*******
"You're arrogant for a mere E‑Rank, young man!" the bulky adventurer thundered, his voice carrying over the rear entrance of the city gate. "Before I break your legs, let me tell you who I am! My name is Fenix, the Wild Ranger's Party Leader and a B‑Rank Adventurer! I'll show you the difference between our status and strength!"
Without waiting for an answer, Fenix lunged forward.
He didn't bother drawing his weapon.
Relying purely on brute strength, he threw a heavy punch straight toward Ryan, his fist tearing through the air with enough force to send a sharp whistle ringing across the stone-paved ground. Ryan reacted immediately, stepping back three full paces as the blow passed just inches from his face.
The impact crashed into empty air, the force sending vibrations rippling through the ground.
Fenix snarled and followed through, swinging again without pause. His attacks were wide, brutal, and relentless—each one meant to overwhelm rather than outmaneuver. Ryan read the movement calmly, shifting his footing aside at the last second, his gaze never leaving the man in front of him.
Since Fenix didn't use his weapon, Ryan made a conscious decision.
He slid his sword back into its scabbard.
The gesture alone drew attention.
Murmurs rippled through the gathering crowd as Ryan raised his arms and met the next strike head-on. His forearm intercepted Fenix's punch, the impact sending a dull, bone‑shaking sound into the air. Ryan immediately countered with a sharp fist to the ribs, forcing Fenix to stagger back half a step.
Neither retreated.
They exchanged blows again—raw force clashing against disciplined technique. Fenix relied on size and overwhelming strength, his confidence forged by rank and reputation. Ryan fought with control, conserving his movements, redirecting attacks instead of meeting them head‑on.
Around them, spectators whispered anxiously.
"Another round already? Figures… adventurers never know when to stop."
"Did you hear what Fenix yelled earlier? Something about Lady Overland?"
"Yeah! He said that man is her companion."
"That can't be true. She never works with anyone."
"She's always a solo adventurer. Everyone knows that."
"If that's real… then she must be here in the city."
"Then where is she?"
The whispers spread rapidly, feeding off curiosity and unease. Half the crowd watched the fight unfold, while the other half scanned the area, searching for a glimpse of crimson hair.
Scarlette remained unseen.
Hidden among the spectators, she suppressed her presence until it faded into the backdrop of the crowd. Even seasoned adventurers would struggle to notice her. Her crimson‑lilac eyes stayed locked on the two figures at the center, carefully observing Ryan's movements.
His fundamentals haven't dulled, she noted calmly. He's handling brute force exactly as he should—wide dodges, minimal wasted movement.
Ryan moved with restraint. Despite his injuries, his breathing remained even and controlled. He didn't chase openings recklessly, nor did he let anger dictate his stance.
As expected, she thought. Still irritating… but reliable.
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
He really thinks I'm not around, she realized. Otherwise, he wouldn't show this much.
Scarlette sensed a familiar presence approaching and allowed a faint flicker of annoyance to pass through her thoughts.
How does he always manage to find me in a crowd? she wondered. Is it because he's a Swordmaster too?
Asterion came to a stop at her side, cautious not to draw attention. His eyes followed the fight intently.
"That companion of yours is impressive," he murmured. "His movements are disciplined—comparable to a trained knight." He paused, brows knitting slightly. "No… it's more than that. There's potential. He could awaken as a Swordmaster."
Scarlette nodded once, barely acknowledging him.
Of course.
Then Asterion's tone shifted.
"But there's something restraining him," he continued quietly. "Some kind of shackle. His growth halted at a certain stage."
Scarlette glanced at him from beneath her hood and smirked faintly, clicking her tongue silently.
So, you noticed it too.
She returned her gaze to the fight and spoke in an even, dull tone.
"Remember what I told you, Varyn. I'll handle that man myself. I need something from him."
Asterion stiffened.
"B‑but Scarlette, that man is—"
She cut him off immediately.
"Don't make me repeat myself." Her voice remained calm, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. "This should be yours to deal with, yes. But remind yourself—what is your priority?"
The Marquis fell silent.
"You are on a mission given by His Majesty himself," she continued. "If you expose yourself here, it could ruin everything."
Asterion clenched his jaw, then exhaled slowly.
"…You're right."
Reluctantly, he stepped back. As much as he wanted to intervene, he trusted Scarlette's judgment more than his own impulse.
And he trusted her strength.
His attention returned to the scene, eyes lingering on Ryan with a troubled frown.
There is no reason for him to be here.
From what Asterion remembered, Ryan's master was not the type to send a trusted retainer into foreign territory casually—especially not under a false identity.
And yet, here he was.
Scarlette had said she knew him from her past.
How is that possible? Asterion wondered. Ryan Wayne is a noble from another kingdom—one several mountain ranges away from Silveria.
The contradiction unsettled him.
But Scarlette asked him to stay out of it.
So, he did.
For now.
Scarlette exhaled quietly when she felt Asterion withdraw. Relief spread through her chest—not because she doubted him, but because she could not afford his involvement here.
Too many eyes.
Too many unknown variables.
And most importantly—Asterion was a Marquis and a war hero. If he became involved, the consequences would spread far beyond this skirmish. Especially with the possibility of disguised nobles lurking within the city.
He was here on the Emperor's orders. She would not allow his reputation to be tarnished by a situation like this.
Especially not because of her.
She never intended to befriend the Marquis.
He was a noble born into power. A decorated war hero.
She was a commoner who clawed her way up through blood and effort.
They were never meant to walk the same path.
Yet three years ago, after that event, he tracked her down. Learned her true identity.
And instead of summoning her through political courtesy—
He came personally.
Scarlette remembered how she nearly declined his invitation outright. Getting involved with nobility always led to trouble.
Yet something about that invitation stayed her hand.
There was no arrogance in his request. No entitlement. No condescension.
Only sincerity.
Turning him down felt wrong—not because she feared him, but because she saw how genuine he was, inviting her himself instead of sending one of his servants, like how most of the nobles would do.
**********