A sigh escaped his mouth as Sigurd stood before the large entrance to the building. From his position, he was able to see different things stored inside. It seemed to be a warehouse.
He readied himself, still under the effects of the skill he'd used before.
‘I can't believe I just said all that!' Joyce said internally, in a panic. ‘I don't know how to fight with a sword, let alone two! I only managed it before thanks to the mega power-up from Goddess' Breath...”
Sigurd gripped both of his swords and unsheathed them from their scabbards.
‘Still, I made a promise to that little girl and I can't back out now. Baron or not, I’m still a soldier at heart!’
He took one look back at the building the cat girls were in. From the window, the older one peered out, concern in her eyes.
‘And if all else fails, I'll apply the old saying: fake it till you make it!’
He nodded, resolute, and stepped inside. Following the natural trail set up by the stacks of crates and enticing merchandise, it led him to an open room with a table and a few chairs. Beyond that laid a set of double doors.
Engaged in raucous laughter and an obscene conversation, three goons occupied the chairs and seemed to be on standby. They were sharply dressed, which contrasted against their boar-like features – snouts and ears that oozed mucus, and beady eyes.
Cloaked in shadows, Sigurd sneaked to where the last bit of cover was and waited, obscured from their line of sight. As he overheard their conversation, he became enraged.
“Can you believe the haul those brats got us this time?” one of them asked.
“I know, right? They must've milked a real high roller. A noble, you think?" the second one agreed.
“Has to be. It's the only thing that stupid girl is good for anyway." the third chimed in. “I bet she even got into that schmo's pants, with those grubby little mitts of hers!”
All three of them broke out in laughter.
The more Sigurd heard, the tighter he held the hilt of his sword. Before moving in for the attack, he took a deep breath and sheathed his blades again.
“I have a better idea," he whispered, grabbing the swords again, still blanketed by their protective covering.
Finally, he stepped out of cover. All three henchmen, caught off-guard, fell over.
“Who the hell are you?!" one of them yelled, grabbing his baton.
“You're in for a world of hurt!" the second one said, grabbing a chain-sickle.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Calling out to the rest of the mob, the third one scurried off through the double doors, yelling, “We’ve got an intruder! Hurry and protect the boss!”
“I'm the one who'll be dispensing some justice today!" Sigurd roared. “Where's my gold?!”
“Oh fuck, it's this bozo! Let's get him!”
Both men charged at Sigurd, but he handled them with grace and ease. Blocking the chain-sickle attack from the one to his right, he twisted his blade in such a way as to wrap the chain around it and pulled back hard.
The lunge effectively disarmed the goon. With a kick, Sigurd pushed him back, all while blocking the baton hit from the man on his left. Using the chain wrapped around the sword in his right hand, he bonked the other man on the head, shaking the chain off in the process, and knocking him out.
By then, the other man had already stood up. He took a beam of wood from among the materials on the floor and rushed Sigurd once more.
“Didn't learn your lesson now, I see," he mocked the goon.
With a swift swing of his sheathed blades, both scabbards caught the running goon in the torso, forcing the air out of him. A third, well-placed hit on the side of the head knocked him out too.
After taking a second to recompose himself, Sigurd pushed on, past the double doors. The room that greeted him afterward was much more like a warehouse space. It was large and elongated, with spacious windows lining the ceiling, letting natural light in.
At the far end of the room was a lone table. On it was a pile of gold, and sitting in the chair behind was a large, big-bodied orc man. He was more sharply dressed than the others, his fedora blocking his eyes. Sigurd surmised he must be their boss.
Next to him was the third goon from before, cowering behind the table, and, between the table and Sigurd, all across the room were several other henchmen. He counted at least two dozen.
“Don't just stand there. Go take care of this idiot," the boss voiced.
In unison, they all replied: “Yes, boss!” as they ran at Sigurd.
The confrontation that followed was a symphony of clashing steel and thundering thuds, an intricate dance of weapons that spoke volumes in the silence of their embrace.
The henchmen that came at Sigurd bore different weapons; most wielded swords, while some of them varied in their choice of assault. From axes and spears to wrenches and hammers, or whatever else they could find.
As the battle occurred, Joyce's fears were quelled entirely. There was no doubt in the steps taken, nor the swings swung; it all came naturally, through Sigurd, like a form of muscle memory. He had known battle before, and trained in it extensively.
Sigurd's movements were fluid and precise, each strike a testament to his skill and determination as he dismantled the criminal operation piece by piece.
The sound of steel meeting flesh reverberated through the cramped space, each hit leaving a bruised muscle or a broken bone in its wake. He was unrelenting in the amount of brute force being applied behind every swing. That was done both to block and parry the attacks made against him, yet also as a show of his boiling rage.
After all of the mob's men were felled, and having made his slow trek towards their boss, Sigurd stood before him, cautious and at the ready.
“What are you doing, you moron?!" the boss shouted at the last goon still cowering behind the desk. “Go do what I pay you to do, and kill him!”
The cowardly henchman ran out, arms flailing, wailing a pathetic war cry only to be knocked unconscious in an instant.
Not amused, Sigurd stared the boss down. Left without lackeys, and seemingly weaponless himself, the sharply dressed orc dared not move.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?" the boss asked, despair making his voice crack.
“I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
The boss’ gaze shifted toward the pile of coins on the table. “What, this?" he asked, shoving all of the coins off the table and onto the floor. “You can have them back! Just leave us alone!”
Sigurd saw the coins fall but was unfazed. He kept his eyes squarely on the boss' paralyzed gaze.
“That's good, to start,” he uttered. “But it's not quite enough. I’m taking you down, once and for all.”
Thinking rapidly, the boss figured out his intent.
“Is this about that stupid street urchin?”
Sigurd silently nodded.
“Why the fuck do you care about her? She's a filthy catkin, worth less than trash!" the boss yelled, pulling out a hidden weapon as he did. “And if you try to take us down, you're going down as well!”
He lunged at Sigurd, who swiftly dodged out of the way and smacked the mob boss into the floor with his sheathed sword. The hit was so strong, the boss was knocked out as well.
With the last of the Syndicate subdued, Sigurd pointed his scabbard at the man, stood tall, and proudly proclaimed:
“I care about her because I am Baron Sigurd Svobodna, champion of Oatheven!”
As he stood there feeling like a true hero, the silence was broken by the sound of clapping coming from the door at the other end of the hall.
Wide-eyed and tomato-faced in embarrassment, Sigurd turned on a dime to find the cat girl waiting there, cheering him on.
“Wow, that was amazing, mister!" she said. "How did you do that?”
“What are you doing here? It’s still dangerous!" Sigurd snapped back. “How long have you been standing there?”
“I saw the whole thing," she replied unashamedly. “I followed you in.”
“Go back to your sister!" Sigurd swung his arm frantically in the direction of the door. “There's one more thing I need to do here, and then I'll join you. So go, now!”
The cat girl shrugged her shoulders and left through the same door she entered, leaving Sigurd to finish what he needed to do.