of his mouth while sweat rolled down his reddened face. Every breath seemed to cause him pain. His chest rose and fell unevenly as he struggled to force air into his lungs.
"You..." he rasped.
His voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Who the hell are you?"
Kier glanced down at him.
The man's threats, rage, and humiliation meant little to him now.
"You'll find out soon enough."
"What does that even mean?!"
"It's no good if I spoil you, time will reveal it."
A few nervous chuckles escaped from nearby patrons.
The fat thug immediately noticed.
His face darkened.
Humiliation burned hotter than any wound Kier had given him.
"You think you're a big shot, huh?" he growled through clenched teeth. "You have no idea who you're messing with."
Kier remained silent.
The thug forced himself onto one knee, wincing as pain shot through his body. His shaking finger rose toward Kier.
"Next time.." huf huf. "Next time I am going to kill you!" The thugs breathing grew heavier. His eyes locked onto Kier.
It felt like a moment had passed. Kier slowly turned his head toward the entrance.
Before he could respond, the tavern door suddenly slammed open with enough force to rattle the walls.
BANG!
A cold gust of night air swept through the entrance.
"WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS IS GOING ON HERE?!"
The booming voice crashed through the tavern like thunder. Every head turned instantly.
A city officer stood in the doorway, his heavy cloak shifting behind him. Two armored guards followed close behind, their boots thudding against the wooden floor as they entered.
The officer's eyes slowly swept across the tavern. Broken chairs, shattered tables, splintered wood scattered across the floor.
Three battered thugs sprawled among the wreckage.
And standing calmly in the center of it all—
A perfectly unharmed teenager.
The thug's face lost what color had remained.
"Does anyone care to explain what happened here?" the officer's voice echoed through the tavern.
Some tried to hide their faces, pretending they hadn't seen what happened. Sensing the situation, Bron lazily pulled his chair back and rose. As he cleared his throat, the owner jumped into the middle of the scene and pointed toward the thug.
"That man!" he said, pointing at the thug on the ground. "He is the one who caused all this. Not to mention, he is also a scammer."
The officer looked at the thug, and something about him looked familiar.
"You again?"
The thug's expression changed as he knew he was in deep trouble.
"How come you make a mess the day before the tournament? There are people who have come from all around the world, and I have to deal with you?"
"It's not entirely true. This guy also—" he pointed at Kier, "had a part in what happened!"
"Shut it!" the officer shouted in a cold, commanding voice.
The thug immediately did as he was commanded. But even though the owner had explained the situation, the boy who was standing in the middle of this mess, perfectly fine and unharmed, was suspicious.
That's why the officer came to a conclusion.
"So you are one of those guys, huh?"
Kier was confused. So were the others—the bartender, the owner, the thug, and the people around.
"You have come to participate in the tournament tomorrow, isn't that right?"
The others looked at Kier. He was one of the guys who might become part of Verilion.
Kier smiled. "That's right."
The people present were shocked, and so were the thugs. Their eyes were fixed on Kier as they couldn't believe what they had heard. But even if they didn't want to admit it, this guy was out of the ordinary, so it made sense.
"And I can confirm it," Bron said from the other side of the tavern. "What's up? Long time no see."
The officer, who had recognized Bron immediately at first glance, let out a deep sigh as he put a hand on his forehead.
"Are you his guardian?"
"Well, you could put it that way," Bron answered.
"I see where his troublemaking got inspired from," the officer mockingly said to Bron.
Bron simply laughed in response.
Then the officer commanded the guards to arrest the thugs. The one who had been defeated first and the tall one who had been defeated last didn't resist at all. They were badly hurt, and fighting the guards would only make things worse.
But that didn't apply to the fat thug.
"Don't think that you're a big deal because of the tournament! There are bigger fish out there in the ocean!" the thug shouted loudly at Kier while resisting the officer.
"If you don't stop resisting, I will cut off one of your limbs to make it easier!" the officer yelled.
Then the thug was cuffed, swearing over and over as he was dragged away until he could no longer be heard.
The officer turned to Kier.
"By orders, we are to treat the participants well and fairly, which means that I can take you to jail until tomorrow morning, just before the tournament starts. But seeing as you had no choice but to defend yourself, I'll overlook this incident."
Kier was pleased, but not entirely.
"That being said, I ask you to go back to your hotel to avoid any unnecessary incidents."
"Understood!" Bron said. "We will leave immediately."
Clad also got up and walked toward the exit.
But before Kier could leave, he turned to the owner.
"I apologize for the commotion today, and I apologize on his behalf too, because I don't think he will," Kier said to the owner.
The owner smiled and told him not to worry because he knew he wouldn't get an apology in the first place.
"Take the money that he left behind. It should be enough to cover the damages and compensate the boy over there," Kier said.
After saying their goodbyes, the group headed their way back to the hotel where they were staying.
The bartender watched them leave before letting out a slow breath.
"That boy really is strange... wouldn't you agree, Cl...?"
She turned toward the chair beside him, only to find it empty.
The only thing left behind was a single gold coin, spinning lazily on the wooden table. It continued to rotate for several moments before gradually losing momentum and settling flat with a soft clink.
The man with the coat on was gone and no one ever noticed.