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The young man tried to grab the hobo’s shoulder, but failed. To the tavern’s guests, it looked like the nobleman was too drunk to catch the beggar. Only a few practitioners noticed how smoothly and easily the vagabond had dodged. These people realized that there was far more to this man than met the eye, and so they grabbed their glasses of wine and prepared to enjoy the show.
“Sir,” Hadjar said in a casual tone. “Why are you so angry? Please, do forgive my transgression. If it will help settle our differences, I am ready to treat you to any dish on the menu.”
The young man swayed drunkenly and then roared like a wounded bison.
“You? Order? For me? I’ll teach you a lesson! Know your place!”
The nobleman grabbed the hilt of his sword and tried to pull the blade out of its huge scabbard. He succeeded, but didn’t hit Hadjar, as he had already moved to the other side of the table somehow. He was still blowing on his cup as he stood aside, keeping his foot on the tip of Ribon’s scabbard. It was because of this extra weight that the nobleman lost his balance and slammed his nose into the floor.
A wave of giggles rippled across the second floor, and even the table where the nobleman’s ‘friends’ were sitting was no exception.
“Motherfucker!” Ribon growled, rising to his feet and moving his disheveled hair away from his face. “I’ll crush you, bastard! I’ll tear you apart!”
He swung his blade and a cutting wave smashed the nearest tables to bits and turned the chairs into splinters. It swept toward the hobo like a deadly gust of wind. Most of the guests were certain that the beggar would soon die, but, to their surprise, the wave didn’t even reach the edges of his clothes.
The man thrust the cup of tea forward. The wave that had come from the nobleman’s heavy sword rushed into it. As a result, the beggar, his table, the cat, and the waitress standing behind him were all uninjured.
However, the wave did destroy a good bit of the second floor, which ended up collapsing after being damaged so heavily. People screamed as the heavy pieces of wood fell on their heads. The music coming from the stage fell silent, and some of the guests took out their weapons.
At that very moment, Ribon, who had sobered up somewhat due to adrenaline, lunged at the vagabond. The lunge of a heavy blade was always a dangerous and powerful Technique. Even without any energy behind it, it was as dangerous as if a giant had thrown a huge piece of a mountain. If such a strike hit a person, all of their bones would immediately be pulverized, and their internal organs would burst like balloons.
That’s why, when the heavy blade slammed into the hobo, the guests once again presumed he was a goner. And once again, only a few of the practitioners managed to spot the same cup from before appearing between the blade and the beggar’s chest.
The vagrant and the nobleman fell down from the second floor together. They flew through the air and fell onto the stage. The unharmed Hadjar was still calmly blowing on his cup of tea, and refusing to unsheathe the sword tied to his rope that served as a belt. The nobleman, sweaty and drunk, growled with rage and anger.
Everyone in the tavern stilled. Two more spectators joined the already large audience. A half-dressed Nero and Serra had come down after hearing the noise, and were now watching their friend’s antics with wide smiles.
“I’ll kill you!” Ribon shouted.
Ignoring the nobleman rushing toward him, Hadjar sipped his herbal tea. It had finally reached what he considered to be the ideal temperature — it still burned his lips and throat, but through the heat, it was possible to discern the taste of the herbs and berries. Hadjar had gotten used to drinking this tea during the long winter he’d spent in the Black Mountains.
Perhaps he could’ve continued to ignore the nobleman’s attacks and drink his tea calmly. But he didn’t want to disturb the other guests. It would be impolite. A practitioner without manners was just an animal, blindly wandering along the path of cultivation, just like the nobleman rushing toward him now.
Chapter 188
Ribon swung his heavy blade and said a few words. The sword was enveloped in a black cloud filled with red lightning. The nobles jumped up from their seats and asked everyone to leave the tavern immediately. Apparently, the Technique was destructive.
The people felt death approaching and ran for the exit.
Only a few guests remained seated — they wanted to see how the fight would end.
The strength of the nobleman’s Technique meant that he was a practitioner at the Transformation of the Mortal Shell stage. His attack would easily be able to kill most people and level the tavern to the ground in the process.
Some of the spectators had expected to witness the hobo’s death, while others had been convinced that he would unsheathe his sword. None of them could’ve imagined that the beggar, still holding his cup in his left hand, would end up grasping Ribon’s blade with his right hand and stopping it cold.
A black cloud came down, a crushing wave that knocked the tables over and threw some visitors to the floor. Only the patrons that had bared their weapons stayed upright. Dishes shattered, drinks ended up staining the floor, and someone howled in pain.
The vagabond drank his tea calmly, holding the heavy blade in his outstretched hand. Ribon flushed from the strain, but wasn’t able to pull his sword out of the man’s grip.
“What the f**k…”
“I asked you to forgive me, my lord,” Hadjar sighed.
He was about to clench his fist and shatter the blade when the doors swung open and three dozen warriors, wearing armor that had the emblem of the crane and the shield on it, entered the room.
The people in the tavern clung to the walls, letting the Generals’ ‘greyhounds’ pass by. Everyone knew who actually ruled the country. It was controlled by the people who followed after the warriors — the gentlemen wearing the medallions of the Generals.
Or ladies, in this case.
- Writer
