“Good fellows,” the smaller one said, sliding back his hood to reveal an awry grin and leering eyes. “I think I can guess what’s happening here.”

“Do tell, then. I’m rather confused myself. Not familiar with the ways of the land, you see,” Agravain said pleasantly.

“Oh, foreigner, aren’t you? No problem then. This guy there probably approached you on the street to beg for your help, eh? But truly you realize it’s no business of yours?”

“We are something like friends actually, since we already had a meal together. Having, to be exact.”

“Why, aren’t you sweet? But one can be too sweet, you know? This guy here owes my boss money, and I have a mind to inquire whether he is willing to pay his debt peacefully. Will you meddle?”

“What do you say, Iranon?” He turned to the youth. “It’s true you owe these people money? Then it is only right that you should pay them back.”

The cutthroat nodded. “Good, good. I see you are a man of reason. I welcome that.”

“Oh, you lie!” Iranon cried. “You gave me crowns for the harp and I took it, no more no less.”

“There have been some changes to the contract after you left, see,” the cutthroat spread his hands, “My boss realized your item is rather worthless after consulting an expert, and now he wants, let’s see, half of the money back.”

“Daylight robbery this! You know well, if yours is any real expert! That my harp is worth twice if not thrice what you gave me!”

“That may be. But who am I to judge? You can argue over the numbers all you like with the boss. Now up you go!”

As commanded, the larger one of the two strode over to drag Iranon up.

“Wait,” Agravain said, raising a hand.

“What is it now?” the cutthroat regarded him with annoyance, “Changed your mind? Want to play the hero? I will have you know that while we waited at yond table, our men had gathered in front of this place. One wrong move and I shall make you mince meat!”

“Not that,” Agravain shrugged, “But let the guy pay for the meal first. This is his treat.”

“Oh to hell with your meal!” Iranon cried, “You are no friend of mine for letting them treat me like this, so why must I treat you?”

“Because a man should never go back on his word, now pay up.”

“You heard the man,” the cutthroat said wearily, “pay his bill.”

“Hell no, I have not a penny left! See? I can’t pay your boss so just let me go!”

“How unfortunate. Still no business of mine. I’m sure the boss can find some way to make a profit out of your pretty face. Away now,” he barked at the other. With a nod, the armed man dragged the bard away.

“Now you wait right there--!” Agravain said, rising from the table with a shout.

“No, you wait,” the cutthroat said, “be a smart guy.” Out of nowhere a pair of daggers had flashed into his hands. One shot for Agravain’s face, stopping a few mere inches from his eyeball. “Learn the custom of the land, man. Unlike in your home of thoughtless brutes, here even an unassuming man can kill you before you know it.”

The barbarian’s eyes narrowed, his anger mounting for being threatened.

“Quietly sit down,” the cutthroat commanded, “And don’t entertain any stupid idea. You have no weapon, and may soon lack an eye.”

“Do I now?” Agravain said, his hand gripping the gnawed beef bone. ”I see. So this is how your civilization works. Where if you are strong you expect others to perfectly obey you, as though it is some god-given duty, and those who don’t are stupid.”

“Are you stupid?” sneered the cutthroat, dangling another dagger in his other hand, “that’s not just how this country works--that’s how this whole world works! And if there were other worlds, I’m sure they would operate the same way too! Don’t you understand something so simple? The weak have a duty to obey the strong! Or are you going to prove me wrong?” To emphasize his point, the cutthroat drove the dagger half an inch closer to Agravain’s eyes.

“As a matter of fact, no.” Agravain blinked. The dagger point was annoying as it obscured half of his field of vision. “I just think that your statement is sort of an oxymoron. I mean...” he snickered, letting his eyeball get even closer to the dagger. Nostrils flaring. “Of course the weak must obey the strong perforce, but to yield to force is an act of necessity, not of will. At the most an act of prudence. In what sense can it be a duty? Isn’t duty something you choose to do because it’s right, regardless of your liking, opinions, or sometimes even self-preservation?”

Like duty to one’s family.

Or duty to a loved one’s last wish.

“You said a lot of big words there, barbarian,” the cutthroat sneered again, “And here I thought all of you savages were lovers of violence. Are you some sort of wayward pacifist or what? Some kind of warrior-scholar? Or simply your mother hit your head one too many times at birth?”

“Oh please, I but reiterated some of Rousseau’s rudimentary points. The point of what I’m saying is this: the strongest is never strong enough to be always the master. Suppose someone stronger comes along? Will you simply cede your point on grounds of being inferior in strength?”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“That sounds awfully like a threat to me, hm? High time folk are reminded not to act funny in the presence of the Karvash Brotherhood. Some lessons really can only be taught the violent way–!”

That said, he thrust his dagger forward.

Agravain learned in gruesome practice that he was fast. But not unreasonable fast. Though he flung his head aside, the dagger still caught the side of his head, scoring a red-hot wound, slicing the tip of his left ear.

“Agreed!” the giant of a man bellowed.

It was true, it had always been Agravain’s belief that the most effective method of education was a beating.

The cutthroat’s other dagger entered his flank before Agravain could make his next move. But yet unfazed, the barbarian hooked the beef bone in his right hand upwards. The sound of the licked-clean bone crashing against the cutthroat’s jaw was not wholesome to human ears. One or several things no doubt had been broken within that skull when his eyes rolled back. He fell like a tree cut.

So that was one down and out.

He searched for his next opponent.

The entire wineshop was silent.

Then once all the brains in that room had processed the sudden events, all hell broke loose.

Patrons fled out the front door, crying, shouting, knowing a lethal quarrel would soon ensue. The large man who was holding Iranon discarded his captive mercilessly at a table. With a yelp, the youth fell along with all the crashing mugs and dishes.

It seemed unbelievable odds. Agravain’s opponent was even larger than him, and was charging with his broadsword drawn, while the barbarian was unarmed and had suffered what seemed a mortal wound at his flank.

Agravain threw away the beef bone, reckoning it an inferior weapon to his balled fists. Instead he yanked out the dagger still stuck between his ribs. His face corrupted into a terrible grimace. Blood spurted in a stream from the open wound.

Came the slash. Haphazardly the barbarian attempted to block with the dagger. His opponent’s cold blade bit hotly into his fingers.

Just as before, undeterred, the pain barely registered to his raging mind, Agravain’s unoccupied fist shot like a cannonball to thwack his opponent’s face. A blow so hard it displaced the man’s features for the rest of his days. And few would be those remaining days indeed.

Even as the second man fell heavily, more armed thugs rushed through the tavern’s door in response to the commotion.

It was just as the cutthroat promised, there were half a dozen of them.

Nor did the enraged man care about the particular number.

A dozen, dozens, or even a million would only serve as a meaningless number to anger him even more.

One couldn’t even say his brain was functioning in any capacity.

Blood coursed in his veins, filling his brain, oozing from his wounds, frothing in his mouth.

Rage activated.

Current rage bar capacity: 9%

From his snarling mouth, a primal cry shook the entire building and shattered his foes’ spirit.

Without a care for the broadsword in the dead grip of the unconscious man, Agravain seized the table he and Iranon had feasted on just a few minutes before, sending the dishes cascading to the tavern’s floor. The next moment, this solid and heavy furniture was flying through the air, then crashing against the squad of thugs.

Two of them had their heads bust with that one move.

But the rest faltered and backed away for a moment.

They watched how blood oozed still from the seething stranger, how his breaths toiled, and they dared think that last move was his last struggle.

With renewed confidence and hatred, these four men bore down upon the barbarian.

In the middle of their charge, Agravain began to move. Storming against storming, he met them head-on, unarmed as before.

It was too late for them to realize their foe had not been weakened. But quite the opposite.

The sides clashed.

No flashes of steel between warriors in this battle, only a mad bull breaking against the all-too-fragile obstacles.

Desperate strokes of theirs opened yet more grievous wounds on his naked body. But he cared not.

His fists flew and his elbows whipped.

Skulls were crushed and bones broken.

Hot blood poured, painting the world red.

When it was done, Agravain stood over the smashed things that had once been humans in shapes and forms.

All were quiet.

Only a voice that only he could hear was speaking something incomprehensible.

Warning:

Low Rage Bar capacity: 4%

His body had suffered almost as many wounds as it had during his encounter with the palace guards, maybe even more. But because some of them had already healed or were healing, there seemed to be fewer.

His wrath being none the worse for wear, Agravain still kept scanning the ravaged tavern for more opponents.

At length, his restored ears caught a subtle sound. He strode eagerly for the tavern’s corner, where a toppled table had been sent against the wall. Plucking it aside, he found the bard crouching behind it.

“Hi there,” the youth gulped at the sight of the barbarian’s bloody body, “I-I really don’t know how to thank you, o brave warrior.”

“I know just how,” he said grimly, “show me the way to these men’s boss.”

“Wha-? Why! What are you planning to do to me?”

“What can I want to do with you?” he repeated, astonished. “I want more fighting men. This fury of mine is to be vented! Will you or not?”

Iranon didn’t need to be told twice. He nodded quickly and repeatedly.

He rose from his hiding spot, then almost fainted when he saw the battle’s aftermath. Holding his mouth to prevent a retching, the youth circumvented the pool of blood for the door.

The crowd outside dispersed just as quickly when Agravain and his guide emerged.

“Oh, good-hearted folk,” Iranon shouted, “What are you staring for? This good man here only defended himself. Only self-defense against the villains who have been terrorizing you!”

“Get on with it,” Agravain grunted, “else I will crush your skull.”

Iranon whimpered. “Why, this way, o brave savage warrior.”

“And give me no weird name.”

“Of course.”

At once they walked down the road. It was the same shabby street as before, only this time everything was colored red in the barbarian’s vision.

“How much longer is it going to take to get there? By Jove, if you try to mislead me...”

“I assure you I am neither brave nor stupid enough to do that. But don’t you think we should wait for your wounds to heal first? The Karvash’s boss has some mean guys under him, you know? And at any rate it’s already dark... you alright?”

Agravain nodded, then wobbled. A wave of lightheadedness suddenly swept over him, tiding over the seemingly insurmountable rage. He had lost an unbelievable amount of blood ever since morning, to be sure. But he was almost sure that wasn’t the cause of this sudden illness. He was healthy only a few seconds before.

After a few more steps, he wasn’t even angry anymore, only exhausted.

And before he knew it, everything was dark.

When again the barbarian opened his eyes, his body was stiff as stone, his limbs laden with the tiredness of one in an intense fever. The room, one he did not recognize, whirled and whirled in his vision.

Turning his head, he found how small the room really was: one could cross it with two long strides. Iranon’s dirty cloak was hung in a corner, and next to it, the unrecognizable rags of what was once his dress shirt. A single, cobweb-covered, oval window graced the dusty interior with shafts of morning light, and there, next to a small table, was an unfamiliar woman.

The first thing odd he noticed was her clothes: a tracksuit ill-fitting the room and his memories of this world’s fashion.

The moment Agravain stirred, she looked up from the rectangular slate in her hands and gave an eager smile.

“Morning, Player Character #5. You sure took one hell of a long nap, eh?”