When Belan took another step forward, still acting as if Jolthar were invisible, he decided enough was enough.
He released his carefully controlled aura, letting his true power flood the tavern.
The effect was immediate and dramatic. Glasses rattled on tables. Candle flames bent sideways. Every person in the room, including Belan and her warriors, staggered slightly under the sudden pressure.
That finally got her attention. Belan's head snapped around to face him, her eyes widening in genuine surprise. "Who are you, kid?" she demanded, really looking at him for the first time.
The slight emphasis on 'kid' carried both confusion and dismissal – he was clearly younger than her, and that fact seemed to override the power he'd just demonstrated.
"As I said," Jolthar replied patiently, "I'm Jolthar. And I'd really prefer to resolve this without violence. Whatever Roblan did, surely there's a better way to handle this than bloodshed in a public tavern?"
Belan's laugh was sharp and without humour. "You came to defend this snake? What are you, sixteen? Seventeen? Go home, boy. This isn't a game, and your little pressure trick won't save you from real fighters."
Jolthar sighed heavily. "It's not that I'm afraid," he said, genuine regret in his voice. "I just wanted to avoid hitting women. It feels... ungentlemanly."
That was exactly the wrong thing to say.
Belan's face flushed with rage, her hand dropping to the sword at her hip. "Ungentlemanly?" she snarled. "I'll show you what happens to 'gentlemen' who underestimate us." She nodded to one of her companions. "Teach him some manners, Sara." Get full chapters from novelFirｅ.net
The woman on Belan's left – tall, muscular, with close-cropped black hair – drew her sword and lunged forward in one fluid motion. It was a perfect attack, technically flawless, exactly as she must have practiced thousands of times.
Jolthar saw it coming as if it were happening in slow motion.
His recent fight with the orc had taught him much about his own capabilities, and his eyes tracked Sara's movement with practiced ease.
He stepped slightly to the left, letting her blade whisper past his ear, then simply grabbed her sword arm and used her own momentum to send her flying over a nearby table.
She crashed into a rack of bottles with a tremendous shattering of glass.
"Next?" Jolthar asked quietly.
Belan's eyes narrowed, and she gestured to two more of her warriors. They attacked in perfect coordination, one high, one low, their movements suggesting years of fighting together.
Under normal circumstances, their teamwork would have been devastating.
But Jolthar wasn't normal.
He flowed between their attacks like water, every movement precise and effective. The first woman's sword found nothing but air where his head should have been. The second's leg sweep hit empty space. Before either could recover, he'd tapped them each once – light strikes that nevertheless sent them sprawling to opposite corners of the room.
The fourth warrior attacked without waiting for orders, coming in with a complex series of feints and strikes that showed advanced training. Jolthar dealt with her just as efficiently, redirecting her attacks with almost casual ease before ending the exchange with a simple palm strike that left her gasping on the floor.
Throughout the brief exchanges, Jolthar's eyes never left Belan.
He saw the subtle changes in her expression – from dismissal to surprise to growing concern. She was clever enough to recognize that her warriors weren't simply losing; they were being completely outclassed by someone who wasn't even fighting at full strength.
"Impressive," she admitted finally, drawing her own sword. The blade caught the lamplight, revealing subtle patterns in the steel that marked it as far superior to her companions' weapons. "But I'm not them."
"No," Jolthar agreed, settling into a relaxed stance. "You're not. Last chance to talk this through?"
Jolthar being a tier 4 swordsman wasn't an issue for him. He was confident he could win against her if he used his voidwrath too.
He could tell that Belan was tier 5, but he could tell that Belan had more refined mana around her. She was a magic swordsman, unlike him, who only had an aura.
Belan's response was a blur of motion. She was significantly faster than her warriors, her blade weaving patterns that would have confused and overwhelmed most opponents. Her technique was excellent, showing years of dedicated training and real combat experience.
But Jolthar's eyes caught every movement, every subtle tell.
His fight with the orc had pushed him to understand the level of fighting he could muster against an enemy. He was able to fully utilise the abilities that he had trained all those years.
Gauging her level and aura, Jolthar knew he had to act fast and go all out from the get-go.
The courtyard erupted in deadly grace as Belan rose into the air.
Her sword art form—the seven streams of cherry blossoms—was a profound sword technique of the Blue Rose and was down only to the descendants.
Seven streams of cherry blossoms - each a different hue - spiraled around her like cosmic rings. "You face the Seventh Blade of the Blue Rose, country boy," she sneered. "Let's see how your provincial sword arts fare against the Seven-streamed art!"
Jolthar stood his ground, his weathered longsword held in a low guard. Though only a Tier 4 swordsman, the void-touched energies that coursed through his blade had earned him victory against a supposedly superior foe before.
"Fancy petals won't save you, my lady."
A massive cherry blossom construct, sharp as razors and cold as winter frost, materialized above Belan. "Ice Edge Blossom!" she commanded, sending the crystalline formation hurtling toward Jolthar with devastating force.
The crowd had already cleared the space around them and watched in awe.
The woman who fell by Jolthar gathered behind Belan, a couple of meters away.
Roblan was hiding behind the counter with others; the tavern seemed like it wouldn't hold out much longer. It was just a run-down tavern and if the fight continued like that, the whole area will be destroyed.