Yuhran tried to communicate with them, but quickly realized the distance was a bit too far.
And Miliarde also showed no interest in making a move.
This…
Yuhran gently shook his head, feeling a twinge of regret.
"Forget it. I really can't rely on others. Although the villagers' fate has nothing to do with me, this is a perfect chance to demonstrate power."
He clenched his fist. His knuckles gave off a faint click as strength quietly surged through him.
"Hey, hey—does your village only have this few people?"
A bandit mounted on horseback shouted arrogantly, an extremely contemptuous smile hanging from the corner of his mouth.
As he spoke, he deliberately urged his horse to trample the ground repeatedly, kicking up clouds of dust to show off his so-called dominance.
When he finished, he turned his head.
"Boss, I don't think there's much oil to squeeze out of this place."
The boss—the scarred man—let out a low hm.
Arms crossed, his cold gaze slowly swept over the villagers before him as he said casually:
"If there isn't any, then there isn't any. It's not harvest season yet. Take whatever you can."
With that, he waved his hand at his subordinates, signaling them to enter the village to loot and pillage, leaving only the bare minimum needed to survive.
As seven or eight of them rushed forward, the scarred man suddenly narrowed his eyes.
He had noticed two figures in the crowd that clearly didn't belong.
Pointed ears, and a cloaked figure.
The cloaked one could be ignored.
But those pointed ears…
"An elf?"
The image of a certain race abruptly surfaced in his mind.
To humans, elves were creatures of legend—reclusive, remote, and rarely seen.
He remembered only reading about them in books. To think he'd encounter one here.
—Interesting.
A smile curved at the corner of his mouth. An unexpected bonus.
Step.
He dismounted.
"…You. Go. Tear off that person's cloak."
The scarred man first ordered a capable subordinate to probe Yuhran's identity.
Then he accepted a spiked mace handed over by another lackey and strode forward, preparing to take a closer look at the elf's appearance.
Her head was lowered for now—
If she was ugly, he'd sell her.
If she was beautiful, he'd keep her for himself.
As for whether he could beat her…
He had once been a knight, after all. If he hadn't been caught fooling around with a princess by the king, he wouldn't have been exiled in the first place.
Stopping in front of Miliarde, he lifted his chin slightly and spoke in a commanding tone:
"You. Raise your head."
From beginning to end, the scarred man never once considered the possibility that Miliarde might be a mage.
That profession was simply too rare—across the entire world, only a little over two hundred were known to exist.
He didn't think his luck could be that bad.
As Miliarde slowly lifted her gaze, the scarred man's eyes immediately lit up.
An elf indeed—those legendary beings blessed with long lives and peerless beauty.
"Elf. What is your name?"
He barely managed to suppress the stirring lust in his heart. When he spoke, a mouthful of yellowed teeth was exposed.
The stench of unwashed sweat mixed with alcohol wafted from him, making Miliarde frown instinctively.
Her gaze unconsciously drifted toward Yuhran, and she found herself oddly missing the scent of his shower gel—an unexpected thought that even surprised herself.
Before she could answer, the scarred man impatiently continued:
"I've taken a liking to you. Be my woman."
Thud!
The spiked mace slammed heavily into the ground, smashing out a small crater.
Such a filthy, disheveled man—yet speaking with utter confidence.
Miliarde snapped back to her senses, utterly unable to comprehend it.
Her furrowed brows did not relax. Without hesitation, she replied:
"No. You stink. Can you stay farther away from me?"
She then turned her head slightly, already preparing to use magic to restrain him.
Not just him—all of these bandits.
The moment the scarred man heard her words, his brows knitted into a deep scowl.
Stink? Hmph. What an arrogant woman.
He had originally wanted to show off in front of his men, to demonstrate his authority. Now look at this.
He could practically imagine his subordinates holding back laughter behind him. Letting out a cold snort, he said:
"…An ungrateful wench. In that case, don't blame me for using force."
Scrape—
Metal dragged against the ground with a harsh screech.
He lifted the spiked mace, muscles bulging in his arms, and swung it toward a nearby villager.
Even if he couldn't hurt her directly for the moment, killing these villagers would at least make her pay for her insolence—and let her witness his power.
But just as he swung, before the blow could land, he realized his body wouldn't move.
It was as if his muscles no longer obeyed his brain.
"You—"
Miliarde stood up, brushed off dust that didn't even exist on her clothes, and looked at the scarred man with naked disgust.
This scene instantly put the bandits on high alert.
The capable subordinate who had approached Yuhran had yet to rip off his cloak when he suddenly shouted at Miliarde:
"Hey! What are you doing?!"
On full guard, he swiftly drew the curved blade from his waist.
"Get down right now, or else—"
His hand trembled slightly as he pointed the blade at Yuhran, trying to use him to threaten Miliarde.
—The distance was too great. Normally, when they threatened people, they relied on villagers.
Because humans of this era were too simple. Faced with even a slightly complex moral dilemma, they would cave easily.
But this time, they had clearly misjudged.
The moment his blade was fully drawn, searing pain shot through his wrist.
Clang.
Along with it came the crisp sound of metal hitting the ground.
"Hiss—"
He sucked in a sharp breath, turning his head in disbelief.
The blade had snapped clean in half.
This was a weapon that wouldn't even chip when hacking people apart!
And yet—one strike.
The black rod in Yuhran's hand instantly seized all of his attention.
He stumbled back several steps.
"Y-you…"
Fear flooded his eyes as he swallowed hard, then shouted for help at the top of his lungs:
"Someone—"
Thud!
Yuhran casually thrust forward.
In an instant, the man's words were forcibly cut off.
Both hands flew to his abdomen as blood gushed out. He staggered backward before collapsing to his knees, eyes bulging painfully like a goldfish.
"Too noisy."
The tip of the rebar glistened with dark red. Yuhran rose from a half-crouch.
Free from moral restraints, and beyond the reach of law, a rare flash of exhilaration crossed his eyes.
It was a pure, primal pleasure—the joy of justice being carried out.
"Damn it…"
The scarred man barely turned his head. When he saw the scene, his teeth ground together in rage.
Just a village of fewer than fifty people.
How could this possibly—
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