Within mere minutes, the Obsidian Tavern had transformed into a battlefield of broken bodies and splintered pride.
Tables lay shattered like matchsticks. Chairs were tossed against cracked walls.
Blood splattered the once polished floorboards, now covered in debris, glass, and the twitching limbs of those unfortunate enough to stand in Arawn’s path.
The tavern’s once warm, bustling air was now thick with the stench of sweat, iron, and fear.
And in the eye of the storm stood Arawn—unruffled, unscathed, and utterly ruthless.
His boot pressed down with deliberate force on a man’s trembling hand, crushing it slowly against the floor.
The bone beneath gave a sickening creak, followed by a muffled scream. The victim squirmed and whimpered, trying to pull away, but it was no use.
Arawn stared down at him with cold indifference.
"You’d better start speaking," he said, his voice a razor’s edge laced with venom. "Because my patience is hanging by a fucking thread."
His tone wasn’t a warning—it was a death sentence with a delayed trigger.
Around him, the beaten survivors of the tavern writhed and coughed amid the wreckage, their eyes bloodshot, faces bruised, and bodies bent in unnatural ways.
"Y-You bastard...!" one of them growled between broken teeth, spitting blood onto the ground. "You never had any goddamn patience to begin with!!"
"W-We don’t know anything about a cellar, you dimwit!" another yelled, dragging himself away with a shattered arm. "What cellar?! This is just a friendly tavern! People come here to drink, not to get their bones turned into firewood!"
"This brute doesn’t understand the concept of a conversation!" a third spat, voice shaking. "You don’t come into someone’s home and tear it apart looking for ghosts!"
"Someone call the guards already! He’s just one guy!!"
The room collectively flinched as Arawn’s brow twitched.
He applied more pressure on the hand beneath his boot.
The man howled in agony, his scream reverberating off the tavern’s walls as his fingers twisted into grotesque shapes. Arawn didn’t even look down at him.
Instead, his eyes locked onto the next one squirming.
"I’ve changed my mind," Arawn said softly. "I don’t need information anymore."
He started walking—calmly, slowly—toward the nearest cluster of groaning bodies.
"I’ll just kill all of you."
They froze the air more effectively than any spell.
A palpable wave of dread washed over the remaining thugs. Their tough façades cracked.
The bravado melted off their faces like wax under fire. Even the ones who could barely breathe felt their blood run cold.
Then a shrill scream shattered the silence.
"I know! I know! The cellar—just leave me alone!" cried a woman from the far side, her legs mangled beneath fallen debris. Tears streamed down her face as she held out a trembling hand. "Please—I’ll tell you everything! Just don’t kill me!"
Every head turned toward her.
Hatred burned in their glares.
They had all kept quiet, maintained the illusion, endured the pain—but she shattered it all with a single scream.
A few of them, despite their injuries, looked ready to crawl across the floor and silence her themselves.
Then, as if emboldened by her betrayal, another man groaned and raised his bloodied hand.
"I-I know too!" he stammered. "Just let me live, alright?! Screw the rest of these bastards—I’m not dying for this place!"
Now the illusion was collapsing.
More glares. More clenched teeth. More betrayal.
The once-united front was crumbling into self-preserving fragments. Panic spread like wildfire.
Their pride screamed at them to resist, but their bones ached with the truth: the madlad in front of them wasn’t a boy.
He was a monster in human skin.
Even now, his body crackled with arcs of amethyst lightning, dancing like serpents around his limbs.
The light reflected off his coat in waves, casting a ghastly glow over his pale face and sharp features. His expression remained calm—disturbingly so.
Without a word, he reached down and gripped one of the more defiant men by the skull. He yanked him up effortlessly, lifting the man off the ground with one hand like a child’s toy.
The man screamed, kicking and flailing, but Arawn didn’t waver.
His fingers tightened.
Slowly. Deliberately.
The man’s screams escalated into raw, primal cries. His veins bulged under his skin, turning dark with pressure.
Several of them ruptured, blood bursting from his arms and nose as his body convulsed.
Arawn’s face was splattered with crimson, yet his expression didn’t change.
He looked like a statue carved from wrath and lightning.
The man’s skull caved in with a sickening crack. A thin rivulet of blood trailed down his face, soaking into the floorboards in a slow, almost methodical rhythm—like a ticking clock counting down the seconds until the next victim.
Arawn released his grip and tossed the twitching corpse aside as if it were nothing more than a sack of rotting garbage.
His gaze slid toward the next man, who had so proudly resisted just moments earlier.
That was all it took.
Like puppets with their strings severed, the rest collapsed to their knees, foreheads pressed flat against the splintered wood. Their bravado evaporated, replaced with raw, instinctual terror.
"We—we were wrong! Opalcrest is the worst nation on the continent!" one shouted, his voice trembling.
"Filthy, vile bastards the lot of them!" another joined in quickly.
"Especially their king! That mongrel couldn’t hold a candle to the Everharts or the people of Alaris!"
"Alaris is the best!" someone else screamed, desperate to ride the wave of survival. "Glory to Alaris! Long live the homeland!"
"Yeah! Long live Alaris!"
"Praise be to the Rose!"
The tavern echoed with frenzied chants and false patriotism.
Arawn stood in the middle of the chaos, his arms folded as he tilted his head slightly, observing the panicked display.
His eyes, cold and sharp, held a flicker of amusement beneath their stormy surface.
’Just a little pressure, and they crumble like sandcastles. They don’t fear pain—they fear death itself.’
They had noticed the golden rose insignia stitched into the chest of his pristine white uniform—the emblem of the renowned Rose Academy, a symbol respected and feared across the continent of Alaris.
And since his hair was not the signature white of the Everharts, they had connected the dots quickly.
They were trying to flatter him. Placate him. Live another minute.
Arawn chuckled softly, but the sound carried no warmth.
"I don’t give a damn about your empty praises," he said, voice low and laced with contempt. "You know what I want."
His eyes burned through them like twin daggers. The broken tavern fell silent again, the air tightening with suffocating tension.
Under that pressure, some of them began shaking uncontrollably, eyes darting toward the exits—flight now overtaking fight in their trembling bodies.
"It’s behind the wine shelf!" the woman screamed—the same one who had first betrayed her comrades.
Her voice cracked from panic and pain, but her desperation lent it strength. "Please, just leave me alone! I told you what you wanted!"
Arawn didn’t waste another breath.
His eyes darted toward the bar, where an impressive rack of aged wine bottles rested behind the counter. Rows of dusty reds and fine crystal flasks lined the shelf like a display in a nobleman’s cellar.
But now he knew what it truly was—a front.
He vanished from his spot in a blur of motion. A gust of wind exploded behind him as he appeared before the shelf in the blink of an eye.
With a single, devastating kick, the entire wine rack was reduced to shards and shattered glass. Bottles flew in every direction, their contents painting the walls with red and amber hues.
Behind the destruction was a metal door, unassuming at first glance. It looked rusted, mildly corroded even—almost as if it had been long forgotten.
But the moment Arawn reached out to touch it—
A surge of electricity shot through his arm, rippling down to his bones with a violent jolt. He hissed under his breath, the sting leaving a faint burn across his palm.
From behind, he heard a few snickers—low, weak, pitiful.
They thought that was it. That the barrier had repelled him.
Arawn turned back slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a wicked smirk.
He raised his hand and muttered coldly, "[Violent Fist]."
Amethyst lightning coiled around his arm like a living serpent, crackling with a ferocious, almost sentient energy.
The light from it flooded the tavern with a violet glow, blinding to behold and searing in intensity.
The air exploded with the force of the impact. The lightning-infused punch collided with the door, and a deafening BOOM echoed through the entire building.
The metal barrier didn’t just dent—it shattered, the enchantment woven into its surface unraveling like torn silk.
Fragments of scorched metal flew outward, embedding into the walls and floor.
Smoke and dust coiled in the air.
And when the light faded, Arawn stood before a darkened stairwell, descending into the shadows beneath the tavern.
He exhaled slowly, cracking his knuckles.
"Let’s see what kind of secrets you rats are hiding down there."