What money-grubbing scoundrels.
Roland had seen his fair share of thuggish mercenaries like these—lazing all day, never taking jobs, just shaking down others for protection money, relying on their meager skills. A common sight. Roland usually stayed out of it. None of his business.
Until now.
"This matter—"
Before Autumnwater could speak, Roland patted his shoulder.
"Leave it to me."
"..."
Autumnwater sat back down. Roland strolled over to the burly man, beer mug in hand, sipping casually.
"Hey, uncle. What exactly are you planning?"
"What? Cough up the bounty from that Lionbite Shark job!"
This guy clearly had no clue what he was saying.
Roland took another sip, shrugged with a faint smile.
"Got any proof?"
"Proof? You dare ask *me* for proof? Around here, our boss *is* the law. You really wanna challenge a Grandmaster?"
*A Grandmaster—the pinnacle above even a Heaven-rank Martial Sovereign.*
To Roland, a mere Yellow-rank High Martial, that realm felt distant. For now, he stood no chance.
"So where’s this ‘boss’ of yours?"
"Right there. See him?"
The man jerked a thumb backward. Roland followed the gesture.
A figure in black robes, features utterly obscured.
"Then let Miss Ning settle this. After all… your so-called Grandmaster boss didn’t even want this job."
"Hm?" The burly man’s brows furrowed.
"Know what you’re saying? My boss is a Grandmaster! Resist him? If he holds a grudge, you’ll lose way more than coin."
"True." Roland crossed his arms.
"Which is why I’m curious. Why would a Grandmaster care about this bounty? Earning a hundred thousand gold is trivial for him. No need to stoop this low—sending a clown like you to tarnish his name."
"You—!"
He wasn’t stupid. He heard the insult.
"You little punk! I’ll teach you who runs this Black Sun Guild!"
No sooner had he spoken than he threw a punch.
*Mystic-rank High Martial.*
From force, speed, trajectory—Roland instantly gauged his rank.
He shifted his right foot back half a step, twisting aside.
*What…?*
Roland watched the fist.
Why did a Mystic-rank punch feel this slow? The ones he’d beaten before were twice as fast.
"You brat!"
A second swing.
In that split second, Roland saw it all—the power source, the flow of spiritual energy, the exact burst point.
*What is this…?*
Roland flicked his right foot out. Struck the calf.
The man’s stance wobbled mid-swing. Minimal force from Roland, plus his own momentum—*thud*. Face-planted hard.
Luckily, Mystic-rank bodies were tough. No blood. But the shame? Brutal.
All this time, Roland’s beer mug stayed perfectly steady—not a single drop spilled.
"Uncle, your footing’s shaky."
"You dare mock me?!"
The man yanked a short dagger from his Spatial Storage Ring. Blood-red eyes. Murderous intent. Dead serious now.
The tavern erupted—not in protest, but cheers. Shouts, wild waving, chaos.
"Kid, aim for his nuts! He won’t take it!"
"Picking on a kid? Wait—punk, picking on an old man?!"
"Recording this for Bilibili! Make it bloody! Stop acting like a sissy!"
"Win and I’ll buy you a drink! Kick his ass!"
Roars surged for Roland. Enraged, the man vanished in a flash—reappearing inches from Roland.
*Demon race spatial technique.*
Crude, yes… but enough to end most fights.
He no longer underestimated Roland.
Too bad.
Roland was at his absolute peak.
Even this surprise attack moved in slow motion.
*Crimson sword* summoned from his Spatial Storage Ring—*clang!*—blocked the dagger head-on.
Strength favored the Mystic-rank brute. But for Roland now? Power wasn’t everything.
"Hurry up, brat. Apologize. Still time." Gritted teeth.
"I’m sure you don’t want this to escalate. My boss holds grudges."
"Then why doesn’t *he* speak for himself?"
"What do you mean?"
"Since you asked…" Roland’s gaze dipped. A faint smile.
"That man isn’t a Grandmaster. Just some nobody in costume. How many mercenaries have you scammed with this?"
"You—!"
Rage twisted his face. Pressure surged on the blade.
Roland tilted his sword—deflected the dagger—exposing the abdomen.
*Knee strike.* *Elbow to the nose.*
Solid. Brutal.
The towering mercenary flew backward, shattering a table.
The guild exploded.
*A kid just took down a Mystic-rank High Martial?*
This’d be tavern talk for weeks.
"Damn it—"
A roar. He rose from the wreckage.
Skin flushed deep crimson.
*The demon’s true form.*
Crimson eyes. Fangs. Black bat wings. Slender tail. Ram-like horns.
"YOU FORCED MY HAND!!"
Roland took a sip, turned, handed the mug to Xue Die.
"Hold this."
"The boss is in phase three! Watch his patterns—read his intent—and counter everything! Go get 'em! If it gets tight, roll away, chug healing potions!"
Xue Die beamed, utterly delighted.
*Why does she always cheer me on with game-speak I barely understand…?*
