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The night wind howled around him.
Allen leaned against the doorframe, then turned.
His sensing flow spread like an invasive gaze, stripping the inn bare—every crevice, every dimension, every hidden space laid clear before his perception.
Still one floor.
Still eleven rooms.
But two breaths were missing.
One was his own.
The other was the receptionist's.
Silphy, Eris, Isolte, and Rudeus slept soundly.
Allen narrowed his eyes, a faint smile of satisfaction curling his lips.
Everything was proceeding according to "plan." Good. This way, he could spare them the… complications. They were still young—in his past life, they'd have been mere schoolgirls. Some things were better left unknown.
As for Rudeus? Well, in some ways, he was even more clueless than those schoolgirls.
Allen chuckled.
With that laugh, the effects of Persuasion faded.
From the moment he'd greeted the receptionist until now, only three minutes had passed.
The razor's edge of the Sword God style.
The measured caution of the Water God style.
The premeditated cunning of the North God style.
Allen wielded them all.
So, dismantling an ambush, unraveling their preparations, and killing a seasoned Water Saint?
It should be this simple.
The wind swept past as Allen's lips curled. His voice, soft as the night breeze, drifted through the inn's entrance.
"Did I say you could leave?"
It slithered into someone's ears.
Allen glanced sideways.
Even with the inn's lights extinguished, the moon cast its silvery veil over the streets, and distant tavern lanterns provided just enough glow.
There, not far from him—
The drunkard who had been shuffling between the tavern and inn for the past two hours froze mid-step, his tiptoeing retreat cut short. At Allen's words, he shuddered violently, then stood stock-still, not daring to move another muscle.
Allen gently closed the inn's door and flicked the wooden sign hanging from the handle. It swayed, spinning in the night wind.
—No Vacancy.
A courtesy to prevent late-night adventurers from disturbing everyone's sleep.
But given the current situation, the bandits had likely "cleared" the area—blocking all roads except the one Allen had taken with makeshift barricades. Piles of rubble, felled logs, or maybe even a few corpses.
After all, they only needed to ensure their ambush worked for one night. Consequences didn't matter.
Allen turned and strode toward the drunkard. When he got close enough to see the man's face—smeared with dirt in a haphazard disguise—he showed no surprise.
Instead, he casually slung an arm around the man's shoulders, pulling him close like an old friend, and began circling the inn. As they walked, Allen's sensing flow swept the surroundings one last time, confirming no hidden threats remained.
Because this was a "familiar" face.
Allen kept talking.
"We meet again."
"…" The drunkard stayed silent, his expression rigid.
Allen tilted his head, studying the man's face, then smirked.
"Remember what I told you in Weting? Even now, you're still clinging to hope?"
Moonlight glinted off the drunkard's face—now twisted in sheer terror.
—He was the guard from Weting's entrance. The one who had watched Allen's group depart Roa by carriage, the figure who had galloped past them on horseback.
When the guard didn't respond, Allen narrowed his eyes and continued.
"You know where you messed up? Back in Weting, your reaction seemed reasonable."
"Too reasonable. Like a student caught cheating, scrambling to cover their tracks. As a Weting guard, how could you instantly recognize mine and Eris's status—enough to snap to attention? You were too eager to prove you weren't with the bandits."
"Because you're James's mole, planted to monitor the bandits. If your cover got blown accidentally just for being near them, that'd be a shitty way to go, right? So you panicked."
Allen leaned in, his whisper a blade.
"Am I wrong?"
Sweat poured down the guard's grimy face. His lips trembled, but no words came out. Allen's voice slithered into his ears again.
"Still, I'm not here to punish you. You were just doing your job—Weting's guard, following orders. Even Sauros might see you as half an 'ally.' At worst, James overstepped."
"So I gave you a warning. But it seems you didn't listen, huh?"
The guard's breath hitched. His legs turned to ice.
Why had the bandits stationed him as lookout?
Because he'd seen Allen before.
Why had he hesitated to relay intel? Why had he repeatedly backed the mustached Water Saint's calls for caution? And why were his legs shaking so badly now?
Because he'd witnessed Allen's Light Reversal firsthand—the way flesh had peeled away in ribbons, leaving the ground paved with sliced meat.
But that had been intentional.
A warning. A lesson.
Allen's voice pressed on.
"Oh? You forgot?"
"N-no… I d-didn't—"
Allen chuckled, patting the man's cheek with the same hand that had once adjusted his hat in Weting.
"'Didn't'? I think you did. Too much, in fact."
"I gave you two chances. First: 'Do your job. Nothing more.' You even said you 'understood.' Second: When you rode past our carriage, I looked at you. To make it clear—I saw everything. But…"
His grip tightened.
"You ignored it. Even helped plan this ambush?"
"How dare you?"
Persuasion had long faded, but for this guard, it didn't matter.
This was Allen's interrogation.
Interrogation took many forms, but its core was breaking the subject's will.
And this guard? He had no will left.
Fear was the best truth serum.
"I—I had no choice!"
"Stop."
The guard clamped his mouth shut, staring at Allen in confusion.
"I don't care about excuses. Just answer: Are the rest of the ambushers in the tavern?"
"Y-yes…"
"What did the mustache tell you?"
"H-he said y-you… were stronger than intel suggested. That things weren't right. And… given noble 'habits,' he advised waiting until you were all 'occupied' in your rooms before using knockout gas. Strike when your guards were down."
"But… it failed. He said you were… more 'proper' than he expected. And your Water God skills were beyond his estimates. But he couldn't tell if you were bluffing, so… he wanted to play it safe."
Allen's sensing flow swept the area once more as they circled the inn, confirming no hidden traps remained. The guard's words matched his own observations.
He smiled.
"And the backup plan?"
"After the gas… set the inn on fire. If you didn't wake up, you'd burn. If you jumped out the windows… they'd be waiting below. He said… Light Reversal requires stable footing and a set stance. In a panic, even you'd be off-balance for a few seconds after jumping—that's when they'd strike! B-but it wasn't my idea! It was Sarkov's!"
"Though most in the tavern hated it. They wanted… 'other rewards' first…"
"Heh."
Allen laughed, doubling over as if in pain, his hand resting on the guard's neck like he was petting a dog.
"Bandits will be bandits. Trash who can't think past their dicks. At least they had the sense not to ambush us inside—smart enough to avoid a straight fight where their advantage would vanish. But now? A few drinks in, and they think they're invincible? That they can 'go easy' on us?"
His grip tightened.
"You really think you'd even get the chance to hold back?"
"Did you honestly believe a single 'North King' could stop me?"
The guard's face twisted in desperation.
"N-no! Of course not! That old fraud's nothing compared to you! The rest are just fodder—no better than the Weting bandits!"
Allen's eyes gleamed.
"Oh? Explain."
The guard blinked, then brightened—as if sensing a lifeline.
"I-I can't describe it! But he feels weaker! That's why I tried to stop the Night Lions! But those bastards—they kicked me! They don't understand!"
"A whole arm. Two legs. Sliced into ribbons. I didn't even see you move! North King? What a joke! He just sits there, silent. Who knows if he's even real?!"
"Sir, please—let me go! I swear I won't—"
Allen's smile vanished.
He met the guard's eyes, cutting off his pleas with brutal sincerity.
"Don't believe me. I was lying."
The guard's face went blank.
By now, they'd circled back to the inn's entrance. Allen glanced at the tavern.
Its windows glowed, but no shadows moved inside.
"No one's watching from the tavern?"
The guard stammered.
"N-no… The North King said he'd handle you alone. Told the rest to… drink."
"Ah. Work-life balance. Good for them."
Suddenly, the guard seemed to "wake up." He glanced at the darkened inn, then blurted:
"B-but it's fine! Even if you're not that strong, you can still leave! I'll stall them—you have until dawn to escape!"
Allen blinked, then laughed.
"Leave?"
The guard gritted his teeth.
"Yes!"
"Why?"
"Why not? You took out Sarkov, right? No one can stop you now—"
Allen cut him off.
"Reciprocity. To accept a gift without returning one is rude."
The guard stared blankly, lost in the phrasing.
Allen tightened his arm around the man's neck, his smile almost bashful as he scratched his cheek.
"A saying from my homeland. The direct translation's clunky, so let me simplify—"
"If I left now…"
Moonlight streaked down like a falling blade.
A dagger flashed from the guard's sleeve, aimed at Allen's throat!
Allen's hand—still mid-cheek-scratch—merely flicked outward, swatting the blade aside like shooing a fly. Then, almost lazily, he twisted his wrist and seized the man's arm.
A push.
Schick.
The dagger slid smoothly into the guard's own neck.
As the man's eyes bulged, Allen's grin was colder than the moon.
"—who would kill you?"
———
"Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"
The tavern roared with laughter and shouts.
Men in mismatched armor crowded around a table, drinks in hand, faces flushed with excitement. At the center, two men stood locked in a contest—blades crossed, muscles straining, sweat dripping.
A drinking game.
Sword Push.
Whoever forced their blade to the other's throat first won—claiming not just the opponent's drink, but the prize.
And the prize tonight?
A burst of aura sent the cups rattling, liquid sloshing.
"The redhead noble brat's mine! I've never had a noble bitch before—why the fuck should you get her?"
"Screw you! Your mom's mine—you didn't share her!"
The bandits howled with laughter, drunk on victory.
This job?
1000 gold coins.
Easy money!
At first, they'd been wary—after all, their target was the monster who'd soloed the Righetto hideout.
But then—luck! The Night Lions' boss had hired a North King!
With a King-tier on their side, what did it matter if some noble brat had Light Reversal or Water Saint skills?
Sarkov—that mustached lackey sent by the boss—had been so annoying, preaching caution.
"Give up the noble girl?" Hell no! A highborn like that would fetch a fortune on the slave market—after they'd all had their fun.
What kind of man passed on that?
Thankfully, the North King had overruled him.
"Decide her fate yourselves. I'll handle the rest."
Now that was a real man!
Two bandits glanced toward the tavern's bar.
There, bathed in candlelight, sat a lone figure.
His drink untouched.
No armor—just a noble-style hunting coat, a sword at his hip.
His hair was neatly combed back, his posture relaxed. A long scar ran down his cheek, cutting through deep frown lines.
He slowly polished his blade, the very picture of aristocratic discipline—yet his rough edges screamed bandit king.
The perfect mix.
The bandits grinned.
Now that's a leader.
Back at the table, the crowd roared as one fighter gained the upper hand.
A noble swordswoman?
Oh, this'd be fun.
At the bar, the scarred man smirked, eyeing the rowdy crowd.
The bar was at the tavern's far end.
The bandits clustered near the entrance.
And the door?
Right between them.
The tavern was small—close enough that a single step could bring steel to flesh.
Assuming you were King-tier.
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