DRACONIC LEGACY

Tavern Brawl

“Wow, this rich brat is underestimating you, Hyugh,” said one of his comrades, and the rest of the tavern chuckled softly.

“Or did his ears go bad?” said another.

“If you honestly don't intend to look for a case, pay immediately and leave immediately!" shouted Hyugh.

And only now did the Eosian youth look at him seriously. “But I still want to finish my drink.”

“Oh, don't worry, we'll be happy to help you,” the pockmarked man hissed.

Hyugh meant to snatch the earthenware glass from the wandering youth's hand and simultaneously grabbed his shoulder, then stuck his fingers into the leather bandolier that ran across the youth's chest. While one of his colleagues behind him raised a fist to attack.

However, the young man defeated him with just a few gestures on the spot, drew his glass in an orderly fashion, and overthrew the pockmarked man with a gentle thrust of his hand.

"We'd better not do this, gentlemen." The young man gave advice, as well as calmly threatened, sweeping his gaze across the tavern that had risen almost entirely. Including Hyugh, the pockmarked drunk who had been helped up by his two colleagues.

Swords hissed out of their sheaths and briefly glinted in the dim light. Minutes later, the whole place exploded.

A chair slammed down carrying a human and the empty pottery fell heavily onto the floor. The young foreigner alone faced Hyugh and the others — almost the entirety of the tavern's visitor — with only bare hands. He led with a series of precision weapon disarming skills, repossessing every ingoing assailant’s weapons with graceful move-sets, often forced the owner to taste its own medicine.

He demonstrates a barehanded fighting style that flows like water, slipping between the bandits, performing lightning-fast reversal moves, or a deadly counter in rendition of a gentle palm attack that looks soft but has great force of impact. 

Screams erupted, and one of the few remaining customers stumbled their way through the exit, sprawled over his dagger-pierced thigh and limping away, some stumbling after him in long strides.

The youth was an unrelenting force of nature that run amok, a raging tidal that crashed the shores, crushing skulls into tables or breaking bones, bodies flew, and he single-handedly decimated the whole tavern.

It was the first time Ernst had seen someone fight with such ferocity and grace, that evening could have been a m******e had the young man wished for it, and he would have spent the next morning burying his tavern customers.

Ernst the owner of the tavern tightly hugged his pickle barrel with horror on his face. The dagger of one of his customers changed hands in the blink of an eye and slashed at Hyugh's pockmarked face, who still hadn't given up, despite being forced to kiss the wall twice. As a result, now the village thug was hanging helplessly with his fingers on the edge of the counter, slowly sinking from Ernst's sight.

The dagger in the young man's hand then flashed across the room under the dim light, stabbed into the thigh of another who was about to join the gang.

The young man then spun on the spot and slammed his right palm on the floor, a burst of wind that stomped in their midst suddenly dispersed the rows of tables and people surrounding them. The oil lamp shattered and went out, the wooden floors and walls creaked, cold air rushed in from the slit windows where the glass was scattered all over.

The brief scuffle ended, with more than half a dozen people strewn between the crush of overturned tables and benches, groaning quietly, two lying on the floor, one motionless, the other writhing and convulsing in the spreading dark puddle.

The hysterical screams of an old man vibrated in the cold air like the bell that marked the end of a boxing round, piercing the ears. He was one of the few people who chose to watch rather than join the gang. From their pale faces, it seemed that they were grateful to have made such a cowardly choice.

A group of people urinating silently in one corner of the now completely dark room, crushed by tables and chairs. They didn't even dare to gulp even though everything was quiet, they remained stiff until the foreign young man picked up his coat and walked out of the tavern door, which was already broken. Meanwhile, the innkeeper seemed to shudder, catch his breath, and vomiting.

The next day, Ernst testified to Jarl Orkhost's subordinates and the village chief that the young man had apologized before pleading, skipping the part that 100 Florens were also left on his counter as compensation. However, he was honest when he said he didn't know where the young man had gone after the chaos at Foxhound, at his tavern.

Even if there was someone who knew of the whereabouts of the Eosian youth earlier after the commotion that night, it was another young man who lived on the outskirts of Hauger and used to forage by cutting down trees and selling charcoal. He, like the others, had been watching the young man ever since he stepped into the Foxhound.

Before the fight broke out, his mind was stirred with concern because he was worried about the safety of the young traveler, he felt strange to think so even though they did not know each other.

His wide eyes could see how the people in the corner of the tavern had evil thoughts of deceiving or robbing the young man. Including a neighbor who insisted on accompanying him to drink that evening, and is now unconscious due to being hit by a pottery glass when he was ganging up with Hyugh. So maybe he was the only one who cheered inwardly when the seasonal bandits residing in Foxhound were mercilessly rolled up.

No one was listening either when Sancho, the poor charcoal seller, slipped out into the darkness. If his ears had heard correctly, the young man was from Eos. Sancho thought he must now be looking for the Ishvari temple or the White Church cathedral to take shelter for the night.

He must not have known that the old-fashioned Hauger people only worshiped ancestral spirits, or the guardian spirits of mountains, rivers, and forests. The people here do not know any god or gods from the west.

After looking around for a while, he lost track of himself, he finally managed to catch up to the figure of the foreign youth who was now walking through the increasingly thick snowfall. For some reason, the youth's figure reminded him of old memories that he was trying to forget.

Sancho was hastening to spread his steps, the sound of his boots creaking against the snow that was getting thicker unexpectedly disturbed the young man's ears, and he stopped leading his horse.

The young man did not utter a word from under the hood of his cloak, and it immediately made Sancho gasp in trepidation, suddenly stopping a few steps in front of him. After all, he might have been recognized as one of the Foxhound visitors, and he still remembered how easily Hyugh and the others got beaten up just now. His life would be finished if this young man suddenly became suspicious and attacked him.

“I-I, I mean no harm, Young Master, believe me,” Sancho said, slightly out of breath, or maybe trembling, he confused which one. "You must be looking for a place to spend the night, right?"