A few drunks gawked at the striking girl, drooling openly. One staggered to his feet, sloshing mug in hand, and lurched toward her. "Hey, pretty little thing…"
Smack! Before he finished, the bull-like warrior sent him sprawling with a single blow, sparking a roar of laughter from the tavern crowd.
Duwei's eyes glinted with intrigue. Hmm—a close-combat brute, a long-range archer… This girl's flanked by her crew, so she's likely the leader. Could this be one of those fabled adventuring bands?
From his studies of this world, Duwei knew of such groups—mercenary-like teams, some numbering hundreds, others just a handful. The southern forests teemed with low-tier magical beasts, luring these bands to hunt them for profit. Local governments, short on manpower, also hired them for tasks like bounty hunting notorious bandits.
No formal mercenary guild existed, though—imperial law forbade large armed coalitions, fearing they'd threaten state power. Duwei saw the wisdom in that; controlling civilian militias was key to stability.
But… a mage among them?
That was a shock. His reading had taught him mages were exceedingly rare in this world.
Becoming one demanded not just exceptional talent but decades of grueling effort. Per the records he'd scoured, the empire boasted only a few hundred mages total. Even wealthy nobles struggled to secure one's service. Their scarcity drove their value sky-high—lesser houses couldn't afford them. A mage in a noble's employ was a badge of immense pride.
Yet here, in this ragtag crew, sat a mage—an oddity indeed.
The quartet claimed a corner table. The brute guzzled a barrel of ale alone, the archer gnawed a hunk of roast meat, the mage rested with eyes shut, and the fiery girl bristled at the room's leering stares.
Their air of danger kept trouble at bay—no one dared approach after the drunk's fate—though whispers buzzed regardless.
Duwei's group drew particular attention.
These earl's knights, proud of their noble roots, didn't deign to notice a motley adventuring band. A few drinks in, fueled by exile's frustration, they itched to vent.
Others shied from the girl's crew, but the Rowling guards lacked such timidity. Near their master, they kept it restrained—no direct moves, just murmurs.
Duwei sipped his wine, amused by his men's chatter about the girl's legs. It felt like old times—shooting the breeze with buddies at a bar, rating women.
But after a couple rounds, their tongues loosened, voices rising. Respect for their fallen-from-grace lord seemed thin.
The girl, a spitfire, shot glares at every ogler. Unwittingly, her fierce stares only stoked their drooling further.
At last, a knight, two cups deep, chuckled low. "Look at those legs—gods, I've never seen a pair so fine. A spitfire like her? In the capital's pleasure dens, she'd fetch at least a hundred gold."
"A hundred? You ever been to those dens?" another scoffed. "The girls there start at three hundred—you're clueless!"
Duwei eyed his sullen, grumbling retinue, then smiled slyly. "Pretty, is she? I'd say average—but those legs? They've got bite."
"…"
The knights froze. This mute, mopey lordling spouting such words? Wasn't he the dim-witted kid they'd heard about? That's why they'd dared speak so freely.
"What's wrong? Aren't you men?" Duwei laughed. "She's just a girl. You're skilled knights—smitten but too scared to do more than whisper? Tell you what: ten gold to whoever chats her up."
Laughter erupted. Sure, their lord was disgraced and crass, but he fit their vibe. A bold one grinned. "That ten's mine, milord!"
He stood, slapped the table, and hollered toward the corner. "Hey, lass! How about I buy you a drink?"
The girl's glare was venomous. She half-rose, but a companion tugged her back. The mage gestured at Duwei, muttering—likely noting his noble garb and urging caution.
The knight scratched his head as she ignored him, about to speak again when Duwei stood, whistled sharply, and flipped a middle finger her way.
His own guards gaped, stunned.
Trained retainers of a prestigious house, they'd never seen a noble—let alone the earl's eldest—stoop to such vulgarity!
While they reeled, the girl reacted swift as lightning. A hefty mug hurtled toward Duwei.
A knight in front leapt up, blocking it with his arm. The cup clattered aside, but ale splashed everywhere, wetting Duwei's sleeve. The knights roared in fury, drawing swords and charging the corner amid shouts. The girl yanked out her curved blade, and after traded curses, chaos erupted.
The tavern dissolved into pandemonium—cowards fled, thrill-seekers watched from afar.
The brute drew five or six knights alone. At first, both sides pulled punches, tipsy but cautious. The mage barked something—likely a warning to hold back. But when the brute took a fist to the nose, blood gushing and bone snapping, restraint vanished. He swung his shield, smashing a knight who spat blood and crashed into the bar, splintering it. The cramped space hindered him, though—knights' blades soon scored his flesh.
The archer fared worst. Built for distance, his towering bow was useless here. Wielding only a dagger, he parried a knight feebly before a kick floored him.
The girl's blade danced, deflecting a knight's sword. Agile but outmatched as her crew faltered, she spotted Duwei—clearly the leader—and lunged. Sidestepping one foe, she darted toward him.
But the Rowling guards hadn't forgotten their duty. As she moved, a knight hurled a table, staggering her. Another slashed—her enchanted armor flashed white, deflecting the strike unharmed.
The mage, silent till now, darkened as she took the hit. Rising, he lifted his hands, fingers tracing rapid runes, chanting a strange incantation. A faint halo pulsed from his fingertips.
The knights slashing at their foes felt a sudden weight drag them down, movements sluggish, swords heavy as lead. The shift cost them—blood bloomed on several as foes struck back.
Duwei's eyes lit up.
Slowing spell! Real magic!
The mage retreated, fingers weaving again. A fireball flared, streaking toward the knights. One deftly cleaved it apart, but sparks sprayed, singeing others who yelped and flailed.
Flames licked the room as the mage turned into a human flamethrower. The Rowling guards, dominant moments ago, lost their edge—twenty against four, now barely even.
Duwei sensed something off.
This mage had loosed seven or eight fireballs in a breath! A first-rank mage shouldn't muster that—especially with scant chanting. Each flick of his hand birthed a blaze, rapid and relentless.
That outstripped a novice's limits by miles.
Recalling his books, Duwei knew mages excelled at range but crumbled up close. With no guard near this one, he grabbed a bottle and flung it.
Mages wielded fearsome spells, but in melee, they were frail. The bottle nearly caught him—smashing against the wall, shards slicing his face. He yelped, clutching his cheek. Duwei pounced, throttling his neck and pinning him down.
Smart move—save for Duwei's own strength. At thirteen, how much could he muster? A mage might be weak in a brawl, but an adult could still outmuscle a kid.
After a brief tussle, Duwei was flipped, arms pinned. As he shouted, a thud rang out. The mage's eyes rolled back, collapsing atop him. Duwei shoved him off—Mard stood there, panicked, clutching a table leg.
Minus the mage's slowing spells and fireballs, the knights rallied, surging forward. Blades clashed in a frenzied scrum, swiftly overwhelming the foe.
The brute couldn't fend off the numbers—two slashes to his legs dropped him. The archer was long out cold. The girl proved trickiest—her skill middling, but her enchanted armor and blade shone. The armor's magic lent her speed; her knife snapped two swords. Only when more knights piled on did they subdue her, pinning her down.
Duwei caught his breath as a shaken knight helped him to an intact chair. The guards hung their heads—failing to shield their lord stung.
He brushed it off.
He'd sized things up: these adventurers were lackluster. Mediocre skills all around—the brute's raw strength their only edge. Crucially, none wielded aura, even at its lowest tier—just a pack of nobodies.
That said plenty about Duwei's own disgrace. These twenty guards, struggling against four scrubs, were clearly the Rowling dregs.
Seems the old man's truly given up on me, sending this sorry lot as my escort, Duwei thought with a bitter smirk.
Otherwise, how could the vaunted Rowling clan—home to the empire's military second-in-command—lack skilled knights? Only the inept got stuck with a banished flop.
His men's sheepish apologies went ignored. Duwei inspected the foes' seized gear instead. The brute's shield bored him, but the girl's armor piqued his curiosity. After a close look, he crowed, "I knew it!"
His magic tomes had fueled a growing obsession. This armor bore dual enchantments—agility and strength—a pricey combo. In the capital's elite armories, it'd fetch a fortune; skilled warriors would pay dearly. How did this lowlife leggy lass snag it?
Her curved blade caught his eye next. A gem in its hilt matched descriptions of mana-storing tools.
Another enchanted piece.
Rarer still was her silver bow and arrows. Silver, soft for standard arms, excelled against mages—metal's natural magic resistance piercing their shields.
A "magic-breaking" set—useless against most, lethal to mages.
Duwei's gaze lingered on her. A bottom-tier fighter toting top-shelf enchanted gear, including a rare anti-mage weapon?
He stared too long. The captive girl—and his own knights—misread it. A teenage boy fixating on her chest sparked predictable assumptions.
"Strip her armor off," Duwei said casually, purely keen to study her magical haul. He itched to hole up somewhere quiet, cross-checking these finds against his books to unravel their secrets.
The knight tasked hesitated. "Uh… milord, you mean right here…?"
His tone wavered, his look suggestive. Her armor's tight fit and plunging neckline screamed scant underlayers—maybe just a slip beneath.