Then, he uttered the incantation once more, casting the cantrip Blade Ward on himself before striding over the overturned longtable, heading straight for the bald small boss.
At his approach, the Xanathar gangs on the other side of the table instinctively took half a step back, their faces twisting in panic. Only the bald small boss kept his nerve—though his guts churned with regret, he knew it was too late to back down now. Gritting his teeth, he drew his short knife and pointed it at Charles.
He bellowed, eyes blazing, trying to intimidate this fresh-faced youth with sheer aggression.
But Charles, knowing full well his spells would shield him from these thugs’ mundane weapons, wasn’t fazed in the slightest.
He ignored the bald Small Boss’s warning entirely, gripping his spellbook as he advanced—charging straight into the heart of the gang!
Seeing this, the bald small boss didn’t hold back. His short knife thrust straight toward Charles’ abdomen.
He wasn’t putting his full strength into it—this was a feint. In his experience, anyone seeing a blade coming would dodge, and dodging meant losing balance. That’s when he’d seize their wrist, twist them into a lock, and render their spellcasting useless.
But to his shock, Charles didn’t even flinch.
He walked right into the blade.
Instantly, the sigils of Blade Ward deflected the strike, and Armor of Agathys triggered. A surge of biting cold crawled up the bald Small Boss’s right arm, numbing it instantly. Agony seared through his nerves, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
Meanwhile, Charles—completely unharmed—stepped past him, moving into the center of the crowd. He channeled his magic into the spellbook, and once again, the 1st-level spell Thunderwave erupted.
A violent shockwave exploded outward from him. No matter how frantically the gangsters tried to brace themselves, the force sent them flying like twigs in a storm—crashing into tables, chairs, even the bar itself.
The tavern filled with screams and the shattering of glasses and plates, reducing the interior to chaos.
Only the seasoned half-orc woman reacted in time. Before the spell went off, she spun around and lunged, tackling the female half-ogre bouncer behind her.
The two burly women collided, but the move spared her the worst of Thunderwave’s blast. Though she ended up in a heap, she was at least unharmed.
Behind the counter, Alan could only pinch the bridge of his nose, his heart aching.
Damn it all. Xanathar’s footing the bill for this.
While Alan mourned his property, Charles listened to the groans of pain from the Xanathar thugs, taking in their battered forms and terrified expressions. The knot of frustration and rage in his chest unraveled, leaving nothing but pure, exhilarating satisfaction.
These bastards got exactly what they deserved!
He turned, sweeping his gaze over the few remaining gangsters still standing—though their legs shook, their faces pale, their weapons nearly slipping from trembling hands.
Despite never having killed before, the look in Charles’ eyes struck them as more terrifying than even their commander’s wrath.
In an instant, their resolve shattered. "Y-you... stay back! I surrender! I surrender!"
One Xanathar thug dropped his weapon entirely, falling to his knees as tears streamed down his face. "M-mercy, Lord Mage! Spare us!"
The others followed suit, collapsing into a chorus of pleas.
Seeing them utterly broken, Charles exhaled, his anger finally spent. He waved a dismissive hand. "Get out."
The gangsters scrambled up like beaten dogs, hauling their bald small boss to his feet and dragging their unconscious comrades toward the exit.
At last, the tavern settled back into quiet.
The female half-ogre bouncer hadn’t moved the entire time, merely watching with a wide, amused grin.
For one, while mages were rare, her half-ogre constitution meant Charles’ spells likely couldn’t harm her much.
For another, she was just a bouncer. The tavern’s damages weren’t coming out of her pocket—Alan’s influence ensured the losing side would cover the costs.
With the Xanathar gone, Charles didn’t leave immediately. The longtable was overturned, his peanuts scattered. Instead, he moved to the window, taking a seat at an empty table to collect himself—though his mind kept replaying the fight.
The superiority of a spellcaster was undeniable. Even these bloodstained brutes hadn’t lasted a single round against him.
This feeling of power... it was good.
At the counter, Alan caught a waiter’s eye and nodded. The man hurried over with a fresh bowl of boiled peanuts, setting it before Charles before retreating without a word.
The half-orc woman, Yagra, watched him with a mix of wariness and uncertainty, wrestling with how to address a mage.
After a long pause, she finally approached. Bowing deeply, she clasped her fists in an awkward but earnest gesture of respect.
"Yagra of the Zhentarim. Thank you for your aid, my lord."
Charles’ fingers stilled mid-peanut crack at the name.
She was part of that shadowy intelligence network?
The Zhentarim—a vast and ancient underground organization—operated on one core principle: "Public information is curated to serve its publishers’ interests, and therefore unreliable. We obtain real truth through our own means, from the shadows."
Their agents spanned the world, extracting secrets through blackmail, threats, seduction, bribery, and other coercive means. They targeted the secretaries, servants, chefs, and grooms of the powerful, compiling their findings into dossiers for profit.
Naturally, such an organization dabbled in illicit trades like smuggling to sustain itself. Yet they also hoarded evidence of corruption—bribes, embezzlement, insider dealings—inadvertently exposing such crimes.
Thus, in a sense, they weren’t purely malevolent but operated in a moral gray area—an intelligence network neither fully light nor dark.
However, Zhentarim agents typically worked in secrecy. That this half-orc woman, Yagra, had revealed her affiliation suggested she wasn’t a core member—just a higher-ranking thug at best.
With this in mind, Charles shook his head at her gratitude. "They attacked me too. I was just defending myself. No need for thanks."
Yagra’s face remained uneasy as she straightened. "Even so, my lord deserves thanks. Without you, I’d have been captured."
"This debt," she pressed a fist to her chest and bowed again, "I won’t forget."
With that, she turned and strode out of the tavern.
Charles resumed eating his peanuts. An uneasy silence settled over the room, broken only by waiters righting toppled furniture.
But the quiet didn’t last. Soon, Alan, approached with two tankards of ale, his prosthetic leg thumping against the floorboards. He set one drink beside Charles.