The demon Velmire only needed five percent. For someone like him, one percent was enough.
A dense, crimson shadow began creeping from William's feet and enveloping his slender body like a bloody mist. The torchlit night grew somber, as if the flames themselves were trembling in the face of that presence. Suddenly, William's body blurred and melted into a crimson silhouette that moved faster than the human eye could see.
Jones growled as his mana overflowed and the ground beneath him cracked under his weight. He lashed out with a massive fist, striking like a stone hammer. However, he struck only air—or rather, a crimson shadow that dissipated upon contact.
William was no longer there. He appeared once beside Jones, then vanished back into the crimson mist. He appeared and disappeared like a nightmare dancing at the edge of one's vision.
Jones's rage grew even more intense. "Are you still toying with me, boy?! Fight for real!"
The only response was silence until a powerful kick slammed into his stomach.
The impact was deafening. His muscular body lifted off the ground as if he were a rag doll with no control.
William didn't stop there. With a single, light push, his body shot into the air. His eyes were cold and unfeeling. His powerful fist, shrouded in a deep red aura, struck Jones's face.
Then another.
And another.
The flurry of attacks came like a meteor shower. From below, the audience could only make out two silhouettes: a lithe, deadly red one and a dull one that seemed to be helplessly being toyed with in the air.
Each of William's blows sparked a faint red light, like a shooting star slicing through the night sky. Some were mesmerized, thinking it was beautiful. But what they were witnessing was the destruction of a man's body, blow after blow.
Finally, William raised his leg high, his black boots shining in the moonlight. With cold, merciless force, he slammed Jones to the ground.
An explosion of dust and cracking ground shattered the silence. Jones's body lay sprawled out, his face shattered beyond recognition. There was no trace left of the pride of a burly man. All that remained was his miserable appearance, like that of rotting fruit that had been trampled.
The watching crowd was stunned. After a moment of silence, whispers broke through the air.
"This boy is truly great! No one can defeat Sir Jones."
"He's a mid-level sentinel, yet he was defeated so quickly. Who exactly is this boy?"
"Is he an official Sentinel? From the Order, perhaps? If so, no wonder."
They crowded closer, their voices mingling with praise, questions, admiration, and fear.
***
The ramshackle tavern was filled with the sounds of clinking glasses, rough laughter, and chairs being carelessly pushed aside. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke and the vapors of cheap liquor hung in the air, suffocating everyone inside. Amidst the din, however, Jones sat slumped and breathing heavily as he stared at his empty wallet.
In contrast, William sat calmly in his chair with his legs crossed and a cool, calm demeanor. He had already consumed ten bottles of wine, yet his eyes remained clear and free of any signs of intoxication. The tavern patrons cheered, applauded, and admired his endurance as if it were impossible.
For William, defeating Jones was merely brief entertainment. More interesting was the vague story spilling from the burly man's mouth about the merchant caravan he had saved from a group of purple-robed kidnappers. It wasn't just a story; it was a valuable piece of information offered without payment.
He leaned back and gazed at Jones as if he were a lord looking down on his slave.
"You said you once saved a merchant caravan from kidnappers. Tell me, what kind of kidnappers were they?" His voice was flat yet heavy with pressure as he took a swig from a new bottle of wine.
Jones, now sitting on the floor like a servant, bowed slightly before answering.
"There weren't many of them. Only five or seven. They all wore purple robes with hoods pulled down over their heads. They moved like shadows; they were truly mysterious." He paused for a moment, then lowered his voice as if replaying a nightmare. "I was escorting the caravan of a wealthy merchant named Sir Hugo. The caravan was traveling along the Golden Triangle Road toward the Kingdom of Dunness. That night, they came. They were silent, and then they attacked. I'd always heard rumors about them, but I never imagined that my own caravan would be the target."
The description brought a vivid image to William's mind: Purple robes. A hood covering her face. It was the same image he had of the purple-robed woman who had attacked him.
"And?" William leaned forward slightly, his eyes curious. "What's so strange?"
Jones swallowed hard before answering.
"The Golden Triangle Path is no ordinary path, boy. It stretches to five great kingdoms: There's Valmorra, home of the Vlorra Forest and Magical Beasts. Sylverne, with its endless rivers and waterfalls; Azhora is fringed by active mountains. Nocturne, a kingdom of steep cliffs and raging seas. Finally, there is Dunness, a kingdom of deadly deserts and dead forests.
He reached for the half-empty bottle of wine sitting on William's table. Without asking permission, he drank its contents. William simply stared at him, too engrossed in the plot that might reveal a secret to interfere.
The Golden Triangle Route was nothing new to William. He knew it stretched through the world's major kingdoms. What intrigued him, however, was not the length of the route but rather the exact point at which the caravans were consistently ambushed and the reason why it always happened at that particular time.
Jones continued his story in a deep voice.
"Sir Hugo's caravans had to pass through the desert, which was the quickest route to the Kingdom of Dunness. However, the desert nights were cursed. The freezing temperatures contrasted with the scorching heat of the day." He took a deep breath, his eyes seemingly looking back at that night. "In the midst of that darkness, seven men in purple robes stood in their way. Only seven, but they wiped out my men. My guards, skilled in martial arts and magic, fell like squished insects. I was the only one left standing. They were truly terrifying. It was like facing a force imbued with dark magic."
William sat relaxed with his chin propped in his palm and stared at the man with interest.
"Then how did you and Sir Hugo's family survive? Isn't that the strangest part of your story?" he asked quietly. His tone was more testy than curious.
Jones tapped his fist on the floor, then adjusted his sitting position. His face tensed, then darkened with a hint of regret.
"I relied not only on brawn," he said, tapping his head with his finger, "but also on brains. However, that decision left a lasting scar. I sacrificed my badly wounded subordinate. He was used as bait. That way, I managed to lead Sir Hugo's family to safety." He lowered his head, his voice trembling slightly. "So, the story that I saved the entire caravan was a lie. I didn't save everyone."
He clenched his hands so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The once bustling tavern suddenly fell silent, as if the story had taken everyone's breath away.
From the corner of the room, an old man wearing a wide-brimmed black hat stepped forward. Disbelief filled his eyes.
"Jones, was everything you said a lie?" he asked hoarsely.
"I never thought you would cover up the truth with lies."
However, instead of curses, another voice rose from the crowd.
"If I were in your position, I wouldn't know what to say either. Who could tell the story of that terrible night without lying just to survive?"
William watched everything silently. He expected Jones to be met with judgment. Instead, he received empathy and a gentle tap on the shoulder, as if the listeners understood the weight of his decision. Jones could only take repeated, deep breaths as if trying to ease the burden weighing on his soul.