Chương 30: Application of Violence

Alcyr walked out of the armoury, his mind calmly contemplating murder.

"There are talks that someone in the 4th Regulars is trying to pawn off a strange weapon," the quartermaster had said.

"A dagger with a blade about a forearm's length, and a hue unlike any other metal anyone's ever seen. The rumour started with 3rd Platoon — one of their squads handled the clean-up and corpse retrieval after your duel with Warlord Bjorn. Nothing's confirmed, and it shames me to point fingers at our own, but... you might find your weapon there." His path was clear, then. He had to find members of 3rd Platoon, interrogate them on the location of his dagger, and then retrieve it.

However, if they were bold enough to steal it, then he doubted they would be so inclined to return it when politely asked. But that was fine. He had no intention of simply asking anyway. A theft like this deserved an application of violence. All he had to do now was find the people responsible. He could start by asking the Regulars around the barracks and the mess hall. How hard could it be?

As it turned out: quite hard. First, he tried with a few patrolling Regulars he came across on the way to the barracks.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for—""Shut up, peasant dog. We've got no words for the likes of you." Next, he sought the soldiers lounging in the primary barracks.

"Hello. I apologise for disturbing your rest, but—""Lowborn filth, how dare you walk in here uninvited! Get lost, or we will break your fingers before we toss you out!" Then, finally, the mess hall. He didn't bother with pleasantries this time. He simply barged through the entrance — shouldering through the doors hard enough that they cracked against the walls, drawing everyone's attention — and then announced:"A gold piece to anyone who can tell me where 3rd Platoon is."

Nearly a dozen faces stared at him, some with their mouths still open as they were in the midst of eating. For a few awkward seconds, no one said anything. Then, someone began to laugh. A few others returned to their meals, shaking their heads. Others looked at him pityingly, though — to his surprise — not without some sympathy. One burly Regular — scar-ridden and at least as large as Alcyr — rose from a table of three close to the entrance, where his two other companions were laughing.

"What's a nobody like you looking for those cold-hearted bastards for?" the man sneered.

"You think they will even talk to you? You'll be lucky if they don't take a bite out of you for the trouble."

"Ah, but this stray dog doesn't think he's just a 'nobody', does he?" one of the others drawled. He turned to look at Alcyr.

"Your peasant friend spread your idiotic name around, last he was through here.

'Butcher' was it? Heard you might have clawed your way out of a pig pen. Explains why you don't know to greet your betters before making demands of them." Alcyr ignored the insult. He reached into his pocket and drew out a gleaming gold coin, immediately drawing the attention of everyone in the room again.

"You know where 3rd Platoon is, then?" he asked the man standing before him. The Regular looked at him in disbelief for a moment. Then, he grinned.

"Yeah, I might." Alcyr flicked the coin over to him. The man deftly caught it in his palm, turning it once between his fingers to check the mint mark. Satisfied by its authenticity, he tucked it in his pocket. Another stretch of silence. Some of the soldiers in the mess hall began chuckling again. The Regular standing before him simply raised an eyebrow. Alcyr sighed. One last chance.

"Are you going to answer?" he asked.

"Answer what? I don't know what you are talking about."

"Listen. I—" The Regular swung his fist. Alcyr saw the punch coming a mile away. Even without Combat Sense, he could have easily dodged the blow by simply tilting his head back. He didn't move. Instead, he allowed the strike to land. Blood followed. His blood. Alcyr rocked half a step back. The laughter in the mess hall rose as a sanguine, coppery liquid trickled from his nose and dripped onto the floorboards. The Regular's grin widened into an ugly sneer. It was clear he thought himself superior.

Alcyr, on the other hand… He couldn't help but be disappointed. Slow. Sloppy. Undisciplined. But the worst sin of all… Weak. So, so weak. This is the strength of a Regular? He had let the man land a clean to the head, and all he could do was draw a drop of blood? Well, no matter. It is done. The first punch is thrown, and it was not by me. No one can blame me for what happens next now. The Regular took a step forward. He could feel the soldier's sour breath washed over him, reeking of ale.

"Get lost, peasant dog. Crawl back to whatever hole you came out of. The 4th Regulars have no place for you here." Alcyr did not move. The atmosphere in the room shifted. Some watched the scene with open amusement, others wincing uncomfortably as they braced for a fight. The other two soldiers behind the Regular stood purposefully as well, eyeing Alcyr carefully. He had already read the danger in the room the moment he stepped through the door.

None of the Regulars were heavily armed or wearing armour, since they were off-duty, but all of them carried at least a dagger or a mace at their hip, and all were at least in the Low Elite tier. Aside from the three standing before him, there were at least a dozen other soldiers nearby, watching his next move right now. He was unarmed and outnumbered. More than that, he was still injured, his wounds visible by the bandages wrapped over his arms and neck. Starting a fight here would be foolish.

Even if he won, there would be consequences for his actions. This wasn't the same as starting a tavern brawl in the middle of town; he was risking mutinous conduct in the middle of an ongoing campaign. Alcyr was rational enough to acknowledge this. He took a step back. The Regular grinned, opened his mouth to mock— — and had his front teeth punched out of him as Alcyr's fist smashed into his face. [Sneak Attack has improved to 21] The blow cracked across the mess hall like a thunderclap.

It was unapologetic in its strength and speed. Teeth exploded from the Regular's gums in a spray of red, splattering the ceiling with blood and pieces of shattered enamel as his head snapped back. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. There had been no hesitation, no warning. Alcyr switched from calm to violence in half the span of a heartbeat, leaving the onlookers wide-eyed in shock.

Before the echo of the first punch had even faded, Alcyr had already followed up with a second blow. His fist slammed mercilessly into the side of the Regular's torso, driving deep and hard. There was a sickening, audible crack as multiple ribs gave. The man buckled forward — gasping, spitting blood and teeth fragments onto the floorboard. Alcyr caught his head before he could fall. He then slammed it down, driving it into his own rising knee. There was a horrified wince rippled across the room.

The sound that followed was unholy — cartilage snapping, blood bursting like a popped balloon, and the man's nose caving flat beneath the impact. The Regular's eyes went white. Without even a whimper, he began falling. By the time he hit the ground, he would already be unconscious. One down. Barely a second had passed. Such was the speed and suddenness of Alcyr's brutality that the Regular's other two companions were slow to react.

Seeing them still frozen by shock, Alcyr reached for the dagger strapped to the hip of the falling Regular. He ripped the weapon from its sheath and flung it. The spinning blade embedded itself deep into the palm of one of the other soldiers, burying itself to the hilt and pinning his hand flat to the tabletop. His scream was enough to finally jolt the last unwounded soldier from his stupor. Cursing, he hurriedly reached for his mace at his hip. Slow. Far too slow.

Before he could even pull it clear from his holster, Alcyr had already closed the distance and grabbed the surprised soldier's wrist. He tightened his grip and twisted. Snap. The Regular didn't even have time to register the pain of his broken wrist. Alcyr's fist was already buried in his gut, the meaty punch lifting the man clean off his feet. His eyes bulged, his shout collapsing as a thin, pathetic wheeze. [Unarmed Discipline has improved to 42] Two down. The man crumpled to the floor, retching violently.

Behind him, Alcyr heard the wet tearing of flesh pulling free from wood. There was a desperate roar. The Regular he had pinned with the dagger earlier had pulled the weapon out from his hand and was now charging at him with it. Alcyr channelled Cleave into his finger and swung as he turned. The edge of his hand met the dagger mid-swing and sheared its blade clean in half. The Regular stumbled. He stared at the stub of his weapon, rendered useless by Alcyr's bare hands.

Alcyr took a step forward, and the man took a step back.

"W-wai—" Alcyr didn't bother letting him finish. His fist lashed out like a whip and caught him across the jaw, dislocating it with a wet break. To the soldier's credit, he did not cower. Combat-honed instincts finally kicked in. He lunged with the broken dagger, using what Alcyr guessed was a weapon Arte. He struck to kill, to Alcyr's slight surprise. More annoyed than worried, he tilted his head to the side, moving just enough so that the speeding blade only skimmed past his neck.

He then dropped low, closed the distance, and wrapped both arms around the man's waist. With a sharp twist of his hip, Alcyr heaved. The soldier was hurled upwards like a catapult. His spine met the mess hall's low ceiling with a deafening crack, splintering through the beams and burying him halfway into the timber above. Gravity tore the man free from the shattered wood a heartbeat later. He plummeted for a split second, limbs flailing helplessly.

Alcyr caught him by the torso before he could hit the floor, pivoted on his heel, and — in one powerful motion — slammed the Regular down with brutal, singular force. [New Skill: Grappling 1 (Uncommon)] The impact obliterated the table beneath them, reducing it to a cloud of splinters as the foundations of the mess hall trembled. The wooden floor beneath buckled for a brief moment before it, too, broke under the weight of Alcyr's slam, sending the Regular through the floor and onto the stone below. Three down.

Silence followed, broken only by the rattle of falling splinters and the slow groan of strained timber. Seven seconds. From the first punch to the moment Alcyr put his last victim through the floorboards, only seven seconds had passed. He breathed deep. Under the copper stink of blood, the mess hall still smelt of fresh bread and cooked meat. He was hungry, he realised. He hadn't eaten at all since yesterday. Alcyr walked to another table, unhurried and calm.

Its occupants stumbled back from him, some even toppling out of their chair in their haste to put distance between themselves and the Butcher. Alcyr's hands — knuckles dripping blood; knuckles that had shattered bone mere moments earlier — picked up a meat-filled loaf from a porcelain bowl. He bit into it, tasting the salted meat wrapped within the warm bread. It was better than anything he ate before in the Irregulars.

All those days choking down dry hardtack and stale rations, while their 'betters' feasted like kings each day. All of these luxuries… And the Regulars are still so weak. He had just incapacitated three of them with barely a morsel of resistance. Alcyr had known Irregulars who would have put up a better fight had they been of equal strength. Spoilt. Soft. Though the Regulars were soldiers, they did not suffer as the Irregulars did.

From that fight alone, it was clear to him that these men, while well-trained and highly skilled, lacked the instincts of fighting someone stronger than them.

"Much obliged," Alcyr muttered politely as he finished his bread, flicking a copper coin onto the table. He walked back over to the first Regular, ruffling through the unconscious man's pockets until he found his stolen gold piece — then, after a moment's consideration, took the rest of the man's coin purse as well. The third Regular, still half-buried in the wreckage of the floor, got the same treatment.

Alcyr made sure to first check that the white-eyed man was still breathing — and that their spine wasn't broken — before helping himself to the loot. That left the last of the three and the only one still conscious. The man had violently emptied the contents of his meal earlier, after Alcyr had punched him in his stomach. He now knelt in a puddle of his own bloody vomit, shaking too hard to stand, let alone fight. Alcyr crouched in front of him and grabbed a fistful of hair, tilting the man's face up to meet his.

"Where are the members of 3rd Platoon?" Alcyr asked mildly. The Regular's breathing quickened, coming out in panicked little hitches. His eyes, red-rimmed from retching, failed to meet Alcyr's gaze.

"G-go to hell, you damn—!" Alcyr let go of his hair. A split-second later, his bloody fist crashed into the back of the man's head, driving him face-first into his own crimson spew. More blood drenched his knuckles, thin threads of red stretching between them. The soldier wheezed painfully. He tried to crawl away. Alcyr grabbed his bloodied hair and wrenched him up once more.

"Where are the members of 3rd Platoon?" he asked again, in the same calm tone.

"P-please stop… I don't know… Hrrk!" This time, Alcyr grabbed the man's throat in a vice grip and stood to his feet. With a single arm, he lifted the man bodily off the ground and held him aloft. The Regular started choking, legs kicking at empty air. His broken wrist flopped uselessly as his good hand clawed desperately at Alcyr's forearm, futilely trying to free himself.

"Last chance to talk," Alcyr said, his voice soft.

"Where are the members of 3rd Platoon?" He loosened his grip a little. The Regular answer came out in a shriek.

"I don't KNOW, you crazy bastard! Why would any of us here know anything?! Nobody gets involved with those bloody mutants if they don't have to!" Mutants? Chairs shrieked against floorboards as multiple people finally rose from their seats, weapons already raised.

"Drop him, now!" one of them barked. Alcyr's response was to tighten his grip once more, causing the soldier to start choking again. Slowly, he turned towards the voice. Whenever his gaze passed someone, they would either immediately avert their eyes or stumble back. He wondered how he appeared in their eyes now, whereas before they would not even spare him the slightest shard of respect.

When he finally turned to the soldier who ordered him — an older and more experienced officer, judging by his scars — even that veteran went pale. [Presence has improved to 17]"Do you know where 3rd Platoon is, then?" Alcyr asked.

"Are you mad? What are you even looking for the company's shock troopers for? Those monsters will tear you apart!"

"They took something of mine. A dagger, forearm's length. Its blade has a unique sheen. Have you seen it?" The veteran looked taken aback.

"All this, for a stupid knife?! There are rules here, you animal. The captains will flay you alive for this!"

"They can try. Then I suppose I will have to kill them too." Alcyr tossed the choking Regular aside. The man slammed into the floor, horrid purplish marks already blooming around the flesh of his neck. He wheezed painfully once before passing out.

"I am trying to be reasonable," Alcyr said to the dozen of armed soldiers surrounding him, unbothered by their weapons.

"I am trying to keep my involvement in this company as unobtrusive as I can, to disrupt as little of your insignificant lives as possible. I allow your tongues to insult me, your eyes to scorn my lowborn birth, because frankly, I do not care. But you highborns… You have seen my indulgence as weakness. You have stolen. From me." His voice was measured, unworried — as if his words were not insane. Though his tone never rose in volume, its malign weight was still felt by every living soul in that room.

[Leadership has improved to 15]"The dagger that was taken is very important to me," he continued.

"It is, certainly, more important than my life, or the lives of everyone in this room. If I have to choke every throat here to wrench a single honest word from your lips, I will. Please do not take my words as a jest. I am tired of intrigue, and if you force me to be blunt with my intent again, you will regret it — as these three have so aptly demonstrated." Alcyr gestured to the three bodies at his feet, their blood still dripping from his hands.

"Now, I will ask again, politely. And this time, someone will answer, just as politely." His eyes found the veteran's.

"Where is 3rd Platoon?"

"I will take you to them." It wasn't the veteran officer who answered. Rather, he recognised the voice that spoke. Alcyr turned and nodded at the familiar face, tucked quietly into a corner of the room.

"Lieutenant Vormas," he greeted. The officer who had been part of the convoy ambushed by Warlord Bjorn rose.

"Private Alcyr. Or I suppose I should say 'Cadet', now." Vormas walked over, stepping over the unconscious bodies uneasily.

"Enough. You have made your point. I will take you to 3rd Platoon." Alcyr smiled.

"Lead the way." No one dared move to stop them as they walked out. Behind them, a chunk of the ruined ceiling finally gave out and crashed to the floor. The veteran swore.

"Someone get these three to the infirmary! And find Captain Lenore — tell her the animal she dragged back from the dead is about to get himself torn to pieces!"