Chương 31: Obstinance and Escalation

"Do you have any idea what you just did?" Vormas's question had Alcyr raising his eyebrows. The two of them continued walking through the base as they spoke, with the officer leading the way.

"You didn't think I had walked in that mess hall without a plan, did you, sir?"

"You don't have to call me 'sir' anymore. Everyone here is at least a lieutenant or a cadet officer. You're a Regular now; My rank is nothing special."

"Very well. I will call you Vormas, then." The lieutenant sighed.

"Never mind that. That fight — you had it planned from the start? In front of everyone? Are you insane?"

"Everything went as expected." Alcyr shrugged.

"The situation was carefully controlled. I held back."

"How was that holding back?!"

"For one, none of them died, are at risk of death, or have suffered permanent injuries. All in all, an outstanding outcome."

"You can't be…" Vormas seemed lost for words.

"By the Twelve, you are being serious. You actually think that was an acceptable level of violence."

"I think if I had held back any more, the other Regulars would not have regarded me as a proper threat," Alcyr replied mildly.

"Then, instead of three, I would have to fight off the entire room, and that would have necessitated, in your words, an unacceptable level of violence."

"If that's the case, what was that just now about you threatening to kill them?"

"Empty words. Intimidation. I'm sure they will get over it. No one could possibly think I was sincere." Vormas stared at him.

"Alcyr, I can say without a shadow of a doubt they believed you. I have faced armed berserkers screaming for my head who were less sincere with their threats than you were with yours just now."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a— Never mind…" Alcyr chuckled a little.

"Relax. I am not a fool. Believe me when I say that the fight was not an impromptu decision, nor were my threats hastily spoken without deliberation to their potential consequence." Alcyr had anticipated friction with the Regulars when he first set out from the armoury. Their blue-blooded nature — even if they carried only a weaker strain of noble blood — meant they would definitely look down on a lowborn peasant like him. Such things were expected. Such was the norm.

It could not even be counted as disrespect; it was the way society operated. In a world of bloodlines and Mysteries — where power was decided at birth — why would a noble ever treat a peasant with dignity? It was the same everywhere. A disdainful glare, a demeaning chuckle — all of it said the same thing without a single word wasted:"You are beneath the effort of my attention." So, then, in Alcyr's eyes, the solution was simple. He had to make himself worth their attention.

And what easier way to do that than to beat them bloody with his fists? Some would argue this would negatively affect his already fragile standing with the 4th Regulars, and there was merit in that. However, in that mess hall earlier, while there were many who had been insulted by his audacity, there had been those who were awed or intimidated instead. If I cannot have their respect, then I will settle for their fear.

Ultimately, violence got what he needed where politeness kept failing: a lead to the location of his dagger.

"Where are we going?" Alcyr asked Vormas.

"The drake pens. How much do you know of 3rd Platoon? Or the 4th Regulars' military structure, in general."

"Ten soldiers a squad, five squads a platoon, and ten platoon a company," Alcyr recited.

"It's the same as an Irregular company, though for the Regulars, each soldier holds an officer or cadet rank, minimum. Most soldiers would be lieutenants, while those that lead the ten platoons would be captains."

"Correct. But while the overall structure is similar, the soldiers are less… Well, less treated evenly here. Not everyone is a drake rider, for example. Only 1st to 4th Platoon get access to drakes." Alcyr huffed.

"Just say it plainly. It's favouritism. I'm not ignorant of how the noble courts operate. This is the 4th Regulars' way of slotting those with more influential blood into safer, more prestigious positions." Vormas sighed.

"Overly blunt, as always. But yes. Those within the 1st to 4th Platoons consist of those who hold stronger and purer bloodlines. But the structure is not entirely without sense. Our strengths are not equal; those with power deserve better treatment." And those without are to be tossed aside. Despite occupying society's upper echelons, bluebloods were a lot more common than one might think.

Given how essential Mystery-holders were to a kingdom's strength and stability, the nobility were encouraged — or, in the cases of more powerful bloodlines, even forced — to produce as many children as possible. Naturally, only a handful of those children could inherit the family's true legacy. A distant seventh or eighth heir might never receive a meaningful share of the House's wealth or authority, but noble blood alone was enough to guarantee a good life.

Their lineage would awaken at least a minor Mystery, placing them well above the peasantry in terms of strength and standing. The 4th Regular itself was likely filled with such lesser bluebloods — nobles by birth, but of thinner blood, and thus far removed from the prestige enjoyed by the 'true' lords and ladies in the capital. To the head of their families, they were seldom remembered as sons or daughters. It would be more apt to call them assets, to be spent where the House deemed them most useful.

Perhaps their arrogance towards the Irregulars stemmed from this unapologetic neglect: a desperate need to validate their superiority after their families had so clearly judged them inferior. But even a minor Mystery is powerful enough to propel a noble easily to the Elite tiers, whereas a peasant without a Mystery would require a lifetime to do so. Their arrogance, then, was not entirely without merit — even if that 'merit' was one they inherited rather than earned.

"The members of the 3rd Platoon, are they drake riders as well?" Alcyr asked.

"Is that why they are so feared?"

"Not exactly." Vormas grimaced.

"The 3rd Platoon consists of former drake riders. Ones who have lost their mount. The death of a drake reflects poorly on the rider if he survives and usually means a demotion. But there is an alternative option for those who desperately wish to retain their higher status." Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. The person in the mess hall just now mentioned mutations… Vormas pointed at his heart, visibly uncomfortable.

"The rider agrees to a heart transplant — a transplant involving their deceased drake's heart, assuming it's still intact. If successful, the soldier undergoes radical changes. Powerful changes." Monstrous changes. An old memory stirred.

"Draconic properties. A sliver of old divinity, forced upon a human body," Alcyr muttered. He chuckled to himself.

"Not quite like the Dragon Knights of legend. More of a mockery than anything. But still, I can see the benefits."

"New skills, as a start. Draconic Senses, Monstrous Strength, Body Modification. All in the Rare tier." Vormas paused.

"I heard rumours one of them even received a Mystery once. His heart came from a particular ancient drake."

"But there are severe drawbacks to such a surgery. Mental instability, uncontrollable mutations, and an inability to consume anything but raw meat, as a start." Alcyr hummed. More importantly, it would require a physician of immense skill to perform such an operation.

"Yes. How did you know?" Vormas looked at him curiously.

"Have you seen such cases before?" Alcyr didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "Can you lend me your knife?"

"... Dare I even ask what you plan to do with it?" He shrugged.

"If I get into another fight again, it will be cleaner than using my fist."

Minutes later, the drake pens came into sight. Few of the roosts were occupied; only a handful of drakes were left in the base. Most of those capable of fighting were out in the fields. Those that were still around were either resting or too wounded to fight. Handlers tended to the beasts. A few of them glanced at Alcyr's way, but most ignored him.

"Not all of 3rd Platoon will be here," Vormas said.

"Most are still fighting in the fields. But I heard a few of them returned about two days ago to rest and rearm before heading out again. They might still be around."

"Good." Without seeking permission, Alcyr immediately strode through the gates. Nearby, the drakes collectively reared their heads, glaring at the brazen intruder who just entered their territory uninvited.

"What are you doing?!" Vormas cried out, hurriedly rushing in to stop him.

"You can't just walk in like that! Let me talk to the soldiers first and bring them out!"

"No need. My way is faster."

"Are you deliberately being dense?!" Alcyr raised an eyebrow.

"I already beat three men unconscious with my bare fists in the mess hall earlier. Why would you think I would even try the subtle approach now?" Whatever baffled reply Vormas had ready died in his throat when they both heard footsteps closing in, boots moving fast and heavy. Trouble. Alcyr's fingers found the knife hidden in his pocket. Vormas tensed. One of the drake handlers had broken from the line of pens.

His cloak was marked with the sigil of the 4th Regulars, trimmed in a deep blue that caught the light like polished steel. Alcyr could see the hints of drake-scale armour beneath. Not just a Regular, this one. A rider? His gaze flicked over Alcyr once, arrogant and dismissive, before snapping to Vormas.

"What is this?" the rider demanded.

"You brought a lowborn stray through my pens? Are you mad, Vormas?" Vormas kept his tone composed.

"We're just passing through. There's no need to—""You allowed a peasant to lay his eyes on my drakes," the rider snapped, stepping closer. Alcyr noted the short sword sheathed at the rider's waist — a gladius — as well as the unarmoured points of the man's neck, armpits, and hands.

"I should gouge out one of his eyes and feed it to the beasts as recompense for the offence. Then maybe I'd blind his other eye by letting them spit into it, to teach him his proper place." I could kill him. The murderous thought arrived without warning. Alcyr attempted to calm himself, but there was not much to calm. His heartbeats were already steady. The grip he had on the hidden blade was loose. His thoughts were unclouded by fear or rage as he evaluated the fastest way to kill the man.

His mind remained rational… but something in his blood thrummed for violence. De-escalate, he told himself. You are already in enough trouble without adding more to the pile. Unlike the mess hall, a fight here serves no purpose. We already have the information we need, and this man is not who we seek. With all this in mind, Alcyr exhaled and attempted to calm the situation.

"I apologise for disturbing your warbeast. Just direct us to the members of 3rd Platoon, and we'll—" The rider backhanded him. It was not a soft blow. It carried the uncompromising strength and speed of a High Elite. There was easily enough force in that fist to kill a man. The sound of the impact echoed loudly across the clearing. [Blunt Resistance has improved to 22] And yet, Alcyr did not fall. He did not even take a step back. The rider looked momentarily surprised — he had not held back on that swing.

An Irregular might have died from that; Even a Regular should have been flung back with a broken jaw. The rider soon regained his sneer.

"Peasants aren't allowed to speak," he said, voice heavy with contempt. He then turned to Vormas.

"Train your lowborn serfs better, convoy officer. I still remember the annoyance of that 'storyteller' you dragged to our camp. At least instill in them the value of keeping their mouths shut when in the presence of their betters." Vormas was staring at him, eyes wide and speechless. The rider frowned.

"What?" Something dripped at his feet. A sharp, coppery scent reached his nose. The rider looked down. A knife had been driven clean through his hand — the same hand he'd used to strike Alcyr earlier. The blade's point was protruding from the back, the hilt buried deep enough that it kissed his palm. The Regular hadn't even felt it — Alcyr had stabbed him the moment he moved to hit him.

"What?" The rider gasped. He looked up. His nose shattered as Alcyr punched him square in the face. [Sneak Attack has improved to 22] To the Regular's credit, he moved back immediately, blurring with speed. To retreat that quickly, his Movement levels must have been quite commendable. It didn't matter. Alcyr was upon him before he even finished taking a step back, driving his bare heel down on the Regular's iron-capped boot. The reinforced metal snapped.

Alcyr felt the boot's protection utterly give way to his bare-footed stomp. The Regular screamed as his toes were crushed to paste.

"You damn peasant! I'll kill you!" He drew the gladius at his waist. It was a lightning-fast draw, perhaps enhanced by some skill or Arte. That was his biggest mistake. The sound of drawn steel was the last thing the rider would hear that day. The rasp of the blade caused Combat Sense to kick in. Alcyr casually took a step back, avoiding the deadly slash that would have sliced through his neck, before driving his knuckles right for the space between the Regular's eyes. Soft bones crunched under the fist.

The Regular's sword slipped from numbed hands as its owner collapsed. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he hit the ground. [New Skill: Dodge Counter 1 (Uncommon)] Alcyr blinked. A look of surprise and irritation replaced his deadly expression when he saw the System notification. A counter skill? Why are you only giving this to me now? This would have been incredibly useful back in the last loop! Alas, the System offered no reply. Alcyr sighed. He looked down on the rider.

"I suppose I should apologise for using excessive force, but my patience for highborn arrogance has rather reached its limit today." The rider did not respond. He was out cold — nose, eyes, and right palm bleeding. He didn't look like he was breathing. Alcyr turned to Vormas.

"He's not dead, is he? He's a drake rider. You just told me they were supposed to be tougher than this." Before the baffled lieutenant could find the proper words to respond, a shriek tore through the air behind them. One of the drakes within the roost smashed its way free of its pen. Its slanted, golden eyes were furious. Venomous spit dripped from its fang maw as its murderous gaze fixed upon Alcyr.

"Why is it looking at me like that?" he asked.

"You fool!" Vormas said, voice cracking in alarm.

"You just wounded its rider right in front of it!"

"So it's angry. Can't one of the other handlers calm it down?"

"That's Keagar's drake." He panickedly pointed towards the unconscious Regular on the ground.

"Only a rider can calm their own enraged drake. And you just knocked him out!" The creature roared — a bestial, guttural sound, conjured in the chest of a draconic monster who hailed from a line of legendary beasts. It was the rolling sound of thunder and fire, a primal rupture that tore through the air.

It was not a true dragon, but the sound made Alcyr's human heart race all the same, for the fear of those ancient sky gods still remained in the bones of all living creatures, even ten thousand years after the Heavens fell. Alcyr realised he was smiling. His foot hooked under the discarded gladius in the sands and kicked it up to his waiting hand.

"Vormas," he calmly said.

"Please fetch the members of 3rd Platoon; tell them the company is about to lose one of their precious lizards if they don't hurry here immediately." They won't punish me if I kill it in self-defence, right? He could not hear the officer's reply over the monster's shriek. The moment the drake surged forth, Alcyr eagerly charged to meet it.