Arcus looked down, staring at Bryan who lay sprawled and helpless on the cobblestone street. The alley was now entirely silent, filled only with the erratic, heavy breathing and soft groans of the seventeen thugs scattered around them.
Arcus's left hand still maintained a firm grip on the cloth bag. Inside it, the thick cloaks for his comrades were neatly folded, resting alongside the packaged roast meat and wheat bread, whose warmth still radiated through the fabric.
With a casual motion devoid of the slightest emotion, Arcus lifted his right leg. He placed his polished leather shoe lightly upon the center of the thug leader's chest.
Bryan groaned in agony. His survival instinct violently rebelled.
Mustering whatever strength he had left, Bryan grabbed Arcus's ankle with his massive hands, pushing with all his might to heave the crushing weight off his chest. Bryan's face turned completely red, the veins in his neck bulging as he exerted the absolute limits of his physical power.
However, Arcus's posture remained perfectly upright, carrying lethal grace. The leather-clad foot did not shift a single millimeter.
To Bryan, the weight crushing his chest did not belong to a human leg; it felt like a mountain that was fundamentally impossible to move.
Arcus lowered his gaze. His ice-cold eyes easily pierced through Bryan's crumbling mental defenses.
"I require freedom of movement within this city," Arcus stated in a flat tone laced with sheer boredom, as if he were asking a pedestrian for directions rather than interrogating the man who had just tried to kill him.
"Where is the easiest place to acquire an official identification without answering too many questions?"
Under the pressure of that iron mountain, Bryan's ribs creaked softly. His breathing grew ragged, and absolute terror completely swallowed his remaining pride.
"T-The Adventurer's Guild..." Bryan answered between gasps, his widened eyes projecting pure horror. "Y-you only need to pay one silver coin there... to register and receive an adventurer's identification tag... which serves as official access throughout the entire royal city..."
Hearing the information he required, Arcus formed a faint, condescending smile.
A thought crossed his mind. My coins were actually running quite low after purchasing those cloaks. And now, these fine gentlemen have graciously delivered funds right to my doorstep.
Arcus glanced at the cloth bag in his left hand. However, delaying any further and letting this food turn cold is an absolute sin. Delivering a warm dinner to my friends is the top priority.
Arcus looked back down at Bryan. Without a single warning, the tip of his shoe moved like lightning, striking Bryan's lower jaw with lethal precision.
Smack.
Bryan's head snapped to the side, and his consciousness was extinguished instantly. The thug boss lay completely motionless on the cobblestones.
Having cleared his final obstacle, Arcus turned around. His sharp eyes glanced toward the slightly ajar door of the Black Raven Inn.
He walked casually away from the piles of bodies on the street and pushed the wooden doors open.
The moment Arcus stepped inside, the scenery within the inn had drastically changed. The room, which had previously been loud with hoarse laughter and crude banter, was now dead silent, completely devoid of patrons.
In front of the bar counter, Otto the innkeeper instantly dropped to the floor. The bald man knelt, his body shaking violently.
"M-My Lord! I-I swear upon the gods!" Otto wailed, his voice trembling as both his hands touched the wooden floorboards. "I-I had absolutely nothing to do with Bryan and his men! I never planned this ambush, please, I beg you to spare my life!"
Arcus stopped directly in front of Otto. He paused for a moment, allowing the oppressive silence to choke the air within the room.
With a slow movement steeped in absolute arrogance, Arcus raised his right hand and pulled the dark hood of his cloak back. His golden-blonde hair fell smoothly, framing his handsome, ice-cold face.
He stared down at Otto the way a king would look at a lowly servant. His massive ego and arrogance radiated outward, filling every corner of the tavern.
"I despise dirtying my hands with gutter rats," Arcus declared arrogantly, his voice echoing through the silence.
He tilted his head slightly, issuing a royal decree that left zero room for argument. "Clean up the street outside. Gather every coin and valuable item they possess into a single, clean pouch, then bring it to my room."
Otto nodded frantically, doing it so many times his forehead audibly bumped the floor. "Y-yes, My Lord! I will execute your orders immediately!"
"After that, make certain those rats understand exactly who they just offended," Arcus continued coldly. He turned toward the stairs but halted his steps on the first wooden board.
"Gather the money, leave it outside my door. Knock once, and then leave. And remember... do not even dare to peek inside my room."
Without waiting for a response, Arcus ascended the softly creaking wooden stairs, carrying the warmth of the food and the protective cloaks back to his friends waiting in room number four.
As soon as the footsteps vanished onto the second floor, Otto let out the breath he had been desperately holding. Cold sweat drenched his entire back. He felt as though he had just survived the jaws of a dragon.
Not wishing to waste a single second and risk keeping the blonde monster waiting, Otto immediately scrambled up and barked at his two tavern boys, who had been hiding behind the beer barrels.
"You two! Get out of there and grab an empty leather pouch! Quickly!"
The two boys, who were just as pale as Otto, scurried to grab the pouch and followed their master out of the inn.
The night air welcomed them, accompanied by a sight that made Otto's stomach churn.
Eighteen men—several of whom were the most feared thugs in this district—lay sprawled out, groaning, unconscious, or writhing in pain with their bones bent at unnatural angles. There were no pools of blood; just an overwhelming display of absolute dominance that had crippled them all in mere seconds.
"Search their pockets! Take every single coin you find!" Otto whispered frantically. His own hands immediately moved to rummage through the pockets of an unconscious thug near the door.
Otto's hands shook violently as he pulled out a handful of coppers. The clinking sound of the copper and silver coins colliding as they were dumped into the leather pouch sounded incredibly loud in his ears.
The terrifying realization that he was essentially gathering tribute for a god of death made his movements increasingly frantic and rough.
After several minutes of draining the wealth from the pockets of the helpless thugs, the leather pouch in Otto's hand felt remarkably heavy. He then walked over to the massive figure sprawled in the middle of the street. Bryan.
Otto crouched, then delivered two harsh slaps to the thug boss's cheeks. "Bryan! Wake up, you fool!"
Bryan groaned softly. His eyes fluttered open, still clouded by confusion and the agonizing pain throbbing in his shattered jaw.
As soon as Bryan's eyes could focus, he saw Otto crouching over him. In the innkeeper's hand, a kitchen knife gleamed, reflecting the streetlights, pointed directly at his throat.
The knife in Otto's hand trembled slightly—solid proof that the bald man was still actually consumed by deep terror. However, tonight, Otto possessed an impenetrable shield.
He was taking refuge behind the terrifying shadow of the blonde young man on the second floor. That synthetic courage made his voice hiss with absolute menace.
"Just so you know, Bryan..." Otto whispered sharply, pressing the dull edge of the blade slightly against the skin of Bryan's neck. "That man... he incapacitated all of you without even drawing a weapon or casting a single spell. He used his bare hands. He is a monster walking in human skin."
Bryan choked on a gasp. His eyes widened as the horrific reality of what he had just experienced fully set in. The terror creeping across Bryan's face provided a distinct satisfaction to Otto, fortifying his illusory fortress of power.
"Deliver this message to every gang leader in Wealden," Otto threatened, glaring intensely into Bryan's eyes.
"The Black Raven Inn is now under his protection. If even a single one of you dares to approach my establishment with malicious intent... you will all lose your lives before you can even draw your swords."
Otto stood up, retracting his knife. He delivered a light kick to Bryan's paralyzed leg with a look of utter disgust, then turned around, carrying the coin-filled leather pouch back into the inn.
In front of the door to room number four, Arcus paused. He raised his hand and knocked on the wooden surface exactly once.
The knock served as a signal. From the cracks in the door, the magical blue glow of the [Tier C - Magic Lock] securing the room slowly dimmed and faded into nothingness.
Arcus pushed the door open. His eyes immediately locked onto the corner of the room.
There, he did not see an elite combatant on high alert, but rather an incredibly exhausted Elf. Vrischil was still sitting stiffly in her wooden chair, clutching Alphonse's hand tightly, in the exact same position as when Arcus had left her moments ago.
Arcus stepped inside, carrying the cloth bag in his left hand and the wrapped food in his right.
The savory aroma of the hot roast meat and wheat bread immediately permeated every corner of the cramped room. In any other place or time, that aroma should have been appetizing and comforting.
Yet inside this room, the smell of food felt entirely out of place.
There was a jarringly sharp contrast; the "scent of life" from the warm food clashed violently against the "atmosphere of death" projected by Alphonse's pale face and shallow breathing on the bed.
Arcus placed the wrapped food onto the wooden desk carefully.
"Eat, Vrischil," Arcus said softly, breaking the suffocating silence. "The meat and bread are still warm."
Vrischil did not respond. She didn't even blink or turn her head the slightest bit. Her emerald eyes remained locked onto Alphonse's pale face. The Elf's silence was like a thick fortress wall constructed from deeply suppressed anxiety.
Seeing Vrischil's stubbornness, Arcus's jaw clenched.
"Do you think Alphonse would be happy seeing you torture yourself like this?" Arcus scolded, his voice rising half an octave. "He's going to yell at me if I let you fall sick from starvation!"
Still no answer. Only freezing silence.
Arcus raised his right hand, roughly running it through his blonde hair until it was messy. He exhaled heavily, his breath laden with the frustration threatening to explode in his chest.
Out there on the streets, he had just demolished nearly two dozen armed men barehanded without breaking a sweat. His power was terrifying, yet inside this room, his entire combat prowess was completely useless. He could not heal; he could not restore his best friend's consciousness.
"Damn it," Arcus cursed softly, turning his face away.
He realized that arguing with an Elf whose mind was currently in shambles was no different from yelling at a boulder.
Amidst the tension, a knock echoed from the outside of the door.
One soft knock. Otto had executed his orders.
Arcus walked to the door and opened it slightly. The hallway was empty; there was only a leather pouch lying on the wooden floorboards. Arcus picked it up. Its weight was quite substantial.
As he closed the door, the clinking sound of copper and silver coins colliding echoed through the room.
According to game logic, that sound was the melody of victory. Acquiring loot and gathering coins was an event that always brought joy. But tonight, as Arcus held the heavy leather pouch, the clinking of coins sounded incredibly hollow and deeply depressing.
Without bothering to untie the strings or count the sum within, Arcus tossed the pouch into the corner of the room.
Thud. The leather pouch landed harshly on the floor.
They had successfully acquired the hundreds of coins they desperately needed to survive in this city, but all the wealth in the world was utterly meaningless if the man lying on the bed did not open his eyes.
Drained of any energy to argue or maintain his arrogant persona, Arcus gave up. He slid down, sitting with his back against the cold wall opposite the bed. He pulled his knees up and let his arms go limp, staring blankly at the cracks in the floorboards.
Only the sound of Alphonse's shallow breathing filled the room.
However, a few moments later, a sudden movement shattered the stillness.
Vrischil, who had been completely frozen like an ice sculpture the entire time, suddenly flinched. Her back stiffened, and her grip on Alphonse's glove tightened drastically.
Arcus raised his head, following the Elf's gaze. Right at that exact moment, beneath the dim light of the crystal lamp, Arcus clearly saw Alphonse's right index finger—resting upon the bedsheets—twitch faintly.