Dammit.
In front of Mark, the three of them lay in a heap, groaning in a symphony of pain.
Mark was gasping for air, staring at his hands in pure disbelief. He hadn't been thinking; it was as if he'd been blinded—blinded by a rage so intense it bypassed every rational thought before he acted.
What now? He had provoked a wealthy young lord. His life was undoubtedly about to become a living hell. It was pure stupidity. What could he possibly do to fix this?
He looked at his palms, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. This wasn't him. He wasn't this aggressive.
"If I don't fix this right now, I'm dead," he thought. "I have to apologize. I have to do whatever it takes to satisfy this guy before he comes back for revenge."
As he approached with slow, hesitant steps, the young lord—whose body was a map of aches—forced his eyes open. He saw the man who had just dismantled him closing in once again.
"No... cough... please! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I'll compensate you... I'll give you everything I own! Just please, spare me!"
The young lord was paralyzed by a primal terror. He didn't just see a man; he saw the shadow of an indescribable entity. Something as deep and dark as the abyss, waiting to swallow him whole. He was on the verge of wetting himself. All he could do was cry and beg for mercy from an existence that felt infinitely more powerful than his own.
Mark, however, felt a wave of confusion. Wait... isn't he supposed to vow revenge? Isn't he supposed to scream about how he'll kill my entire family like every cliché 'Young Master' villain who gets slapped by the protagonist?
Yet, here he was, weeping and pleading at his feet.
Mark's mind raced. No... this has to be a trap. The moment he gets back to his towering villa, he'll tell his filthy-rich father to send assassins after me.
Mark refused to fall for it. He decided he had to apologize and offer compensation immediately, even though he only had 150 Royal Pounds to his name. Even the ruined suit the noble was wearing cost far more than that, but Mark didn't care. Money could be replaced; a life could not.
With every slow step Mark took, the young lord's heart pounded like a revving engine. He felt like a condemned man walking toward his execution, utterly unable to resist.
Tears streamed down his face, and though his mind was flooded with pleas for mercy, the words remained trapped in his throat, choked back by pure terror. Seeing this, the man who had started the dispute felt a sudden wave of guilt. He realized that his actions had dragged Mark into this mess.
In the end, he only wanted to keep his spot in line; it wasn't worth all this blood and chaos. Despite his hatred for the noble, the young lord now looked like nothing more than a tiny chick trembling before a giant cobra ready to strike.
Summoning his courage, the man stepped forward through the crowd of onlookers. He had seen Mark's raw power and knew he was no match for him.
"Sir... please, spare him! He is just ignorant. Have mercy in your heart," he pleaded.
Mark watched in confusion as several people stepped in front of the young lord, begging for his life. It all happened in an instant; the surrounding Awakeners couldn't just stand by and watch the noble's total humiliation anymore. No matter how detestable he was, he and his guards had been beaten enough. At the very least, he had learned his lesson: never mess with someone stronger.
"We can negotiate," another bystander added firmly. "We are in a place governed by order. You can certainly file a request for whatever compensation satisfies you."
The people standing in Mark's way felt the immense pressure radiating from him. As Awakeners, they recognized that weight—it was the hallmark of someone with a high-tier class, likely Rank A at the very least. Such a talent would be vital to the Union, but even they must respect the sanctity of the official Guild headquarters; murder here would not go unpunished.
As for Mark, he was completely baffled. Where were these "defenders of justice" when the noble's guards were crushing the five players earlier?
His expression hardened as he realized they had completely misinterpreted his intentions. He was approaching to offer an apology, yet they treated him like a monster on a killing spree. He thought to himself, What is all this useless drama?
"Mark, boy! The path is open!"
Old Man Jeff's voice echoed from a distance, cutting through the thick layer of tension and drama shrouding the area. Jeff stood by the gate, signaling to Mark that the line had finally moved and their chance to enter had arrived.
Mark realized that the crowd had frozen in place because of him; no one had dared to cut ahead of his position after that terrifying display of power. However, he knew all too well that this respect—or rather, fear—wouldn't last forever. Humans tend to forget quickly when their own interests are at stake.
A sudden internal conflict gripped Mark: Should he proceed with his apology to ensure his safety from potential retaliation? Or should he seize the opportunity and enter the Guild to finish his resignation and escape this "bacterial colony"?
He knew that failing to apologize now might cause a massive headache later. But the thought of standing in that cursed line under the scorching sun once more was a nightmare far worse than any "Young Master." In a flash, he made a decision that he felt he might regret, yet he didn't hesitate.
Mark pointed a stern finger at the young lord, his voice sharp: "You... I'll be back for you later."
Mark intended it as "I'll come back to apologize to you," but the words came out sounding like a death warrant or a postponed execution. Like a bolt of lightning, he turned and dashed toward Old Man Jeff, who waited at the gate with a strange expression. Jeff was uncharacteristically silent and visibly tense, as if he were harboring a secret or words he feared to utter to Mark in his current state.
The two of them entered the Guild building, leaving behind a scene of utter bewilderment. Behind them, the young lord felt his very heart melt with dread; he had interpreted the sentence as: "I will come back to end your life later."
As for the onlookers—including the man who had started the fight—they looked at the young noble with genuine pity. They whispered among themselves, believing the best thing for this poor youth was to rush home and fortify himself behind walls, or perhaps spend his final hours making peace with his soul, convinced that his time had run out.
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(I know I'm supposed to publish another 5,000 words today, but it will be updated a bit later than usual.)