The already quiet tavern grew deathly still. No one so much as twitched.

“A discernment skill?” one of the Red Wyrm casters said, obviously unharmed by the frost. “Those are exclusive to the caster classes.” He smirked at the woman, thoroughly enjoying the scene. “How did someone like you manage to miss the culprit?”

“I wasn’t looking,” Beelith said. “All I know is that the discernment triggered my skill.” She glared again at the patrons of the tavern. “Is no one coming forward to admit to the deed?”

Everyone turned their gazes away, unwilling to make eye contact. Even the barmaids had disappeared—when did that happen?—leaving the barkeep alone at his post. He too seemed one second away from bolting.

“Hey!” Beelith said. “Did you not hear me? I need all the casters here to rise to their feet!”

“No need for that, dear Beelith,” a new voice said, breaking the silence. It belonged to the long-haired man from earlier, the blond that had arrived in the company of three others.

He flicked his long hair over his shoulder and flashed the younger rankers a winning smile. “Why make so much fuss over a harmless skill? I doubt the caster seriously intended to threaten your life.”

“Glamring,” Beelith said and spat on the ground. “I knew a distasteful substance fouled the air. Good to finally put a face to the miasma.”

The other members of Glamring stirred.

The blonde man shook his head at them, unperturbed. “Disagreeable as always, eh? I daresay your current actions do not paint you in a good light.” He spoke to Beelith but kept his eyes focused squarely on Byron. “It would be wise to do away with the aura.”

Byron smirked.

The chill in the tavern intensified.

“Byron—”

“Mathideus,” Byron said, without missing a beat, “do you suggest that I turn a blind eye to this incident?”

“I suggest an increase in wisdom as a former superior.”

“And, I would accept it were your foolishness not known to me. Having endured your mentorship for a small portion of my youth, I can say with full confidence that there is little wisdom in anything you do.”

This time, Mathideus didn't stop his companions from registering their displeasure. His fist tightened around his tankard, though a smile remained on his face.

Byron strode into the rancor, somehow managing to look pedestrian despite being the source of the deadly frost aura.

“It’s no crime,” Byron said, “to discern one’s enemies on a battlefield. But, this is guild territory. Neutral grounds. Using a skill on a ranker here without prior consent—no matter how harmless—amounts to a declaration of intent.”

He stopped beside my table. My heart skipped a beat.

He didn’t suspect me, did he?

No. He had no reason to. [Identify] apparently belonged to the caster classes, but I’d managed to circumvent that requirement due to my trait.

Besides, irrespective of how reasonable he sounded, Byron's words didn’t excuse Red Wyrm's overreaction. This was a party used to bullying people to get what they wanted, and my skin crawled at the thought.

Byron stopped beside the hooded men from earlier, who had since hidden their coin pouch. They kept their eyes firmly on the table, unwilling to look up to face him.

Byron smirked and glanced at me. At that moment, I became the little boy at the funeral again; the boy who could only cry helplessly as everyone spoke harshly around him.

Shame slammed like a wrecking ball into my gut at how quickly I averted my gaze. At how quickly I folded to him.

Another stack of [Fear] joined the first.

What was the point of being reincarnated if I acted no differently from my former self? Dad’s controlling hand had steered me into a lonely and awkward adulthood, enough to destroy whatever confidence I had in myself.

In a sense, reincarnating in Vizhima was a chance to start over. A chance to become the best version of myself that I could. And, this version didn’t flinch.

Not to Dread Tigers.

Not to goblins.

And, certainly not to arrogant teenagers.

Byron frowned as my eyes snapped back to his, red matched with blue. He let the challenge slide, however, in order to glare at his target: a frightened Nicola who looked one second away from surrendering her soul.

“You’re the only other caster here,” he said in a soft voice.

Nicola’s eyes widened as she got his meaning. “It's not me!”

“The chances that it could be anyone else are slim.”

“No . . .”

“I do not condone bloodletting,” Byron said, “over matters that can be resolved amicably. But, you should be honorable enough to offer apologies and recompense.”

Beelith snorted from her spot at the counter. “That works for me.”

“I d-don’t have any m-money,” Nicola said. “And, even if I do, I’m telling the truth. I haven't learned [Identify]!”

“Then, bloodletting it is,” Beelith said, cracking her knuckles. “A soiled wench like you probably doesn’t understand the meaning of dignity”—and her sharpened fangs shone in the lamplight—“but this route works for me too. One way or another, you will pay for the slight. Money or blood, your choice.”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“Pathetic.”

That last bit came from me.

The patrons of the tavern turned my way so fast they suffered whiplash. A second layer of silence descended over the room.

Byron regarded me with icy blue eyes. “What did you—?”

“I called you pathetic,” I said, over the sound of my heart hammering in my chest. “Both of you. This has to be the saddest shakedown I’ve ever seen. And, I grew up in a city that reveled in it. I'm not willing to sit by and watch this farce.”

Beelith chuckled. Her barstool clattered to the floor, shoved by a strong push. “Do my eyes deceive me or is that an elf? Did it just speak? What did it say?”

Byron leaned forward to lock eyes with me. I met his gaze without flinching, surprised at my courage.

His fist tightened—

My hand closed around a monster core—

Loud clapping resounded across the tavern.

The quiet denizens turned to stare at the red-haired man, who had erstwhile been passed out on his table. He joined his palms above his head with riotous laughter and slammed the table for emphasis.

“Oh, gods, that was good. That was so fucking good. I haven’t been entertained this much in a long while.” He wiped a tear from his eye and showed his middle finger to Byron. “Oi, wanker. I did it. I cast the fucking skill. Why don’t you come here and tell me what you’re going to do about it?”

Byron didn’t move. His party members surged forward on his behalf, but a quick look from him stopped them in their tracks.

The redhead for his part leaned against the wall and inclined his legs on the table. “This is why you butcher kids before they grow into nuisances. If any of these brats had been spanked properly in childhood, none of us would have to put up with their bullshit.”

Beelith licked her lips. “May I kill him, Byron? Please? I’m sure Ezin will approve.”

“This has gone too far,” Mathideus warned, finding his voice.

“I challenge you to a duel,” Byron said, tossing a knife onto the redhead’s table. “To the death.”

Mathideus jumped to his feet. “Hold on now! You know I can’t let that happen. The rules say both duelists must be of equal rank. This man isn’t a silver ranker. You aren't allowed to fight him.”

“But, I can fight on Bryon’s behalf,” Beelith said, stepping closer to the redhead. “I’m still Iron-ranked. That shouldn’t be a problem, yes?”

“Fine by me,” the redhead said. “I don’t care who it is. I’ll take on all four of you if I have to.”

Mathideus balked. “You’re new around here, boy, so you don’t know what you’re getting into. Byron and his friends have earned every bit of their reputation—”

The chill wind emanating from Byron eased to a gentle breeze. The tavern inhabitants once more found it easy to breathe.

“Let’s take this outside,” Byron said, sweeping toward the exit. “You may come along as a guild witness, Mathideus. Not that I care.”

The redhead smirked. Without a word, he followed after Byron, hands tucked into his pockets. All six vacated the tavern, Mathideus included, leaving the disgruntled members of Glamring behind.

I rose to join them.

“What are you doing?” Nicola said, grabbing my arm. “We just got lucky. We should flee before they return.”

“I can’t leave without seeing this to the end,” I said. “I’m curious about that redhead.”

“And, this curiosity is worth your life?! You have no idea what these guys can do. They aren’t to be messed with!”

I didn’t say anything else. I left the table instead, chasing after the adventurers. Red Wyrm’s exit had lifted the veil over the tavern, allowing chatter to resume in fits and starts.

I stepped out into the night and activated both [Stealth] and [Dark Stalker]. The darkness engulfed me in a way that felt instinctive. Skeelie’s teeming alleyways sat illuminated beneath the lamps that seemed to be a common feature in Vizhima. But, the darkness was oppressive enough that [Dark Stalker] remained intact even though I walked beneath the light.

Across the tavern, a sturdy, stone building—the Adventurer’s guild—towered over the rest of the street. The six rankers crossed the cobblestones that made up the main roadway and disappeared into an alley.

I followed them as they meandered into an empty avenue, some distance behind the guild building.

Mathideus raised his hand. “This seems to be a good spot.” His expression turned grim, directed at the redhead. “I’m begging you one more time. This is your last chance to do away with this folly.”

“There’s no turning back,” Byron said. “Not after a duel has been accepted.”

“Why would I want to turn back?” the redhead said, sticking a finger into his ear. “Turds are meant to go out, not in. And, as far as I am concerned, this shit is concluded.”

Mathideus sighed. “Can the duelists step forward and introduce themselves?”

“None of that is necessary,” Beelith said, shrugging off her jacket. “I won’t remember a corpse.”

“The dueling rules—”

“Screw the rules,” she snapped. “You’re here to witness, not babysit. I can’t wait to lick his blood off my fingers.”

“And, I," the redhead said, "can tell that yours would taste bad already. Good thing you’re ugly. I won’t regret breaking that nose for the hundredth time.”

Beelith’s glare threatened to pierce through iron. Enough that I would have fled had I been the object of ire.

“Since this match wasn’t endorsed by Ezin,” Mathideus said reluctantly, “I refuse to condone a fight to the death. Victory will be decided by submission or incapacitation or the dropping of any of the duelists' health below five percent.

“Should either party try to pursue victory in a manner contrary to the rules or receive aid from non-participants, I will be honor bound to intervene.”

Byron scoffed. “The last time we did this, your companions didn’t care about honor before intervening to save your life.”

Mathideus didn’t appreciate the barb if the sudden tightening of his shoulders was any indication.

“You will play by the rules,” he spat, “or not at all. The past has no bearing on this moment.”

A terse silence passed between the two silver rankers.

Surprisingly, Byron was first to turn away. “Have it your way.”

The redhead discarded his shirt and dropped low to the ground to perform some stretches. The well-defined muscles of his torso—visible without a covering—bulged in the lamplight. “Can we start already? I need to finish this and go back to sleep.”

“Agreed,” Beelith said, settling into a stance.

Mathideus gestured with his hands. “All non-participants, please withdraw from the area.” He glanced at the redhead who had begun rolling his shoulders. “You’re going to fight barehanded? Are you, perhaps, a Monk or a Shifter like her?”

“Neither,” The redhead said. “But, unless you have a quill on your person, this is the way I intend to fight. A quill is the most dangerous weapon I can bring myself to wield against this broad.”

Mathideus raked a hand through his hair. “Why are you taking this lightly? Do you not understand what is about to happen?”

“Just stand back and watch,” the redhead said, stretching his arms. “I wouldn’t have accepted this duel if I was sure I’d lose.”

Mathideus looked at the redhead, really looked at him, and then he retreated with a grimace. Something in the man’s eyes must have convinced him because he didn’t voice further objections.

I crept as close to the fight as I dared, curious about how the enigmatic man would fare against the visibly hostile Beelith.

“I’m so going to enjoy this,” she said. Her eyes turned feral in the lamplight.

“Begin,” Mathideus said.

Beelith surged forward, changing from a beast-like woman to a woman-like beast in the blink of an eye. Drool splattered out of her maw which lengthened as I watched and sprouted long teeth.

The redhead reacted coolly. He stepped in to intercept her with fluid grace, unfazed by her transformation. His bare fist blurred upward into her chest—a textbook-perfect strike.

That same fist slammed into the wall beside me, accompanied by his severed arm.

Eh?

Two more limbs went flying as Beelith butchered her opponent. His head was the last to go, and she clasped it between her palms until it exploded on his shoulders.

She spat on his corpse, kicked it, and smirked at a pallid Mathideus.

“I believe this is my win,” she said.