Chapter 570 - 505: Crushing, and Then an Inquiry

"All of you, get him! Kill him!"

The leader's roar seemed to break some invisible restraint. The thugs, who had been stunned and terrified, jolted back to their senses.

For a moment, their fear of Ogre's authority overcame their terror of Roland.

"Kill!"

The two closest brutes were the first to react. They exchanged a look, roared to bolster their courage, and charged at Roland from the left and right. Like two heavy chariots advancing side-by-side, they swung a heavy Nail-Head Staff and a Wide-blade War Axe, rushing forward with a vicious, whistling wind.

They relied on a pure Power-crushing approach, their attacks wide and sweeping, attempting to use brute force to cut off Roland's escape.

Yet, Roland didn't even make an obvious move to dodge.

Facing the Nail-Head Staff coming from his left, he simply turned his body slightly. His left hand shot out like a bolt of lightning—not to block, but to hook his fingers precisely around the man's wrist, right over his pulse. With a light squeeze and a twist...

"Aargh!"

The brute felt half his body go numb. His fingers opened involuntarily, and the heavy Nail-Head Staff was no longer his.

In the same instant the Nail-Head Staff fell into Roland's left hand, the War Axe from the right was already cleaving down at his face.

Roland casually lifted his right hand.

"CLANG!"

A clear, ear-splitting shriek of metal on metal!

The War Axe's descent stopped dead.

A layer of dark red Energy, solid as a blood mist yet seemingly flowing and Burning like a slow fire, had appeared over Roland's right hand at some point.

It was a highly condensed form of Fighting Spirit, imbued with scorching battle intent, immense Life Energy, and enhanced by numerous Traits.

The axe blade ground against the layer of blood-colored Energy, sending out a few blinding sparks, but it could not advance a single inch.

The axe-wielding brute's eyes bulged. He pushed down with all his might, the muscles in his arm swelling as if they would burst, but the axe blade remained frozen in mid-air, as if welded in place.

The next moment, the Nail-Head Staff Roland had just seized shot forward like a viper striking from its den. With a dull whoosh, it thrust upward from a vicious angle, slamming into the axe-wielder's unprotected ribs.

"CRACK!"

The distinct crack of bone was followed by the brute's pained grunt. The immense force lifted him off his feet, sending him stumbling backward. The War Axe fell from his grasp.

Without even looking, Roland's right hand swept down and caught the heavy War Axe.

Just then, the first brute—the one whose weapon had been stolen—recovered from the numbness in his arm. Roaring, he swung his other fist.

Roland parried the punch with the Nail-Head Staff in his left hand. At the same time, the War Axe in his right swung out horizontally like a streak of blood-red light.

Before the blade even connected, the condensed Blood-colored Fighting Spirit tore through the air ahead of it.

The brute only had time to cross his arms in front of his chest.

"SCHLICK!"

Blood sprayed.

The War Axe, wreathed in Blood-colored Fighting Spirit, cut through the thin layer of Protective Qi and tough Leather Armor on his burly arms as easily as a hot knife through butter, sinking deep into flesh and bone.

The brute let out a wretched scream and was sent flying by the impact, crashing over two tables before collapsing.

His arm, dripping with blood, was clearly out of commission.

Snatching the staff, parrying the axe, and grievously wounding two men—the entire sequence took no more than a few breaths.

Roland held the Nail-Head Staff in his left hand and the Wide-blade War Axe in his right. The Blood-colored Fighting Spirit flowed over his arms like living Flame.

He didn't break his stride, moving forward as if on a leisurely stroll.

"WHOOSH!"

A poison-tipped Arrow shot silently from the side, aiming from a tricky angle straight for his temple.

The Ranger had finally found his chance to strike.

Without even turning his head, Roland flicked his left wrist. The Nail-Head Staff swung back and tapped lightly, as if it had eyes of its own.

"TING!"

The Arrow was knocked cleanly out of the air and into a nearby wooden pillar, its fletching still quivering.

Meanwhile, Roland had already thrown the War Axe from his right hand.

The War Axe spun through the air with a piercing shriek, leaving a blood-red Residual Shadow in its wake. Like the scythe of the Death God, it flew straight for the Ranger whose position was now exposed.

The Ranger's face went pale. He scrambled to dive out of the way.

"CRUNCH!"

The War Axe embedded itself deep in the edge of the counter where he had been hiding, sending splinters flying.

But Roland's figure had already appeared like a phantom before another thug charging at him with a sword.

This opponent was clearly an Agility-based fighter. His blade flashed like a viper's tongue, striking out with several glints of cold light aimed at the vitals on Roland's chest and abdomen.

Roland thrust the Nail-Head Staff in his left hand forward in a seemingly casual motion—a tap, then a flick.

"CLINK! CLINK! CLINK!"

With a few light sounds, the heavy head of the staff precisely struck the flat of the blade with each thrust. The force was controlled with masterful precision, not only deflecting the attacks but also sending a jarring numbness up his opponent's arm, causing his Sword Momentum to collapse.

His opponent, stunned, was about to switch tactics when Roland closed the distance. Forming a blade with the fingers of his right hand, a crimson light flashed at his fingertips. As fast as lightning, he struck the joint of the man's sword-wielding wrist.

"CRACK!"

With the sound of a shattering wrist bone, the Longsword clattered to the floor.

Roland flicked the Longsword up with his toe and caught it. With a reverse grip, he smashed the pommel hard against the side of the man's neck, knocking him unconscious.

He swapped weapons again, moving the Nail-Head Staff to his right hand and taking the Longsword in his left.

Like a tiger among sheep, or a precision killing machine operating at peak efficiency.

Roland wove through the crowd. With every step, another thug either fell to the ground or was disarmed.

All the while, the weapons in his hands changed constantly.

A seized Short Spear was used as a club to sweep a group of them off their feet.

He picked up a fallen saber and immediately unleashed a flurry of sharp attacks, forcing several men back.

Even a scattered stool became a heavy and deadly weapon in his hands.

He demonstrated the Trait [Body as Martial] to its fullest extent.

Any weapon he picked up felt as if he had practiced with it a thousand times, allowing him to instantly unleash a lethal attack perfectly suited to its nature.

Combined with his unparalleled physical Power and phantom-like speed, the entire tavern hall instantly became his personal stage.

Wails, the clatter of dropped weapons, and the thud of bodies hitting the floor filled the air.

In less than a minute.

When Roland casually tossed a dented Curved Saber to the ground with a soft "CLANG," not a single thug was left standing in the hall.

Amidst the wreckage, bodies lay scattered everywhere, moaning or unconscious. Weapons littered the floor.

Only Roland remained, standing quietly in the center of the hall. His breathing was only slightly labored, and not a single drop of blood stained his clothes.

None of their attacks had even touched the hem of his clothes.

"Now…"

Roland's calm voice broke through the mixture of pained groans and dead silence that filled the tavern.

He walked leisurely to the heavy wooden table that Ogre had occupied moments before. His gaze fell upon the dark, eight-sided die mixed in with the greasy coins.

He then reached out with his slender fingers and gently picked it up.

The Secret Imprisonment Dice felt cool in his hand. A familiar, faint starlight seemed to flow beneath its intricate markings.

Roland weighed it in his palm, then turned and walked slowly toward the rubble in the corner.

His footsteps were clearly audible in the silent hall. Unhurried, yet each one seemed to land in time with a heartbeat.

He walked through the wreckage—the shattered tables and chairs, the scattered weapons, and the thugs writhing or groaning in pain on the floor.

No one dared to block his path. No one even dared to look up at him.

Finally, he stopped in front of Ogre.

The Half-beastman leader, so arrogant just moments before, was now leaning against a shattered cask and the wall, barely able to stand.

His broken left arm hung limply at his side. His face was caked with blood and dust, and his ragged breaths sounded like a broken bellows.

His light brown eyes, which moments ago had been filled with viciousness and cunning, were now fixed on the approaching Roland. They held nothing but trembling Fear, residual fury, and a trace of bewilderment that bordered on a complete breakdown.

Roland leaned down slightly, closing the distance between himself and Ogre.

His Shadow fell over Ogre, completely enveloping the big man's pathetic figure.

His eyes, now back to their deep black color, calmly watched Ogre's pupils constrict with Fear. He then raised the Secret Imprisonment Dice and dangled it before Ogre's face.

"'Boss' Ogre…"

Roland spoke, his voice low but carrying clearly to Ogre's ears.

"Now, can you tell me… where did you get this?"