Ragnar’s hand gripped the edge of his cloak, tugging the hood lower as the crowd jostled around him. He kept his head down, hiding the sharp angles of his face, the wild look in his eyes— anything that might mark him as an outsider. His uncle stood beside him, just as concealed, but there was tension in the way his shoulders hunched beneath the cloak. They were both on edge, blending into the mass of onlookers, as the scene unfolded before them.

Ragnar’s jaw tightened as his eyes locked onto the noble in the centre of the commotion. The man’s expensive robes stained with dust and marked by a jagged tear, flared as he swung another kick into the side of a boy who couldn’t be more than ten. Each impact made the kid crumple further, barely holding himself up, his face twisted in pain.

The rage simmered in Ragnar’s chest, bubbling just below the surface. A low growl rumbled in his throat, and his fingers itched to wrap around the noble’s throat. But he held himself back, forcing the heat of his anger to a slow burn.

Arzan’s warning… It was like an iron chain holding him in place. Stay out of anything that will end up being brought to me. Don’t pick fights with nobles. Especially here.

He clenched his fists, knuckles cracking under the strain, and the memories of Arzan’s caution played in his mind. Veralt wasn’t a place that should welcome a barbarian. Hooded or not, if he made a move now, the nobles swarming into the city would surely know their identity. Most of the people in Veralt saw them more as mercenaries rather than barbarians, but it wouldn’t take long for their identity to come out.

But the noble’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and filled with disgust. “You filthy street rat! Do you know what you’ve done?” He shoved the boy into the dirt again, oblivious to the onlookers’ murmurs. A few in the crowd winced, but no one dared intervene.

Ragnar’s sharp ears caught snippets of the whispers weaving through the throng.

“The boy… bumped into him…”

“Made him fall…”

“Ripped his robe…”

Ragnar’s gaze shifted to the noble’s ruined attire— a slice of fine fabric hung loose, flapping in the wind, stained with mud and trampled dirt. The man’s pride was wounded more than his body, and he unleashed that humiliation on the defenceless kid, fists raised.

Ragnar felt the heat flare in his chest again, burning hotter than before. He glanced at Brugnar, words slipping through gritted teeth. “I can’t just stand here. That boy doesn’t deserve this.”

Ragnar’s breath quickened, his jaw clenching so hard it ached. Anger flared within him, the kind that boiled just beneath the surface. His hand itched to reach for the axe hidden beneath his cloak. He could hear the crowd’s whispers, bits of the story trickling through: the kid had accidentally knocked into the noble, sending him sprawling in the dirt. In the chaos, someone’s boot had torn the noble’s robe. It was enough to turn a minor accident into a public spectacle.

Ragnar’s eyes narrowed, taking in the scene— the dust clinging to the noble’s pristine clothes, the kid’s bleeding lip, and the way the crowd kept a cautious distance. He could feel the injustice like a knife twisting in his gut. He leaned closer to his uncle, his voice low and tight. “I want to help him. No kid should have to go through that.”

Brugnar’s grip on Ragnar’s shoulder tightened, pulling him back. “We have orders, Ragnar. This isn’t our land, and we aren’t among our own. Behave. Let it play out.”

“But the kid—”

“Just watch. The city guards will step in soon enough. They won’t let a noble cause a scene like this, especially with so many around.”

Ragnar’s teeth ground together, but he forced himself to nod, his fists trembling at his sides. He tried to ignore the burning urge to intervene, focusing instead on the crowd parting near the street’s edge. A patrol of three guards moved forward, the gleam of their armour catching the light. At the head of them, he recognized Gareth, who’d fought with him during the beast wave.

The guards pushed through the crowd, their expressions a mix of exasperation and wariness. Gareth’s voice was loud over the noble’s ranting. “Enough! What’s the meaning of this?” He motioned for his men to pull the kid up, brushing the dust from his clothes. “State your reasons for beating this child.”

Ragnar released a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, tension thrumming in his muscles. He didn’t like standing by, but for now, all he could do was watch how this played out.

The noble’s sneer deepened, his cheeks flushed red with anger. He jabbed a finger towards the boy. “He dared to block my path and bump into me! A common street urchin knocked me into the dirt. A beating is the least he deserves.”

Gareth’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes grew colder. “It’s against the law to assault anyone like this. And against a child? It’s beyond disgraceful. No matter the reason.”

The noble’s lips curled into a smirk, a hint of arrogance lighting his features. “It seems you don’t know who you’re speaking to.” He puffed out his chest, adjusting the collar of his torn robe as if the gesture alone could restore his lost dignity. “Baron Radomir of House Felden. I demand that you apologise for your insolent tone and let the boy come with me for his punishment, or I’ll ensure your dismissal when I meet with the lord.”

Gareth’s frown deepened, but he didn’t flinch. He crossed his arms, his stance unwavering. “Feel free to take it up with the lord, Baron. We have orders from Lord Arzan Kellius himself to apprehend anyone disturbing the peace— noble or not.” His tone hardened, each word landing like a hammer. “For beating a child in the streets, you’ll be taken into custody.”

The baron’s face twisted with fury, his eyes narrowed into slits. “You dare to challenge me? A mere guard?” His voice dripped with scorn, but there was something else beneath the anger— an edge of danger.

A surge of mana crackled in the air around him, a pulse rippling outwards like a sudden gust of wind. The crowd recoiled, murmurs turning into gasps as they felt the energy wash over them.

Ragnar felt the whoosh of the air. The baron’s smirk widened, relishing the shift in the crowd’s fear. “It seems like aristocracy has no respect in these lands… but I’m certain Mages do. I am a First Circle Mage of the Archine Tower.”

He raised a hand, letting the mana swirl and gather in his palm, a faint, sickly light flickering around his fingers. “Now, stand down and let the boy come with me, or I’ll make sure your defiance is the last mistake you ever make.”

For a moment, silence fell over the street, the tension crackling like a drawn bowstring, poised to snap.

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Gareth knelt beside the crying boy, his rough hands surprisingly gentle as he helped the child up, passing him off to one of the guards. “Give him the potions we carry,” Gareth instructed. The guard nodded, immediately reaching for a small vial from his belt pouch— its liquid inside glowing faintly with healing magic. Soon, he poured the potion into the boy’s mouth, and the bruises and cuts began to knit together.

Gareth turned back to the noble, his aura shifting from concern to iron resolve. “Miscreants have no place here, no matter their title or magical abilities. This city respects aristocracy— true aristocracy— those who know how to conduct themselves with dignity. Not like unruly ruffians. I don’t think it suits your titles or stature to act as you do.”

Radomir’s face twisted with rage, his control slipping with each word Gareth spoke. His mana flared again, a ripple of chill spreading through the cobbled street. The crowd backed away, sensing the escalation, but Gareth remained steadfast, his gaze unyielding. The baron’s hand clenched tightly at his side.

“Enough!” Radomir’s voice cut through the crowd’s whispers like a blade. “I challenge you to a duel, whatever your name is. Right here, right now. I’ll take your head and bring it to your lord, make him kneel and beg forgiveness for your insolence.”

Gareth’s expression barely shifted, only the faintest shadow of exasperation crossing his features. He shook his head slowly, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “I’m Gareth. And just for your information, my lord isn’t the sort to lower his head to people like you, Baron. But if you’re so eager for a fight…” He sighed, drawing his sword in a smooth motion, the polished steel catching the afternoon light. “I accept your challenge.”

Ragnar stood on the edge of the scene, his hood casting a shadow over his face, hiding the turmoil within. He watched Gareth with something akin to awe as he faced down the Mage without a single shred of hesitation. His expression was calm, his stance loose but prepared— a warrior ready to strike at any moment. It was as if facing a Mage meant nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a task to be handled.

In the pit of his chest, a question gnawed at Ragnar’s mind. Could I do that? Stand unwavering against a Blessed One, knowing the power that elements bring? He clenched his fists beneath his cloak, feeling the calluses on his palms. The answer came bitterly, a truth he couldn’t deny— no. The thought was painful, a small wound to his pride. Against someone with the powers of a Mage, Ragnar would be outmatched, his strength as insignificant as a wave against a cliff.

He winced at the realisation, watching as the space cleared for the duel. The crowd, once a chaotic mass, now held its breath, the air thick with anticipation.

Gareth and Radomir took their positions, the noble’s mana flaring brighter around him while Gareth’s sword gleamed with a promise of cold, precise violence. Ragnar’s heart pounded in his chest as the tension reached a fever pitch, both men preparing to clash— and he knew that whatever happened next would not end peacefully.

The noble’s laugh rang out, loud and mocking, as the crowd scrambled back, clearing the street. Fear rippled through the onlookers, the anticipation of magical crossfire driving them to keep their distance. “You’ve got guts for a guard, I’ll give you that,” the noble taunted, his lips curling into a sneer. “But today, those guts will be spilt on the street.”

Gareth’s expression remained as cold as the steel in his hand. “We’ll see about that.”

The noble’s hands moved in intricate gestures, mana swirling around him as he began to construct a spell. A symbol of water shimmered into existence, and a stream of high-pressure water burst forth from his palm, rushing toward Gareth like a serpent.

He’s a Water Mage, Ragnar thought to himself as his mind raced through the elements of the spell structure— the water spell seemed hastily woven, its mana flow unstable, not like the precise formations he’d seen before. Still, even a rough spell like this could sling a deadly projectile, something that could turn a fight in a Mage’s favour.

But Gareth moved with a speed that took the noble by surprise. He slipped through the stream like a shadow, barely breaking stride as the water hissed and splattered against the street behind him. The noble’s eyes widened in shock, and he cut off the stream with a sharp gesture, switching to a barrage of water shards. Mana crackled, forming crystalline spikes that shot towards Gareth, smashing into the cobblestones just ahead of him.

Yet Gareth was undeterred. He vaulted over the icy debris, rolling and closing the distance in a blur. For a heartbeat, Ragnar thought he saw a flicker of purple light coil around Gareth’s legs— a trace of some power— before it vanished. The Enforcer surged forward, his sword arcing down toward the noble with lethal intent.

Desperation flashed across Radomir’s face as he unsheathed his blade, bringing it up just in time to parry. But even as he prepared another spell, Gareth’s movements were unpredictable. With a sharp turn of his head, the noble’s casting broke when Gareth spat in his face, a crude but effective distraction.

It successfully earned a few gasps from the crowd.

The spell’s structure collapsed, and the mana dissipated into thin air, leaving the noble exposed.

Gareth’s blade bit into the noble’s shoulder with a sickening rip, slicing through cloth and skin alike. The fine robe tore, and a crimson stain spread through the fabric as Radomir howled in pain. He staggered back, clutching at the wound, but Gareth wasn’t done. He seized the noble by his hair, yanking him down and driving a knee into his face. Blood splattered onto the cobbles as he crumpled, gasping and writhing.

Gareth planted a boot on Radomir’s back, forcing him down into the dirt. His voice was steady, carrying through the hushed street.

“The duel is over. But take this as a lesson— noble, Mage, or commoner, there are laws in this city, and everyone will respect them.”

With a gesture to his fellow guards, Gareth stepped back as they seized the fallen noble by the arms, dragging him toward their headquarters. Blood dripped from Radomir’s nose onto the street, and the once-proud Mage now looked like little more than a beaten stray. “We’ll hold him until our lord decides his fate.”

With that, as quickly as it had gathered, the crowd dispersed, murmurs fading into the alleys and side streets of Veralt. Ragnar stood rooted to the spot, his eyes lingering on the spot where the noble had been dragged away, still feeling the aftermath of the quick, brutal battle he’d just witnessed. He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling the itch of unspent energy crawling under his skin.

Brugnar, standing at his side, turned to him with a raised brow. “See this, boy? This is why you need to stay low, not stir trouble. We aren’t the strongest here by a mile.”

Ragnar’s gaze shifted as he spat on the cobblestone ground. “No, this is why I want to be here. I want to make the Lombards stronger. Our tribe needs more than just the strength of our arms. I need to learn the ways of this city… find a path to power that’s more than just swinging a sword.”

Brugnar crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “And how do you plan to do that? You don’t have the authority from your father to make decisions for the tribe.”

Ragnar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “I know, uncle. Father’s authority binds my hands, but it doesn’t bind my will. I still want to start something, build a foundation here.” He turned his head to the side, the wind ruffling his hood as he considered his next words. There was a tension in his shoulders like a rope pulled taut, ready to snap.

“And what’s the first step in this grand plan of yours?”

Ragnar let out a long breath, his chest heaving slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right answer, the right direction. His thoughts spun, turning over possibilities, strategies, and risks. But each path seemed to start the same way, a humbling realisation taking root in his mind.

“An apology,” he said finally, the word leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. His uncle’s brows lifted in surprise. “For the arrogance our people have shown. For the times we’ve acted like mere bandits… if we want to be a part of this land, we need to start by acknowledging that.”

His uncle grunted, half-amused, half-cautious. “Hmph, not exactly the warpath I expected from you, boy. You think an apology will make them see us differently?”

Ragnar’s lips quirked into a half-smile, a trace of mischief glinting in his eyes. “No. But it’ll give me a chance to show them what the Lombards can offer beyond the blade. And it might just keep us from being seen as a potential threat… for now.”

“You’ve got the fire in you, Ragnar, I’ll give you that. Just don’t let it burn you before you’ve even got a chance to light the way.”

Ragnar nodded at that, taking in the wise words and looking up at the pathway that led to Arzan’s estate.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep