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 fuck…”
“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.
Hadjar released the blade, and the nobleman almost fell over.
The warriors of the Generals, the gold and amber colors of their armor flashing, ran onto the stage and encircled the nobleman. He was taken aback at first, then was completely shocked when the warriors didn’t bare their blades against him. On the contrary, they turned their backs toward him, put their shields up, and aimed their weapons at the pitiful beggar. All thirty of them. The best warriors of the Generals. They were all looking in the man’s direction and it was clear that they were... afraid of him. Terrified, in fact. The smell of their fear was almost overwhelming and their swords trembled slightly.
The woman following them didn’t seem to care that her rich, red clothes would get soiled by the wine and food scattered across the floor.
Hadjar recognized her.
Not so long ago, she had delivered the message to Moon Leen that their army was being sent to the border they shared with Balium. Ralpie followed her. Apparently, he had run after the authorities at the beginning of the fight. It had been a very clever, albeit naive move, but Hadjar couldn’t blame him.
In the absolute silence, her words sounded like thunder: “General Hadjar Traves, I’m happy to welcome you to the capital.”
The people began glancing around, looking for the famous Mad General, but couldn’t find him. They’d imagined him to be a kind of a mythical hero in glittering armor and astride a mighty horse, not the young hobo who had been quietly drinking his tea.
The beggar answered, “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”
The people finally realized that he was, in fact, the most powerful and famous General of Lidus. The man whose praises were sung in every city of every nearby kingdom. The man who had become a legend during his lifetime, immortalized in song. He was who boys aspired to be, and the ideal man young girls dreamed of.
The Mad General had really come to the capital. He was really standing in front of them, on that stage. He really did look like a wild beast wearing a human’s skin.
It wasn’t just the warriors of the Generals who were afraid of him now, but the nobleman as well. He immediately regretted all the words he’d said and hoped that the General wouldn’t notice him.
“Please sheathe your sword, General Hadjar.”
“Hmm,” Hadjar mumbled, defiantly indicating that he hadn’t even used his blade at all, let alone unsheathed it.
At that moment, two people came down from the second floor: a white-haired warrior with a sword in his hands and a beautiful, bronze-skinned girl.
They walked calmly past the Generals’ soldiers and stood alongside the vagabond. Their appearance didn’t improve the situation. If anything, it only made the soldiers and the official from headquarters
