City Of Sin

61-70

Ruffian(2)

These people were a bunch of rabid dogs. Even with a dragon standing in front of them, they would still jump forward and try to take a bite or two first.

An older man took two steps forward, tapping the bloodstained spiky club in his hand as he spoke menacingly, “Oi kid, there’s nothing fun to watch here!”

Richard’s eyes narrowed slightly, as he pointed out two men and said lightly, “I hate those eyes. And this old fellow has clearly lived too long.”

He’d barely finished speaking when Waterflower appeared in front of the first in a flash. She stuck her two fingers in, gouging his eyes out in a flash without mercy. At the same time, the ground shook as Medium Rare rushed forward with large strides, his hammer twirling around. A dull bang echoed in the air— he’d hammered the old fellow who was brandishing his club into the wall, reducing him to a ball of flesh and blood that could barely be recognised as once human.

Looking at the bloodshed, fear finally flashed on the faces of the other three men. They turned to escape, but a bowstring resonated thrice in a row. Olar had responded to Richard’s gestured command, sending an arrow through their backs. The three men were rendered motionless, collapsing at once.

A few of the impoverished commoners nearby slowly straightened themselves. From the looks of it, they seemed to be the ones who lived in the shacks nearby. They’d paid no heed to the violence before, but the toughness of these foreigners seemed to finally stir something in them.

An old man with grizzled hair stared at Richard, saying slowly, “You have formidable power, Sir, but you should not abuse it.”

Another robust middle-aged man spoke broodingly, “This is Bowen’s territory, and we are his subordinates. He isn’t to be messed around with!” He crossed his hands over his chest as he spoke, gripping tightly to have his fingers crackle.

Richard didn’t say anything, merely pointing at the latter. Gangdor took big bounds over, landing a ruthless punch on the man’s face. The hammer-like fist distorted his figure, blood and teeth falling out of his mouth as the sturdy fellow was sent flying into the wall. He collapsed into the dark, humid, shack, not a sound to be heard from him again.

Gangdor maintained his fighting stance, grinning in a display of his pearly white teeth to everyone nearby before he gradually pulled his fists back and returned to Richard’s troops.

Richard’s piercing gaze fell on the elderly man, its intensity making him feel throbs of stabbing pain that forced him two steps back. It was only then that Richard spoke in a detached tone, “The use of power is in being able to gouge out the eyes of crazed dogs that glare at you. If any mongrel still wants to bite, I’ll kill them all.”

Richard looked at the man once more, continuing, “To me, you’re all no different from crazed dogs. The only humans are the ones hiding in their shacks.”

“As for Bowen the Lame…” Richard glanced at the middle-aged man who landed into the shack, “He’s not to be trifled with, sure, but that applies even more so to me.

“Does anyone still wish to say anything?” Richard’s gaze swept past the entire ghetto, and this time everyone subconsciously avoided his gaze without the guts to make any more comments.

Once they entered Camp Bloodstone proper, Richard chose a decent inn to settle down at that was under Stormhammer’s sphere of governance. Unlike the other regions, this place was clearly safer. The half-orcs had built this camp, which meant that under most circumstances they could firmly uphold order. And thus, the price was also correspondingly high. Even twenty gold church coins only got Richard and his party a lodging of twenty days.