“Hey, you!” Radgar called out, his voice carrying across the room. “You’ve got some nerve, barging in here like that.”
The traveler didn’t respond. He merely reached up to scratch the cat behind its ears, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he hadn’t heard Radgar at all.
Radgar’s eyes narrowed, and the men at his table exchanged uneasy glances. Greta could sense the tension building again, the room teetering on the edge of something dangerous.
But the traveler remained unfazed, his silence and stillness somehow more unnerving than any words he could have spoken. The cat purred softly, its eyes half-closed as it enjoyed the attention, utterly unconcerned with the brewing storm around it.
Greta’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched the scene unfold. She knew Radgar well enough to know that he wouldn’t let this perceived slight go unchallenged. Yet there was something about the traveler that made her think he wasn’t someone to be trifled with despite his rough appearance.
Radgar took a step forward, his posture aggressive. “I’m talking to you, traveler. You’d better show some respect or—”
The traveler finally lifted his head, his hood falling back just enough to reveal piercing pitch-black eyes that seemed to hold a depth of experience far beyond his years.
He didn’t speak, but the look he gave Radgar was enough to stop the man in his tracks. And then the newcomer slowly lowered his hood, revealing the face underneath that caused a ripple of surprise to pass through the room.
He was indeed young, as many had suspected, but his features were striking. His skin was pale, almost luminescent in the dim light of the inn, with a chiseled jawline and high cheekbones that gave him an air of refinement.
His face was smooth, devoid of the roughness of a seasoned warrior, but there was something about his expression—calm, composed, and slightly cold—that suggested a life far from ordinary.
What caught everyone’s attention, however, was not just the traveler’s youth or the sharpness of his features but the long scar that marred the right side of his face, running from his brow down past his cheek.
It cut through the pristine white of his skin like a jagged reminder of violence, giving him a menacing edge despite the otherwise handsome visage.
The most unsettling aspect, though, were his eyes—pitch-black, like twin voids that seemed to absorb the very light around him. Those eyes, filled with an unnerving depth, held Radgar’s gaze firmly, freezing him in place. The silence that followed the reveal of the traveler’s face was thick and oppressive as if the very air in the room had solidified.
Radgar blinked, a momentary flicker of doubt crossing his face. ‘He’s just a kid,’ he thought, trying to dismiss the sudden fear that had gripped him. ‘A damn kid with a scar.’
But the doubt lingered, gnawing at the edges of his bravado. How could this young man, barely more than a boy, with his rough clothes and traveler’s gear, make him feel so… intimidated?
Radgar clenched his fists, trying to force the unease away, telling himself that the kid’s cold demeanor and scar were nothing to fear.
The traveler, seemingly unbothered by the attention, turned his gaze away from Radgar and looked over to Greta, who was still standing nearby, her body tense and uncertain.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm and steady, carrying a surprising amount of authority. “I’d like a meal, please. Something warm.”
The request was simple and polite, but it was the complete disregard for Radgar’s presence that made it sting. Radgar’s jaw tightened, his face turning a shade of red as he realized he was being ignored. The crowd in the inn watched with bated breath, sensing the confrontation that was about to unfold.
Greta hesitated for a split second before nodding, grateful for the distraction from Radgar’s unwelcome attention. “Of course,” she replied, her voice soft but steady. She quickly moved toward the kitchen, eager to fulfill the traveler’s request and to put some distance between herself and Radgar.
But as she turned away, Radgar snapped. The humiliation of being dismissed by this stranger in front of the entire inn was too much for him to bear. He took another step forward, his posture more aggressive than before. “Hey! I’m talking to you, you little shit!” he spat, his voice loud and furious.
The traveler didn’t react immediately, still focused on Greta’s retreating form. But when he did turn his attention back to Radgar, it was with an expression of cold indifference, as if the larger man’s outburst was nothing more than an annoyance.
Radgar’s anger flared even hotter, fueled by the disdain he perceived in the traveler’s eyes. He was used to being feared, respected—or at the very least, obeyed—especially now that he had the backing of the baron. This boy’s calm defiance was something he wasn’t prepared for, and it set his blood boiling.
“You think you can just walk in here, ignore me, and get away with it?” Radgar snarled, his hand moving to the hilt of the sword at his side. “I’ll teach you some respect.”
The young man’s lips curled into a smirk, the expression clearly mocking Radgar. His pitch-black eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and challenge as he leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Really? And how exactly do you plan to teach me this… respect?” he asked, his tone dripping with condescension.
The taunt hit its mark. Radgar’s eyes flared with anger, the heat of his fury making his vision narrow to the smirking face before him.
The blood pounded in his ears, drowning out the murmurs of the onlookers as his grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. The young man’s calm defiance, the audacity to mock him in front of everyone, was more than Radgar could bear.
“Who the hell do you think you are, you little shit?” Radgar spat, his voice low and dangerous. “You must be new around here, so let me educate you.”
Radgar’s words dripped with venom, but they also carried a weight that sent a ripple of unease through the crowd.
There was a reason why Radgar commanded fear in Rackenshore beyond his position in the garrison and the baron’s backing. Radgar wasn’t just any soldier—he was an Awakened, a man who had unlocked a level of power beyond that of ordinary folk.
To even be considered for the garrison, one had to be at least a 1-star Awakened, someone who had tapped into the latent energy within themselves, enhancing their strength, speed, and abilities far beyond normal human limits.
Radgar had been fortunate enough to possess the talent to Awaken, a fact that he wielded like a weapon to assert his dominance over the people of Rackenshore.
The room seemed to shrink around them, the tension mounting as Radgar’s anger grew. The other patrons exchanged nervous glances, fully aware of what Radgar was capable of. His temper was notorious, and everyone knew that once it was unleashed, there was no turning back.
The young traveler, however, didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk grew wider, as if he found the whole situation entertaining. He leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but edged with a sharpness that cut through the tension. “Oh, I’m well aware of what you are. A 1-star Awakened, right?” He paused, letting the words sink in, his smirk never faltering.
“But tell me, do you really think that makes you strong?”
The question hung in the air, its implication clear. Radgar was indeed stronger than the average person in Rackenshore—stronger than any of the patrons in the inn and stronger even than most of the garrison. But the way the young man spoke, with such confidence and derision, suggested that he didn’t consider Radgar’s Awakening to be impressive at all.
For a split second, Ragna considered that maybe this bastard might be a child of a noble or something. But there was no way a noble’s child would have such a scar on his face.
Radgar’s rage exploded. “You little bastard!” he roared, drawing his sword fully and advancing on the traveler with murderous intent. The patrons gasped, some shrinking back in their seats, others instinctively reaching for their own weapons, though none dared to intervene.
The young man remained seated, his eyes never leaving Radgar’s as the larger man loomed over him, sword poised to strike. But instead of fear, his expression held nothing but a smirk. The same smirk that was there.
“You think you can just mock me and walk away?” Radgar snarled, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “I’ll show you what happens to those who disrespect me!”
Radgar’s sword gleamed in the dim light of the inn as he raised it, ready to bring it down on the traveler with all the force.
SWOOSH!
The blade fell down as it reached the young man.
SPURT!
And following that, blood spurted to the ground.
———————–
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