Arthur leaned back against the wooden railing of the spectator stands, arms crossed over his chest, a broad grin stretching across his face. Watching BaiYun claim victory in the arena below, he couldn’t help but laugh heartily.

“That guy is really something.”

He had thought so from the very first moment they met, just three days ago—a memory that now drifted back into his mind.

Arthur had just arrived in Auffre City, weary from his long travels. The first thing on his mind was food and rest, and there was no better place for that than the Dawn Tavern. It was his go-to spot whenever he came to the capital, and he was no stranger to the owner, Vivian Dawn.

But Vivian Dawn was far from an ordinary tavern keeper.

A legendary berserker, she had once wielded the greatsword Morningstar, carving a bloody path through the Third Continental War a decade ago. Her most famous feat? Single-handedly holding off a hundred-man elite strike force, which included seasoned warriors, mages, and rogues alike. When reinforcements finally arrived, the sight before them was burned into their memories forever—a field of limbs and bisected corpses littering the blood-soaked forest floor, and amidst the carnage, Vivian sat slumped against a tree, drenched in crimson, her sword resting beside her, its blade dulled from overuse.

One young recruit had pissed himself on the spot.

That battle had catapulted House Dawn, a previously unremarkable minor noble house, into the spotlight. Nobles from all over Auffre flocked to court her, including Magnus Enzo, heir to the infamous Leviathan lineage, and the most promising son of Douglas Enzo.

Yet, to everyone’s shock, Vivian rejected them all, at the cost of renouncing her noble title entirely. After all, joining forces with the Enzo of Leviathan was always the better option, or at least the rest of the Dawns thought so. Vivian’s final choice was rather odd—she married the cook from her old squad.

Together, they built the Dawn Tavern.

Five years ago, her husband passed away from illness, leaving her to run the place alone. Her greatsword still mounted behind the counter.

That evening, however, this fearsome warrior found herself the target of something she had not encountered before—she was “harassed.”

Well, not really harassment, to be fair.

An Easterner, with an infatuated gaze, had been staring at her for far too long, and despite Vivian’s furrowed brow, he remained oblivious, grinning like a fool.

This was rare.

Vivian was no stranger to admiration, but men who openly gazed at her in such a manner were almost nonexistent. Her reputation as the “Hundred-Slayer,” her brutal berserker past, and her close friendship with Queen Evelyn ensured that most men dared not act presumptuously around her.

She didn’t mind—it kept trouble at bay, and over time, she had become the “Don” of this entire district. If the locals had disputes, they came to her for mediation. If trouble stirred, one glare from her usually settled things before they even began.

But to the “enthusiastic observer,” standing behind the bar with a rag in one hand and a casual smirk on her lips, she was a living goddess.

Her skin, a healthy bronze, glowed in the dim tavern lighting, accentuating her high cheekbones. A faint scar along the bridge of her nose, almost imperceptible, added a touch of rugged allure. Her thick, chestnut-brown curls cascaded past her shoulders, catching the light with hints of red undertones.

Her eyes—rich, deep brown like melted chocolate, framed by dark lashes—held a sharp yet playful glint.

She wasn’t tall, yet her presence filled the room. Her body was strong, yet undeniably feminine, curves wrapped in a simple apron that did little to conceal her full chest and narrow waist. Every movement, fluid and effortless, exuded confidence, the kind that came from knowing no one could challenge her and walk away unscathed. It was the allure of a woman who had lived, learned, and grown into her power, a mature magnetism that drew people in without effort, leaving them in awe of her quiet strength.

The Easterner continued staring, utterly entranced.

Arthur, on the other hand, just wanted to eat his damn meal.

With a chuckle, he left this strange Easterner to his admiration and settled into a seat. But just as he was about to order from Franco, the bartender, a shrill, entitled voice cut through the air.

“You filthy bastard! How dare you take my seat?! Get out!”

Arthur barely turned his head.

The voice belonged to a young noble, dressed in expensive finery, a sneer twisting his lips. On his chest, the unmistakable crest of House Enzo—a snarling Leviathan, its jaws wide open.

The insult was… not entirely unfair.

Arthur was filthy.

His faded, tattered cloak was coated in dirt and grime, its edges frayed. His leather armor, cracked and weathered, bore rust-stained buckles. His boots, worn down and caked with mud, looked ready to fall apart.

And he didn’t care.

He had promptly fled his noble house the very day he was declared Valtor of Fenrir’s heir, leaving behind only a note saying he was going to “see the world a bit more before the whole boring, heavy-duty leader gig starts.” From that moment on, he roamed the land, braving the elements and upholding his knightly code, earning a reputation as the Wandering Knight—free of ties, bound only by his own sense of justice, and, of course, a bit sloppy.

But now, the tavern fell silent, all eyes turning toward him.

All except that Easterner—who was still gazing dreamily at Vivian.

When Arthur ignored the noble, the young man’s face twisted with rage. He lashed out with a kick, aiming for Arthur’s shoulder—

—but Arthur didn’t move, not one bit.

The noble stumbled back, shaken by the impact. His face reddened with humiliation and anger, but he hesitated before striking again.

Instead, he puffed his chest and declared,

“Do you even know who I am, you filthy wretch?! I am Ray Enzo, cousin to Magnus and Oliver Enzo!”

Arthur finally looked up—not at Ray, but at the Easterner. The Easterner had stopped staring at Vivian and was now watching them. Arthur’s battle-honed instincts flared—he could sense a faint killing intent from the man.

Ray, oblivious to this, raised his hand to cast a spell, intending to humiliate Arthur further. But before he could, a syrupy, exaggerated voice rang out:

“Oh my! Did you say you’re Lord Ray Enzo? A true Enzo of Leviathan? What an honor it is to be in your presence!”

The entire tavern froze in a mix of confusion and second-hand embarrassment, maybe some disgust too.

Ray Enzo was notorious—a violent, sadistic playboy known for his cruelty. He was the kind of man people feared, not flattered. If this were Oliver Enzo, the admiration might be understandable, but Ray? No one liked Ray.

The voice belonged to the Easterner. For the first time that night, he turned away from Vivian, stepping toward Ray with an exaggerated bow.

He then strode over to the bar, politely asking Vivian for two mugs of malt beer before continuing, “I was fortunate enough to witness Lord Oliver Enzo once—what an imposing figure! And now, to see you today, your aura is just as extraordinary! I must insist on buying you a drink to show my admiration.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

As he spoke, however, he subtly positioned himself in front of the others while turning to grab the mugs of beer, blocking their view. With a nearly imperceptible motion, he slipped a small amount of white powder into one of the mugs. Only Vivian saw what he did.

On the other side of the room, Ray couldn’t hide the delight on his face upon hearing those words. The Enzo family… Ray’s preferences were strikingly similar to Oliver’s, particularly their shared fondness for women. But unlike Oliver—handsome, charming, a walking embodiment of allure, and the scion of the family—Ray had none of that. He lacked Oliver’s natural magnetism and the prestige of his name. No, Ray had to rely on force. His methods were often violent, leaving a trail of victims—either the women he targeted or their families. Even the Enzo house itself found his actions revolting.

Being compared to Oliver in such a flattering way today was a rare pleasure for Ray. Of course, he was more than happy to hear it. He forced himself to suppress the glee creeping onto his face, instead putting on a facade of humility.

“I could never compare to my dear cousin Oliver,” he said, feigning modesty. “But I like the way you talk. This drink? I’m definitely having it.”

Arthur looked as if he was about to say something, but before he could, Vivian gave him a slight shake of her head. She despised the Enzo family. She despised Ray even more. What was this Enzo doing here in Queen Evelyn’s capital instead of staying where he belonged, in Leviathan City? She simply wanted him gone.

She knew the Easterner was up to something with Ray. And frankly, she wanted to see exactly what he had in store.

“To you, and to Lord Oliver—the future and the hope of the Enzo family! Cheers!”

Both men, fueled by flattery and high spirits, downed their drinks in one go. The moment Ray slammed his mug onto the table, the Easterner clapped his hands together, flashing a grin.

“Lord Ray, it’s such a rare honor to have you here today. Why not share some of your legendary tales with us?”

Ray, already basking in the earlier praise, needed no further encouragement. With an exaggerated wave of his hand, he launched into his stories. At first, they were the usual boasts—tales of battle, of his travels, of sights and wonders he had seen. Nothing too outlandish, nothing that might damage the thin veneer of dignity he liked to maintain.

But the Easterner never let his mug stay empty for long. Each time Ray finished a drink, another was placed before him. And each time, the same fine white powder dissolved into the liquid, unseen by all but one.

As the drinks kept coming, Ray’s tongue loosened further. His stories grew wilder, more self-indulgent. Boasts of combat victories gave way to sordid accounts of his conquests—women taken by force, desperate pleas ignored, families ruined in the aftermath. He laughed, slurred, and bragged without the faintest trace of shame, completely unaware of the glances exchanged around him.

And through it all, Vivian watched.

At first, it was subtle—just a slight shift in his expression, a faint crease of his brow. Then, Ray’s face twisted, discomfort flickering across his features. Something wasn’t right.

“I… I need to step away for a moment. You stay put. I’ll be back—we’re not done yet.”

With that, he hurried off, his steps just a bit too stiff, his posture just a bit too tense.

The moment he was gone, Vivian leaned in closer to the Easterner, whispering something in hushed tones. She had to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. The Easterner, for his part, merely smirked, tapping his fingers idly against the table.

Arthur, watching the two of them from nearby, finally decided he’d had enough. He strode over, arms crossed.

“Alright, what’s going on here?”

The Easterner barely glanced up, his voice as nonchalant as if discussing the weather.

“Laxatives. Simple as that.”

Arthur blinked. “That’s it?”

The Easterner gave a thoughtful pause, then added with a casual shrug, “Though, to be fair, it’s meant for cattle. No idea if this dumbass will survive tonight.”

Arthur stared at him. Vivian had to bury her face in her hands to keep from bursting into laughter.

Meanwhile, across the tavern, the door to the loo slammed open. Ray stormed out, face pale, sweat glistening on his forehead—only to stop dead in his tracks. His expression shifted. He swore under his breath and turned right back around, disappearing once more.

And again.

And again.

By the third or fourth time, the drunken haze had worn off just enough for realization to set in.

“You… you filthy peasant! What the fuck did you do?” Ray snarled, his voice trembling—not just with rage, but with exhaustion. His knees wobbled beneath him. His fury should have been thunderous, but the wavering edge in his voice made it sound pitiful instead.

The Easterner raised an eyebrow, looking at Ray with cold eyes. “Me? What did I do? Maybe you should tell everyone what you’ve been doing in the dung hole. You keep running back—what, digging for the side dishes of Enzo tradition like a true heir? Or is that just where you Enzo mutts feed?”

The tavern erupted into laughter. Loud, raucous, merciless.

Ray’s face twisted with humiliation, but he was too weak to do anything about it. He staggered toward the door, each step dragging. Just before leaving, he turned, jabbing a trembling finger at the Easterner.

“You’ll regret this! All of you—especially you!”

Then, with what little dignity he had left, he stumbled out into the night.

The moment Ray was gone, Arthur grinned and waved at the Easterner, offering to buy him a drink as thanks for tonight’s “performance.” Vivian, on the other hand, began to look at him in a completely new light, sensing something special and different about him, her curiosity piqued, eager to continue their conversation.

But the Easterner’s smirk faded. Without a word, he tossed a few coins onto the table, settled his bill, and left.

That was the last they saw of Ray.

For ten days, he remained missing. Then, they found him—in the darkest alley of the capital. Or, more accurately, they found his corpse—eyes wide with fear, despair, and agony. He had been gutted, strangled with his own intestines, and his own manhood shoved down his throat.

Conveniently, all of his valuables had been stripped away.

The Enzo family didn’t truly mourn his death—Ray had been nothing but a liability, a tarnish on their reputation. To them, he was an expendable fool. What bothered them, however, was the damage to their prestige. They demanded an explanation from Queen Evelyn. Yet, Queen Evelyn had no intention of wasting her time or resources on such a trivial matter. In the end, she simply arranged for the capture of a bandit group operating in the capital—an easy scapegoat to appease the Enzos.

Nobody truly knew who did it, or more likely, nobody even cared.

But there was an old saying where BaiYun came from:

“Even the strongest can’t take a few bouts of diarrhea.”