He slashed out with the knife, using a standard grip instead of a reverse grip for greater speed, precision, and reach.
The first slash severed the fingers of the nearest thug, causing him to drop his knife in agony as he instinctively clutched his hand. Maximilian followed up with a powerful kick to the thug's chest, sending him sprawling to the ground... unconscious.
Another thug charged forward, wielding his knife in a reverse grip, trying to look cool, like a professional. But Maximilian saw through the act; unimpressed, the thug was full of openings.
As the man slashed with his reverse grip, Maximilian smirked, avoiding it, adjusted his knife's trajectory, and precisely cut at the thug's fingers. The amateur's reverse grip exposed his fingers, making them an easy target.
"Arggghhhhhh!" The last thug clutched his hand as his severed fingers fell to the ground; he crouched, trying to catch his own finger before a knee to the face, knocking him out cold.
The bar fell silent, the jeers and laughter replaced by stunned murmurs. Maximilian adjusted his disheveled toga and began collecting wallets from the unconscious thugs. He emptied them of cash—including small change—before tossing the empty wallets. As he counted the money, he strolled over to the bar.
"Change these into banknotes," Maximilian instructed the bartender, who quickly obeyed.
Once he received the banknotes and counted his fresh income—totaling about $1,000—Maximilian smiled. Looking back to the bartender, he took out $300 and handed it over.
"This is for your broken furniture," Maximilian said.
The bartender accepted the money, still looking confused.
"Is this your bar?" Maximilian asked.
"No… it's my uncle's bar. I just work here," the bartender replied.
"Your uncle?" Maximilian eyed him. The man seemed to be in his mid-thirties. "He must be pretty old."
"Yeah, he's seventy-five this year and still kicking like a horse," the bartender said with a wry smile, thinking of his uncle.
"Seventy-five and still kicking? That's impressive," Maximilian agreed, then shifted the conversation.
"Anyway, do you know a cheap motel around here with internet?" he asked. He needed a place to stay for a few days and internet access to sort things out.
"There's one nearby. I know the owner. Tell him old Timmy sent you, and he'll give you a discount and keep an eye on you while you're there," the bartender said, tucking the $300 into the cash register, and pointing the general direction toward the motel.
The bar's damages weren't too costly. In fact, his uncle's bar frequently saw drunken brawls, so most of the furniture was cheap and easily replaceable. The $300 was more than enough to cover the damages… and even left a little profit.
Maximilian nodded, then stood up. "Okay, thanks, Timmy. See you around," he said, waving his hand as he left the bar.
After Maximilian left the bar, Timmy, the barkeeper, began cleaning up with the help of the other staff. They wiped away the blood, cleared the debris, and removed the broken furniture.
Just then, an old man who appeared to be in his fifties walked into the bar. His attire made him look like he had just stepped out of a cowboy movie. He waved at the barkeeper.
"Howdy… whoa!" The old man was startled as his foot kicked one of the unconscious thugs lying on the ground.
"What the hell happened here, boy? Did some heroes come in and have a brawl with these poor bastards?" the old man asked in a southern drawl.
"Heroes?" the barkeeper echoed with a wry smile. "More like an ancient Roman tyrant. That guy looked like he just walked out of a historical drama set in ancient Rome," he replied.
"Oh? Let me see the recording," the old man said as he stepped over the bodies of the thugs toward the barkeeper.
"Go ahead, Uncle. It's upstairs. I didn't change the setup. It should be recorded," said the barkeeper, gesturing toward the door behind the counter that led to the stairs.
—
On Maximilian's side, he arrived at a motel called the Gutsy Buck Motel. The motel wasn't big, but it seemed to have enough rooms and looked neatly clean and well-maintained on the outside.
Maximilian walked in and saw a grumpy-looking bearded man behind the counter cleaning a shotgun—specifically, a Remington 870 model. On his side was a Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver in a holster.
"What's up? You must be the Roman guy Timmy told me about over the phone. I'm Buck. Nice to meet you," the bearded man said, extending his hand.
Maximilian shook hands with the motel owner. He could feel the man's strong grip as they exchanged greetings.
[Host, this guy looks like a bear! He looks more like a bodybuilder than a motel owner!] the System commented.
Maximilian ignored the System's comment. "I'm Maximilian," he introduced himself.
"Name? I mean, your full name," the motel owner asked.
"Maximilian Sterling Graham," Maximilian answered as the owner typed the name into the computer beside the counter.
"Is this your fake name?" the owner asked. He didn't seem surprised; in fact, he appeared completely composed, as if this wasn't the first time he'd encountered such a situation.
"No, this is my name," Maximilian replied.
"Since you don't have an ID, I won't pry into your personal problems. Just know I charge extra for guests without IDs—$200 daily. This is off the books," the owner explained, then deleted the data he had just entered into the computer.
"That's fair," Maximilian nodded and handed the owner $600. However, the owner immediately returned $300.
"You're recommended by old Timmy, you get a 50% discount," the owner explained.
"Thanks," Maximilian nodded. The owner nodded back, handed him the key to room 134 without saying another word, and shifted his attention back to cleaning his gun.
Maximilian took the key and found his room, Room 134, on the third floor, the fourth room down the hallway.
He entered the room and found it to be pretty neat and well-kept. He checked the bed and the toilet, both of which were decent—no fleas or visible bed bugs.
There was also a small computer that looked more like a console from a sci-fi movie, with the screen embedded into the wall and the keyboard built into the counter.
Aside from the console, the rest of the furniture and decorations were things that could be found in the modern era of his previous world.
[It's a good thing you don't have to sleep with fleas and a horde of bedbugs, huh, Host?] the System said in a jovial tone.
"Yeah, this place is better than I thought," Maximilian replied as he fell onto the bed and lay down, mulling things over. He couldn't believe he had just transmigrated into this world. On top of that, he had a System, but it wasn't as convenient as the ones in the novels he'd read. This System oversaw trials, and if he failed, he would die—with no way of coming back.
Maximilian's mind wandered back to his previous world. He didn't have many connections there, except for one—his daughter. Yes, the daughter who wasn't of his blood. Despite that, he loved her as if she were his own, even though he hated her mother. The girl wasn't at fault, after all.
"Haaa~" Maximilian let out a long sigh before fatigue and sleepiness overtook him, lulled by the distant sounds of engines and police sirens in the night.
— The Bar Near the Cemetery—
In the security room on the second floor, the old man was watching footage from the security camera inside the bar. He watched and rewatched the fight sequence many times, a frown on his face, until his nephew, the barkeeper, noticed him reviewing the footage.
"You seem interested in him. Do you recognize him?" his nephew asked.
"I don't recognize him, boy," the old man said in his usual southern drawl, then looked back at the screen. "But his skill in hand-to-hand combat and his ruthlessness—I recognize that."
"Do you mean… he's from some special forces? I noticed he's pretty skilled in CQC. His moves look like those of a special ops guy who works for the UEC," the barkeeper said.
"No… it's more than that. This guy, his skills go beyond that, and his ruthlessness feels very familiar to me. He might be one of those UEC black ops—the kind the UEC sends to do their dirty work," the old man said.
"You said it feels familiar. Have you fought him before?" the old man's nephew inquired.
"Maybe… maybe not," the old man shook his head, then continued.
"I've fought those black ops types before, but I don't think he's one of them. His skills seem more advanced than that, though the techniques still come from military CQC. But… if I were to think he's Blood Mongoose… this guy still isn't as ruthless as him, so I don't think he's Blood Mongoose. Maybe he's a new face," the old man concluded.