The Sixth School Ch. 044

Author's note.

1). Feedback from my readers is my fuel to keep writing. If you enjoy my work, please take the time to let me know in the comments. It does wonders for my motivation to write. Without it, my pacing usually suffers a lot.

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All Characters in the story are 18 years of age and above...

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Chapter Forty Four: A bodyguard...

The merchant's face was pale as a sheet of paper as eyes moved from the dead bodyguard to Greg who was still sporting a chilling smile. While he was currently unarmed, both the merchant and his wife had seen just how quickly he'd summoned the bow and dispatched the bodyguard. His hands were empty but both the merchant and his wife couldn't help but feel like they had a nocked and drawn bow aimed right at their faces. At any point, the madman could easily summon the bow once more and end their lives. When the man spoke, the Merchant was both chilled and relieved at the same time.

The relief came from the fact that the merchant had believed that the young mage was only here to kill. That he seemed to be looking for the position of bodyguard meant that at the very least, he wouldn't kill them. Why someone like him would be interested in the position of a bodyguard, the Merchant couldn't puzzle out. Still, it was a chance to come out of this alive.

The reason the young mage's words chilled the merchant right to the bone was the fact that even with the bodyguard's body on the floor before them with arrows sticking out of his face, the boy still shamelessly pretended to have heard a rumor about a free bodyguard position from somewhere. Rational people could be reasoned with, principled people were also predictable. Someone as unhinged and shameless as this young mage seemed to be, however, was like an untamed beast. There was just no telling what they would do next.

Still, despite knowing that he was in danger and that his life could be snuffed out at any moment, the merchant hadn't made it out of the gutter and reached the heights that he had by being a coward. More than once, he had been in life-and-death situations that he was almost certain not to survive. And yet here he was, still living. Right now, all the power was with the young mage. If he wished to, he could take their lives and there was very little the merchant or his wife could do about it. But if the young mage thought that this was enough to cow him into submission, then he was in for a rude shock.

"Who sent you?" The merchant growled. "Is it Sir Lark? Or that coward Sir Reigad? Or that bitch Raiya?" He questioned. By calling out the names he most suspected, the merchant had been hoping to get some kind of reaction from the young mage. Even the slightest reaction from him would have given away the culprit behind this attack and given the merchant critical information on how to proceed with the negotiations. Unfortunately for him, the young mage just stared blankly at him, clearly not recognizing any of the names. Either that or he was extremely good at maintaining a blank expression.

On his part, Greg was surprised at just how aggressive the response from Sir Joram was. He'd have expected the man to at the very least panic and lose composure for a bit. The man, however, seemed to have gathered his wits about him in an instant. Given the man's background, Greg knew that he wouldn't be a pushover. Even if he had panicked at first, the man would still have recovered before long. With his background in poverty and involvement in the criminal underworld, the man was probably used to life-and-death situations.

Not that this bothered Greg in the least.

In reality, Greg only needed one of the two individuals before him. Should the merchant prove uncooperative, then Greg would just get rid of him and make use of the wife to get into the Mayor's dinner party. A part of the reason Greg was so indifferent to killing was because he knew that they would be back again in his next run. Another undeniable part, however, was because Greg himself had become a lot less naïve about this new world over the months of dungeon dives. After his fight with his uncle, Greg had thought himself to be awakened to the realities of this new world. The dungeon, however, had shown him just how woefully mistaken he was.

The amount of brutality in a world where only the strong carried the day and where 'might makes right' is the law, was beyond anything his twenty-first-century mind could have come up with. While Greg had learned to use the soul bow as his get-out-of-jail-free card, there were situations where he had died simply because he thought like someone from his former life and not this new reality. Take for example when he was first tortured by the bodyguard simply because he'd sought employment as Zarra's servant. In his mind, the worst that Greg had been expecting was to be turned away, maybe even getting thrown out. Even in the middle of the torture, some part of Greg's mind had still been unable to comprehend the fact that he was being tortured simply for asking for a job.

Another example would be the blonde thief. When Greg had tried to stop her, he had naively believed that she would either struggle or try to evade capture. Even while he lay on the pavement bleeding from a slit throat, he'd still been trying to puzzle out why the girl had immediately gone for killing him. There were several other examples of the same. Being run over by a carriage simply because he hadn't moved out of the way fast enough. Being attacked by a noble's guards simply because the noble's concubine had looked coquettishly at him. Being beaten black and blue by a mob for simply disagreeing with them on a given topic and so much more. For every six times Greg managed to exit the dungeon before things went off the rails there was a seventh in which he met a nasty end simply because he thought as Greg from his former world as opposed to the Roka of this new world.

Greg, however, was learning.

Half of it was spotting signs of danger and trouble that he would have otherwise ignored. The other part, however, was hitting back with just as much force, if not more than what he'd be attacked with. Greg was no pushover. He had zero qualms with inflicting ten times the pain he suffered to those who would hurt him. That's why there wasn't even the slightest hesitation in him as he killed the bodyguard. Even if the man wouldn't be back in the next dungeon run, it wouldn't have made a difference to Greg. He had seen the pure pleasure the man had taken in his pain, how he had relished each moment while he tortured him. As far as Greg was concerned, he'd kill the man without any remorse any time the fancy took him.

It had taken a lot of practice over the past month and a half. Greg had lost count of how many times he had repeated the motions of summoning an arrow, nocking it, drawing, and releasing. His aim had been to make the move as smooth as possible. From the summoning to the release, there shouldn't be any breaks or pauses of any kind. No arrow should be in his hand longer than a fraction of a second unless he intentionally left it there. Shooting the bow roughly a thousand times a day, for the past month and a half, Greg had succeeded in becoming just as fast and fluid in his motion as he'd set out to be. The success, however, was only partial. He had exchanged accuracy for speed. Because of how little time he spent aiming, Greg wasn't certain of hitting anything more than four meters away from him. Four meters was his kill zone, beyond that, however, it was a coin toss whether his arrow would meet its mark or not.

Committing the names that Sir Joram had called out to memory, Greg went on speaking as if he hadn't heard the man. "I'll be in town for a few days and I thought to myself, 'Hey, here's an easy way to make money. Protect some guy for a few days, and I'm set!' And so here I am. Now tell me, do you need protection?" Greg posed. While he began with a chipper, even cordial tone of voice, his tone had turned to ice and menacing by the time he asked the last question. In this world where strength was the only universal language, his response to the merchant's questioning was simple. I am far stronger than you are, and if I want something from you, I'll just take it. Do you have a problem with that?

"Is money all you want?" The man countered, not willing to cede ground to Greg by answering his question directly. "Name your price! Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Whatever they are paying you for this, I can pay you double! Heck, I'll even put in a hefty bonus if you tell me who put you up to this," The man tried to negotiate.

Continuing to play the role of the unreasonable mage, Greg smiled. "I'm glad we could come to an understanding. I will guard you for the next seven days before I leave and you'll pay me a hundred thousand coins," Greg stated with a chipper tone of voice. The man who had smiled at the first half of his statement had almost choked on his spit and gave up the ghost when he heard the rest of it. Greg knew that money was the one arena in which Sir Joram could be most unyielding. He, however, wasn't trying to convince him through reason, but through strength. Asking for any less would undermine the image of the strong mage that Greg was trying to build in the man's mind.

"A hundred thousand! You might as well just k..." The man's outburst was brought to an abrupt stop as Greg summoned the soul bow into his firm grip. Having blackmailed the man for money before, Greg had anticipated this particular response and been ready for it. Unlike the last time, however, this time, Greg had killed someone. Worse yet, he'd done it right in front of them. As such, the merchant knew that not only was Greg willing, but he was capable too. "Er, I mean, I'm sure we can come to a more reasonable price agreement?" The man quickly amended, seeing the very real possibility of dying if he said the wrong thing...

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Greg sat calmly inside the carriage as it moved through the Noble district. Unlike the first time he'd been inside one, this time it wasn't Zarra that was with him, but her husband. And unlike the first time, they weren't headed towards the tailor's shop. Unlike his wife, The man saw no need to dress up the one that had just killed and threatened his way into the Merchant's employ. In fact, if someone got a glimpse of the inside of the carriage, they might be tempted to believe that Greg, who was relaxed, was the master and the man seated to his side with a tense expression was the servant. In the merchant's eyes was a mix of both fear and anger. Fear because Greg had already proven himself a quite capable killer. Anger, because negotiations for how much Greg would earn for the week's worth of work hadn't gone his way. Sir Joram had spent almost an hour trying to get Greg to agree to a fraction of what he'd initially demanded. Greg had spent that same hour completely ignoring the man and acting like he'd already gotten the job. Greg knew that he could squeeze the man for much more than a hundred thousand coins. This time, however, he wasn't trying to extort and humiliate the man. Despite the forceful way he got into the man's employ, he didn't want to antagonize him to the point of leaving him no other option but to fight.

After roughly thirty minutes, the carriage came to a stop before a large set of iron gates. Over the past few months that he'd been exploring the dungeon city of Torrin, Greg had come to learn that there were two primary occupants of the noble district. The first, as the name suggested, were the true nobles. The kind with hereditary titles that could be passed from parent to child. The other type, to which Sir Joram belonged, were the oligarchs. Individual merchants, the main branch of different trading families, heads of certain industries, and so on. While to the commoners there wasn't much difference between the two, there was a sharp schism between the two groups. On the surface, they all played nice and smiled at each other like lifelong friends, in truth, however, the true nobles looked down on the oligarchs and thought of them as nothing more than posers and social climbers trying to pass themselves off as true nobility. Meanwhile, the oligarchs thought of the nobles as nothing more than moochers and leeches who offered nothing of true value but just used their inherited titles to steal from them in the name of taxes and bribes.

For all of the oligarchs' distaste for the nobles, however, the true nobility had been in power far longer than most of the Oligarchs had and this was reflected in their abodes. The oligarchs tended to live in large ornately furnished houses. The compounds to their homes, however, were nothing to write home about. Land in the city, after all, was worth more than gold! The true nobility, however, would have large, and just as expensively furnished houses surrounded by acres of land that were also lavishly taken care of. Trimmed fences, manicured lawns, expertly carved statues, and most importantly, armored guards that seemed ready to skewer anything that even breathed wrong, patrolling the place. This was the compound that the carriage rode into after they were checked at the gates. The guard there had done a double take when he noticed Greg's commoner clothing. The presence of the merchant in the carriage with Greg, however, seemed to be enough for them to disregard this little detail and let the carriage through.

The man that the merchant had come to meet was one of the three names that he had called out. Sir Lark, as Sir Joram had called him, was a lean man of average height. His most notable feature was his large, owlish eyes. Especially when contrasted against his gaunt face, they left him with a look of perpetual surprise. At their first meeting, Greg was tempted to try and startle the man just to see if his eyes would grow even larger. The three armored men by his side, however, dissuaded him from this course of action. Sir Lark himself didn't hold a noble title, but apparently, he was the younger brother of some Earl somewhere and represented their interests in this city. From the fake smiles and empty platitudes they offered each other, they were clearly long-term acquaintances and it wasn't long before the merchant was invited to one of Sir Lark's private rooms to have a discussion.

Greg immediately understood what Sir Joram was trying to do. He had failed in getting a confession out of Greg as to who it was that had sent him so he had gone for the reverse approach. He was taking Greg around to the people that he suspected the most to gauge their reactions. If one of them betrayed any shock or recognition, he would still have achieved his objective of figuring out who had sent Greg after them. It wouldn't work, seeing as no one had sent him after the merchant. Still, Greg could appreciate the ingenuity behind the approach. On his part, Sir Lark was taken aback when he noticed that the Merchant's guard had changed from the usual muscled brute to a boy in commoner clothes. But other than that, there was no hint of recognition on any of his features. And after about three seconds of studying Greg, he seemed to lose interest altogether.

Inside the private room they were ushered into, there were only five people, Greg, Sir Joram, Sir Lark, and his two trusted guards. Unlike the armored ones on the outside, these two seemed to be much more lightly armored. Rather than the metallic full-plate armor that those on the outside seemed to have on, the ones in the room only had on a breastplate made out of hardened leather. They also had vambraces and greaves made of the same leather material. For some reason, however, Greg got an even greater sense of danger from these two than from those outside. It didn't feel like they were more vulnerable from being less armored. Instead, it was like they were less restrained and even more capable of being lethal with the freedom that their lesser armor granted them.

Unlike their employer who had lost interest in him, the two men had zeroed in on him from the moment they'd met. The two wouldn't neglect any possible threat to their master, no matter how insignificant it might seem. And from the slightest upward tilt of their lips, as they studied him, they clearly thought they could take him easily. Greg himself wasn't bothered by this. An enemy that underestimates you is the best kind of enemy, as far as he was concerned. Besides, it wasn't necessarily certain that they would end up clashing. Like living mannequins, Greg and the two guards stood behind their respective masters as they settled into their chairs and began speaking.

Both of them being members of the upper class, the conversation began with ten minutes of them blowing smoke up each other's ass and giving compliments that neither truly meant. In fact, from the look of things, this session would have lasted longer if Sir Joram hadn't cut it short by moving straight to business. By the slight frown that creased Sir Lark's forehead, he didn't much appreciate this. Still, he didn't protest and listened as the merchant began talking about his most recent shipment of goods.

For most of the conversation, Greg was spaced out. His mind kept fleeting between going over the lessons he'd had that day with the healer, and making plans for the week ahead where he'd be free. Given how busy his lessons with the healer had kept him, Greg hadn't had much of a chance to accrue the lust points he'd need to comfortably merge ten feats of lust. As such, for this coming week, he'd have to go on a marathon of sexual escapades to see just how much he would be able to manage. Greg had already known that even more than variety, the system rewarded risk-taking. The more danger he put himself in, the more lust points he'd end up with. As such, Greg was slightly nervous when trying to imagine just how many risks he'd have to take to earn the twenty-one-something million lust points he'd need to get to thirty million lust points.

The loud noise of Sir Lark banging the arm of the chair he was seated on brought Greg back to the present. At some point, it seems, the discussion had gone off the rails and now the two seated men were glaring at each other. Greg couldn't help but tense up slightly. His eyes immediately moved to the two men guarding Sir Lark. If things turned violent, these two would pose the biggest threat to him. They seemed to have also marked him as their primary target as they were sending unfriendly gazes his way. Greg turned his attention to the tense conversation trying to figure out what was wrong.

"What is that coward Sir Reigad offering you that I cannot?" Sir Lark questioned in a dangerously low tone.

"Both you and I know that it has nothing to do with Reigad and everything with my word as a merchant! The moment my clients no longer believe that I will deliver what I promise to them is the moment my business sinks!" Sir Joram countered.

"Ha!" A sound between a bark and a derisive laugh escaped Sir Lark. "You expect me to believe that a merchant values honor over coin! Next, you'll be telling me of all the charity you've done for the destitute of Torrin," The man spat mockingly.

"This is not up for negotiation. Sir Reigad will get his merchandise as promised and you will get yours with the next shipment that comes along," Sir Joram declared with a note of finality. "Now, I believe we are done here," the merchant added before making to rise to his feet.

"I haven't yet granted you permission to leave!" the noble growled and as if on cue his two guards stepped forward to drive home the point.

It would have been an intimidating sight if an arrow didn't fly through the eye of one of the guards and protrude from the back of his skull. Part out of shock and part out of reflex, the second guard turned in the direction of the first, which is why an arrow went through his temple and came out on the other side of it. When Greg began his dungeon dives, he might have thought his reaction to be out of proportion. Two people menacingly step towards you and so you kill them? Why not try to de-escalate? And if that doesn't work, try to intimidate them and get them to back off. That's probably what he would have done back then. The current Greg, however, wasn't as naïve. Not only was he outnumbered, but also, the two men were clearly more powerful than he was. To give them a chance to prepare, either to defend themselves or to counterattack, was no different from offering himself up on a platter. Rather than allow himself to end up in a position where he was at a disadvantage, Greg immediately made the first move and nipped the danger in the bud!