Chapter 271 Sarcasm, Humanoids

Xia Nan hadn't deliberately hidden his presence.

After assessing the situation inside, he simply shifted to a spot that offered a better view of everyone through the shattered wooden door.

Because of that, the captain of the Bloodedge Squad, Marcus, managed to catch a glimpse of that sharp, twin-sword-bearing figure standing among the crowd.

His wary gaze met those pitch-black eyes, deep as a secluded forest pool, before breaking away an instant later.

"Gorg, I told you to stop. Are you deaf?!"

Spinning around, Marcus barked at the half-orc beside him, whose lustful intentions were still fixated on the young girl in the hidden compartment, his tone exceptionally harsh.

Unsure of what had just happened, Gorg regained a sliver of rationality. His captain's uncharacteristically abrupt reaction, combined with the authority Marcus had built through sheer brutality, managed to pierce through the lust that had nearly consumed the half-orc.

"Boss, but—"

His massive, light-green body froze awkwardly in place, a confused and irritable grumble rumbling in his throat.

"I said, back off."

Marcus lowered his voice even further, yet it struck Gorg's ears with an unquestionable, oppressive weight.

His low growl was filled with deep reluctance. Bound by his obedience to the squad captain—an obedience forged by violence and survival instincts—the half-orc's chest heaved violently. His breath rasped like a bellows as he shot a vicious glare at the young girl ahead, who was nearly scared unconscious.

Only then did he turn on his heel as if venting his frustration. He stomped over to the cupboard, substituting feeding for breeding to fill the gnawing desires in his heart.

Stepping forward with the twin scimitars at his waist, Marcus shoved aside the equally startled mountain dwarf, Stonebelly, then bent down, grabbed the girl by the collar, and dragged her straight out of the hidden compartment.

In front of everyone, he marched right up to Village Chief Clapham and tossed the shivering girl directly at him.

"You're Clapham, right?"

The hideous scar on his face looked like a writhing, living thing in the flickering light of the villagers' torches. Marcus rested his right hand on the hilt of his blade. His tone was even, yet an intentionally suppressed, roiling brutality could be felt beneath it.

With the ruffian standing right in front of him, the old man trembled. Forcing his nearly paralyzed body to move, he shakily shuffled a few steps forward.

"M-My lord—"

"Listen up, old man. We aren't here to slaughter the village."

The statement slipped from Marcus's mouth in an icy tone. He didn't even look the so-called "village chief" in the eye; instead, his gaze swept rapidly over the crowd once more, brushing past that dark, fiercely imposing figure.

"We're just passing through. We need a place to rest and restock some supplies."

He cracked his neck uncomfortably, seemingly unused to speaking to commoners with this kind of attitude.

At the same time, he held up two fingers, gesturing right in Clapham's face.

"A place to spend the night, and enough provisions for the few of us to eat and drink our fill."

"Also, we'll leave as soon as the sun comes up tomorrow. Keep an eye on these mud-legged hicks of yours. Stay quiet, and don't cause any trouble."

Hearing this, Clapham's head snapped up, his face filled with disbelief.

The sudden turn of events made the elderly village chief think he had misheard. He subconsciously looked at the man's ferocious face in the firelight, trying to find a trace of mockery or jest.

Instead, he found only an unusual wariness and dread. Even the muscles in the man's arms were tight, ready to exert force at a moment's notice.

Clapham's heart suddenly skipped a beat. As if remembering something, a spark of something called "hope" quietly ignited in his chest.

"Yes, my lord. I will certainly keep them in line. We will absolutely not disturb you!" he immediately promised aloud.

In response, Marcus merely waved his hand in extreme impatience, his tone carrying an almost charitable "magnanimity."

"Have everything ready before dawn! Meat, bread, and clean water! Don't try any tricks!"

With that, he abruptly turned around and took large strides back to the wooden chair in the living room. He sat down heavily, as if conversing for a second longer would cause him physical pain.

Staring blankly as the vicious figure disappeared behind the doorframe, Clapham's previously straight posture suddenly slumped. His already exhausted face looked even older, and sweat had thoroughly soaked the back of his shirt.

"Tom, how is Abel doing?"

He asked with concern, inquiring about the injuries of the man of the house, who had been sent flying out of the cabin by a slap from the half-orc.

Only after hearing that Abel was fine and had merely passed out briefly did he breathe a sigh of relief. He then waved Mike over from the crowd.

"I still have some cured meat in my house. Come by and take it later. Then head to the village storehouse and fetch some dry rations. Bring it all over in the ox cart, and I'll deliver it to them."

Seeing Mike nod, he turned to the terrified woman being consoled by the village wives and the pale, sobbing young girl. "You two from Abel's family, I recall there's an empty house on the east side of the village. Settle them in there."

"Remember what that adventurer lord just said. Don't come near here."

"We'll talk about everything else tomorrow. Everyone, disperse."

Having witnessed the entire scene and seeing Clapham make all the necessary arrangements, the villagers—who had been drawn over by the commotion—naturally didn't dare to stick around for the sake of their own lives.

They helped Tom and the others carry the unconscious, injured Abel on their backs, intending to take him back home for treatment.

Clapham turned his head from side to side, searching for the young figure who hadn't outwardly intervened, yet had very likely changed that vicious adventurer's mind. He wanted to represent the village and Abel's family to express his gratitude in person.

But all that greeted his eyes was a patch of silent darkness.

Giving up helplessly, he figured he could only wait until dawn to bring Abel's family over to thank him in person.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

In the dead silence of the room, the faint sound of fingertips tapping against a blade hilt echoed through the air at a rapid, heartbeat-like rhythm.

Marcus sat in his chair with his eyes closed. Even without any other obvious movements, the irrepressible irritation radiating from him was palpable.

The half-orc, Gorg, resembled a beast forcibly restrained by a leash. He paced anxiously back and forth across the room, occasionally glancing at his captain. His heavy, panting breaths were exceptionally grating.

The mountain dwarf, Stonebelly, cowered in a corner. He appeared to be taking inventory of the valuables he had looted from the house, but his beady, gleaming eyes secretly sized up the two men in front of him.

The tall and slender ranger leaned against the window, her arms crossed over her chest in silence.

This eerie silence didn't last long.

Gorg finally couldn't hold back anymore.

With a suppressed, beast-like guttural growl, he violently took two steps forward, his heavy footfalls threatening to crack the floorboards.

A massive shadow instantly enveloped Marcus as he sat in the wooden chair. However, deterred by the captain's prestige within the squad, the half-orc didn't dare get too close. He stopped three paces away.

Drool on his tusks reflected a viscous glint in the fireplace's glow. A thick, foul-smelling breath washed over the ferocious man's face.

"Boss!" The half-orc's voice exploded in the room like muffled thunder. "Why?! Why wouldn't you let Gorg touch that little human wench?!"

His massive, calloused hands clenched in the air, veins bulging on the back of his hands as if he were crushing something into dust.

"Gorg has the biggest fists! They belong to Gorg! Whoever dares to steal them, Gorg will smash them into meat paste!"

He grew more agitated as he spoke, spittle raining down. His thick Iron-Studded Wooden Club was subconsciously gripped tighter, letting out a dull creak.

Seeing this big idiot stick his neck out, the dwarf watching from the sidelines took the opportunity to lean in.

Naturally, he didn't dare to ask in a questioning tone like Gorg. Instead, he rubbed his filthy palms together and deliberately put on a greasy, affected expression of confusion.

"That's right, Captain."

"We've all been walking in the woods for days. We finally run into a little village, and you won't even let the brothers have a taste of meat. Won't you suffocate this brute?"

As he spoke, he carefully observed Marcus's expression.

He had long since prepared to change his tune; the moment the captain showed even a hint of impatience, he'd pivot straight into "then again."

Of course, he didn't have the kindness to actually think of the half-orc. The reason he asked was twofold: on one hand, although this Ash Valley Village wasn't large, the combined wealth of every household should still net him a rather lucrative sum.

On the other hand, even by dwarf aesthetic standards, the women in the village couldn't be called pretty, but with the moral conscience of adventurers like them, he certainly wouldn't mind venting his pent-up urges on those commoners.

Faced with their questions, Marcus didn't answer.

His eyes remained shut. The fingers tapping his blade hilt pressed down viciously, the tips turning white from the sheer force.

An extreme, suppressed brutality spread from his body like a physical cold current, causing the half-orc, who was standing closest, to subconsciously take two steps back. 'How could I explain it?'

'Should I say I was cowed by some young punk from who knows where?'

And right at the edge of this suffocating, heavy eruption...

An incredibly clear sneer, completely undisguised in its sarcasm, abruptly sounded from by the window, instantly drawing the attention of the dwarf and the half-orc.

"Heh."

Ciri, the Bloodedge Squad's only ranged archer, leaned against the wooden wall with a deeply mocking smirk on her lips.

Her gaze first landed on the half-orc's fleshy, pale-green, idiotic face.

"Gorg, can that walnut-sized brain of yours fit anything other than gluttony and mating?"

"Sometimes I really doubt your so-called 'half-orc' lineage. Did some goblin blood get mixed in there? After all, you're both green-skinned; no one would be able to tell."

"Smash them into meat paste with one club? Use that little inbred brain of yours and think carefully. Would our 'Alpha Wolf' show mercy to those mud-legged hicks outside for no reason?"

Gorg whipped his head around, his yellowish-brown fangs tightly clenched as he growled in the woman's direction.

"Gro-lak!" he swore in Orcish. "Ciri, you're courting death!"

Turning a blind eye to his threat, the ranger shifted her disdainful gaze to the bewildered and uncertain dwarf, Stonebelly.

"And you, short-stack with a mind even smaller than your body. Do you think everyone is like you, only staring at the trash in front of you? It's nothing but moldy coppers and women's skirts with you."

Ciri suddenly took a step forward. Her fair, delicate face bore a subtle expression—a blend of sarcasm and irritation.

"Why the sudden display of 'mercy'? Why not take a bite of the fat meat delivered right to our mouths?"

The heavy, mocking smile on her lips grew even more pronounced as she enunciated every word, "Because our 'Alpha Wolf,' our great captain—"

"Is sca~red~"

"Enough!"

Marcus's voice finally rang out. There was no anger in those eyes, slanted by the hideous scar; there was only icy killing intent firmly locked onto the tall, mocking figure by the window.

"Watch your tongue, Ciri. I wouldn't mind if the squad set off tomorrow with one less person."

"As you command, my Captain."

The sneer on her lips didn't vanish; instead, it grew a fraction deeper.

Knowing that the man's patience had reached its limit, the ranger said no more. She merely tilted her head, casting her gaze into the dark night outside the window.

"There's nothing much to say. Besides us, there's another group of adventurers in the village."

Marcus looked at the half-orc and the dwarf, offering an ambiguous explanation.

"Striking blindly will only expose our squad to their sight and trigger an unnecessary battle."

"Hold it in for a few more days. Once we reach Vergrove and Molten Scale Town, the taverns and brothels there will be enough for you to play around."

"As for right now—shut the fuck up and sleep! We set out at dawn. If anyone dares to delay even a second, I'll chop off one of their fingers!"

Xia Nan decided to temporarily spare the lives of these four "humanoid goblins."

He never considered himself a particularly kind person, nor would he put himself in danger out of some inexplicable bout of goodwill.

But to be honest, he had interacted quite a bit with the villagers in Ash Valley Village these past few days. Regardless of their true nature, they had at least been honest and warm in front of him.

Just stepping aside to let someone pass was something the villagers would boast about for a long time. After learning from Tom's family that he enjoyed good food, various expensive ingredients—things ordinary villagers could only afford to eat once a year—were forcefully gifted to him every single day.

He had a good impression of the people of Ash Valley Village.

With that as a premise, when Xia Nan watched from the crowd as the half-orc tossed an innocent farm wife into the throng, and demanded the village chief offer up the prettiest young girl in the village...

Stemming from his own normal worldview, an inexplicable emotion had welled up in his heart.

He was an adventurer himself, and the countless days and nights spent in tavern halls made him acutely aware of reality.

If he didn't intervene, he knew exactly what kind of tragedy would unfold in this remote little village.

Just one night.

It would only take a single night for this village, painstakingly built by countless generations, to be reduced to yet another nameless ruin swallowed up by the kingdom's history.

In truth, he had already prepared himself for battle.

The human female ranger with the longbow in the room was his primary target. Armed with [Fang Hunt] and [Gravity Control], he was confident he could eliminate this troublesome backline asset the moment the fight broke out.

Next was that greedy mountain dwarf. Although his movements and build resembled a Rogue, his weapon was a double-edged great axe almost as long as he was tall. He might possess some unorthodox class, making him worthy of a [Gravity Etching] to eliminate any future trouble.

The scarred, short-haired middle-aged man wielding twin blades appeared to be the leader. His strength was likely the highest in the squad, but his aura was far weaker than Trevelyan and Lawson from back then. His Class Level shouldn't be too high; he was within manageable limits.

As for the last one, the big, idiotic half-orc—he was the exact type most heavily countered by Xia Nan's combat style. Chopping off his head in passing would be enough. He wasn't worth worrying over.

These thoughts drifted through his mind, and his killing intent flared abruptly when they discovered the young girl hiding in the secret compartment and were about to abuse her.

But to his surprise, the leader's Perception was rather decent, allowing him to sense his presence.

He was also quite perceptive of the situation and immediately stopped the half-orc's actions.

He even took the initiative to express his squad's stance through Village Chief Clapham: "We will leave first thing tomorrow morning. We won't stay, and we absolutely won't cause trouble." As such, considering that their numbers were indeed four times his own, their exact strength was unclear, and they hadn't actually killed a single villager...

If he were to force a battle when the other party had already clearly expressed their intent to retreat, the crossfire would inevitably affect the surrounding villagers, violating his original intention of protecting the village in the first place.

Therefore, he chose to let them off the hook for now.

He would wait until the squad left the village tomorrow morning before deciding whether to strike.