Chapter 24: I’m Fucked! Genuinely Fucked!

Chapter 24: Chapter 24: I’m Fucked! Genuinely Fucked!

The tavern was completely silent and still, making the ragged, agitated breaths of the men around him even more pronounced.

Michael had moved near the center of the room, his boots planted firmly on worn wooden floorboards sticky with old ale.

His shoulders remained relaxed, but his body had subtly shifted. One foot moved half a step behind the other, his knees bent slightly, and his weight settled forward onto the balls of his feet. His hands hung loosely at his sides, fingers relaxed but ready to move at a moment’s notice.

He wasn’t trying to look intimidating.

He simply wanted to be ready for whoever moved first.

Lantern light flickered across dozens of hostile faces, while the smell of smoke, sweat, and cheap liquor filled the air.

A broad-shouldered man in a dark leather vest stepped forward from the cluster near the bar. Thick scars crossed one cheek. A short sword hung at his hip, its grip worn smooth from years of use.

The middle-aged man’s golden eyes were hard and assessing, while his golden hair fluttered slightly in the faint draft moving through the tavern.

"Hey, kid," the man said, his voice low and rough. "This isn’t the kind of place you just walk into."

Michael met the stare without blinking.

For a second, he contemplated telling them that Seraphine had sent him here, but he also knew that doing so would ruin the purpose of whatever test she had arranged, so he held it in.

After he had gathered his thoughts, he focused his gaze and let a slow, insolent smile stretch across his mouth, lifting his chin just enough to radiate arrogance.

"Oh? Since when do a bunch of fugitives get to decide where this young lord goes?"

The scarred man’s gaze darkened.

Chairs scraped as the remaining seated patrons rose to their feet. Spears tilted. Blades cleared their scabbards by a few centimeters.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees.

The leader dragged a hand down his face and gave a tired, humorless chuckle. "I actually thought you might be with Her Highness for a second. Looks like I was wrong."

He lifted his head, fingers still covering part of his face, and glanced around the room.

"Break him."

His voice remained calm. "But don’t kill him. I want him alive long enough to tell me where he crawled out from."

A faint, unpleasant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And if he still refuses to talk..."

He shrugged. "Then make him regret it."

Michael’s smirk widened as he chuckled loudly.

"You want to torture me?! It seems you have eyes but fail to see Mount Tai."

The sour expressions on the men’s faces made Michael snicker slightly. He managed to keep his laughter under control on the outside, but internally—

’HAHAHAHA! I’ve always wanted to say that line at least once!’

Seeing Michael’s lips twitch ever so slightly, the first attacker could no longer hold back his anger at such blatant disrespect and arrogance.

He lunged.

The lanky man’s spear shot forward, its tip aimed straight at Michael’s chest in a committed thrust.

Michael sidestepped.

The spearhead sliced past his shirt by mere inches.

At the same time, spirit energy exploded through his legs.

The floorboards cracked beneath his sudden burst of speed.

Before the attacker could even retract his spear, Michael was already inside his reach.

Although Michael was known as a playful person—and often a playboy—back at the academy, that didn’t change the fact that he had been the absolute top dog in the school.

For years, he had been the academy’s top pre-hunter martial prodigy, breaking several records along the way. He had been drilled in nearly every pre-hunter combat style until the instructors had nothing left to teach him. Years of training had turned those techniques into pure reflex.

Even among the many martial arts he had mastered, there were two disciplines people often called his cheat skills—Krav Maga and MMA. His understanding of both was so advanced that people claimed his skill in them could rival even that of a Rank 9 (Low).

Now, that experience was being combined with something he had never possessed back at the academy: the raw physical strength of an Awakened body.

Michael was currently only a Rank 9 (Peak).

On paper, that meant his physical strength should still be within a relatively ordinary range. A Rank 9 was faster and tougher than a normal human, but not overwhelmingly so. A Rank 8, however, was on an entirely different level, possessing enough raw strength to tear through concrete.

Yet Michael’s attack had completely shattered that expectation.

Crack!

The impact of his fist against the man’s jaw echoed through the wooden tavern.

The Rank 8 (Low) attacker’s head snapped upward from the force. His eyes rolled back as his entire body went limp, his spear clattering to the floor before he collapsed in a boneless heap.

Silence swallowed the tavern.

Michael slowly lowered his fist and flexed his fingers.

The surrounding men stared at the unconscious attacker in disbelief.

That shouldn’t have been possible.

A Rank 9 (Peak) defeating a Rank 8 (Low) wasn’t impossible. The gap between those ranks wasn’t absolute, especially when skill and technique were involved.

But Michael hadn’t merely defeated him.

He had dropped him with a single punch.

The force behind that punch had been several times greater than what a Rank 9 (Peak) should have been capable of producing.

And that was the part none of them could understand.

Michael turned back toward the scarred leader and tilted his head, a provocative smile spreading across his face.

"Huh? Is that all you’ve got?"

The leader’s expression hardened further before he let out an exasperated sigh.

"I won’t lie. I miscalculated on my end. You’re definitely stronger than you look, pretty boy. However, arrogance like that will get you killed."

He jerked his chin.

A man with a short sword and a sharp-eyed woman in light armor stepped forward together.

The swordsman attacked first.

He swung his short sword in a fast, downward cut aimed at Michael’s head.

Michael leaned to the side, letting the blade whistle past him. As the swordsman’s momentum carried him forward, Michael stepped around him and pivoted toward the woman.

The woman lunged from the opposite side, her blade still sheathed as she attempted to strike Michael with the weapon’s blunt edge.

Michael caught her wrist before the strike could land.

With a sharp twist, he pulled her forward and spun her body directly into the swordsman’s path.

The swordsman hesitated.

That was all Michael needed.

He released the woman and sprang upward.

One hand shot out and grabbed the swordsman by the head.

With a deafening strike, he drove his knee straight into the man’s face.

Bang!

The man’s eyes rolled back as his body went limp, a red mark already forming across his forehead.

Michael let go.

As the swordsman collapsed, Michael twisted in the air and landed on his back, using the man’s body to cushion his fall.

Before the woman could recover, Michael pushed himself off the fallen swordsman and lunged toward her.

The woman gritted her teeth, shook off her brief daze, and finally drew her sword.

Swish!

Steel flashed brightly as she swung in a wide horizontal slash.

Michael leaned backward, letting the blade pass harmlessly in front of his chest, then raised both hands in mock surrender.

"Hold on—I can’t hit a beautiful woman."

The woman’s eyes widened for half a heartbeat.

Michael smiled.

That half-heartbeat was enough.

He planted one foot, twisted his body, and launched himself forward.

His leg whipped around in a clean arc and slammed into the side of her neck.

Crack!

Her head snapped violently to the side, as her body went completely and dropped to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Michael landed lightly—but just as he was about to breathe, something massive and heavy crashed into the back of his skull.

White light exploded behind his eyes.

He stumbled forward three full steps, his boots scraping against the wooden floor as he fought to keep his balance.

Then he felt it.

Drip!

Warm blood trickled down his forehead and along the bridge of his nose.

The entire tavern swam for a second before snapping back into focus.

Slowly, Michael turned his head to see what had hit him.

Behind him stood a towering figure, both hands wrapped tightly around the haft of an enormous war hammer. The man wore a wide, ugly grin, yellowed teeth on full display. Muscles the size of hams flexed beneath his sleeveless coat.

Michael slowly turned his head toward the scarred leader.

The man now wore a confident, almost pitying smirk. Low laughter rumbled from his chest before spreading through the room, until half the tavern was chuckling along with him.

"Did you think this was some kind of staged drama?" the leader called out. "This is real life, kid. Nobody fights fair."

The laughter grew louder, sharper, edged with cruelty.

Michael swallowed. Sweat beaded along his temples, mixing with the blood sliding down his face.

His gaze swept across the room once, searching for a flash of ash-blonde hair or violet eyes.

Nothing.

A crooked, twitching smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. ’I’m fucked, aren’t I?’