Thomas POV
"I was wondering what all the commotion outside was about," a voice dripped with disdain, echoing through the grand hall. "Who would have thought I'd find two rats scurrying around?"
Thomas lifted his gaze. At the top of the sweeping central staircase stood one of the Cutpurses' elite guards, his eyes fixed upon them like a predator sizing up its prey.
Despite Thomas's own considerable height and muscular build, the guard was somehow even more imposing. He exuded raw power, with arms as thick as oak trunks and a stance that radiated authority and unshakable confidence. Clad in rugged leather armor adorned with chains wrapped around his forearms, he cut an intimidating figure. A black fur cloak draped over his shoulders, its edges brushing against the floor like the dark wings of some mythical beast. The flickering light from a few enchanted lamps cast shadows across his face, highlighting sharp, almost feral eyes that gleamed with a predatory thirst.
"Which of you wants to face me first?" the guard challenged, extending a massive hand toward them in a mocking invitation to combat.
A sliver of apprehension wormed its way into Thomas's gut. It had been a long time since he'd fought another human—a true combatant capable of strategy and cunning. In recent years, his battles had been against goblins and other mindless creatures, foes that didn't compare to a sentient, skilled opponent. He cast a glance at Jamie, his new friend and, ostensibly, his employer. The bard was nearly a head shorter and of slighter build. Thomas couldn't imagine how someone so diminutive could assist in a fight like this.
'It's time to prove my worth,' Thomas thought, steeling himself.
"Jamie, you go on ahead," he said aloud, infusing his voice with confidence he didn't entirely feel. "I'll take care of him."
He half-expected Jamie to argue, but the bard merely shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that belied the tension in the air. Without a word, Jamie strode forward, passing the guard as if he were nothing more than a mere obstacle in his path. The guard didn't move to stop him, his gaze remaining locked on Thomas.
"He'll meet my brother soon enough," the guard said, a sinister smile playing on his lips. "So let's focus on just the two of us."
Without warning, he lunged down the stairs with surprising speed for someone of his size. His fist came crashing toward Thomas with the force of a battering ram. Thomas raised his arms in a defensive cross, absorbing the blow but feeling the shockwave reverberate up to his shoulders.
'No rules,' Thomas reminded himself, gritting his teeth. 'It's like the street fights of old. I need to take him down fast.'
The guard pressed his advantage, launching a flurry of powerful strikes. Each movement was precise yet brutal, aiming to overwhelm rather than outmaneuver. Chains clinked ominously with each swing of his arms, the metal glinting in the low light.
The opponent offered Thomas no respite, pressing the assault relentlessly and leaving him no opportunity to counterattack or even draw his short sword. If it wasn't a barrage of punches and kicks, it was the sheer force of the guard's massive arm sweeping toward him, each swing powerful enough to shove him backward.
During one such onslaught, Thomas swiftly ducked, causing the guard's fist to crash into the wall instead of connecting with his skull. Expecting a momentary advantage as his foe recoiled in pain, Thomas was stunned when, instead, the guard's fist punched clean through the thick wooden wall, splintering it as if it were mere parchment.
'By the gods,' Thomas thought, his heart pounding in his chest. 'No wonder my arms are going numb—this guy is a monster.'
Every attack he dodged resulted in more of the mansion's interior being destroyed. Walls cracked, staircases splintered, and furniture was reduced to shards under the guard's unbridled fury. Yet despite the chaos, the guard showed no sign of slowing or reducing his strength.
To make matters worse, chains were wrapped around the guard's forearms, allowing him to deflect Thomas's strikes with ease whenever a rare opening presented itself. Each time Thomas thought he might press an advantage, the chains would block his strikes, forcing him back on the defensive.
Even so, Thomas remained resolute. With each passing moment, he started to notice the strain beginning to show on the guard's face—the flush of exertion, the sheen of sweat on his brow. The man's breathing grew heavier, his attacks fractionally slower.
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'Sooner or later, he'll have to catch his breath,' Thomas reassured himself, patiently awaiting the right moment.
That moment arrived sooner than expected. Four more thunderous blows, and the guard's punches became sluggish, his movements more exaggerated and easier to anticipate.
'Now!' Thomas seized the opportunity. He lunged forward, extending his right hand in a precise strike that connected squarely with the guard's chin. The impact was so well-timed and forceful that it sent his opponent crashing to the floor almost instantly.
"Curse you," the guard spat, his voice echoing loudly through the ravaged hall.
Wasting no time, Thomas drew his short sword from his belt and advanced on the fallen enemy. Victory seemed within reach. However, just as he readied his blade to deliver the finishing blow, a guttural roar erupted from the guard, the sound reverberating off the walls and sending a shiver down Thomas's spine.
[Roar]
A primal fear gripped him. 'This is where having a proper class makes all the difference,' Thomas berated himself. He shouldn't have given his opponent the chance to use one of his abilities. 'All I have is the [Farmer]. How am I supposed to contend with a [Barbarian]?'
While Thomas was still trembling from the effects of the roar, the guard pulled a small warhammer from his back. Its handle was short, but the weapon appeared heavy. "If you're going to use a weapon, it's only fair that I use one too." The guard spoke fiercely.
Thomas would have liked to comment that the chains were already a weapon, but the effect had not yet worn off.
The guard lunged forward, his warhammer sweeping in a wide arc. Thomas, finally free from the effect of [Roar], dodged the initial swing, narrowly avoiding the deadly momentum of the massive weapon. Each time he tried to counterattack, the barbarian expertly deflected his short sword with the head of the warhammer, using its weight to push Thomas's blade aside and close the distance between them.
A change had come over the guard since their bout began. The earlier reckless aggression was replaced with calculated, measured strikes. Thomas recognized the shift immediately. 'He's trying to corner me,' he realized. Each blow drove him closer to the walls of the grand hall, limiting his room to maneuver.
The mansion bore the scars of their battle—tapestries torn, furniture shattered, and walls marred by heavy impacts. Thomas's breathing quickened as he found himself with his back nearly against the cold stone. 'I could try to run, find another room to regroup,' he thought, but the guard seemed to anticipate every move, cutting off any possible escape routes.
'If only I had a better class,' Thomas lamented inwardly. 'If I weren't a mere [Farmer], I might stand a chance.' Frustration bubbled within him, but he pushed it aside. There was no time for self-pity.
The barbarian raised his warhammer high, preparing a crushing vertical strike. With no other option, Thomas braced himself, bringing his short sword up to parry. The impact rattled his entire arm, pain shooting through his wrist as the sheer force nearly tore the weapon from his grasp.
"Blast! I can't keep this up," Thomas muttered through gritted teeth, watching as the guard prepared for another attack. Desperation clawed at him. He summoned all his strength, raising his sword once more in a shaky defense. 'Julie!' His daughter's image flashed in his mind, fueling his determination.
But the expected blow never came.
Breathing hard, Thomas glanced up to see the guard's expression shift from fierce concentration to one of stunned surprise. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of the guard's mouth, and his grip on the warhammer slackened. Protruding from his abdomen was the tip of a blade.
The guard staggered, and as he collapsed to his knees, Thomas caught sight of Jamie standing behind him. The bard's dagger gleamed crimson in the dim light, and he wore a slightly exasperated expression, one hand on his hip.
"Finished with your 'go on ahead, I'll handle him' routine?" Jamie quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Uh…" Thomas managed, still processing the sudden turn of events.
"Did you really think I'd just leave you to fight him alone? Especially when it's much easier—and quicker—for the two of us to take him down together?" Jamie shook his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
"B-but… I thought…" Thomas stammered, feeling a mix of relief and embarrassment.
"Come on, don't dwell on it. Grab his coin pouch, and let's keep moving," Jamie suggested, wiping his dagger clean before sheathing it.
As reality settled in, Thomas felt a pang of guilt. Part of him felt tainted for having been saved through what some might call a dishonorable move. Yet, he couldn't deny the flood of relief at still being alive.
His momentary solace was short-lived as he knelt beside the fallen guard to retrieve the pouch. The sight was grim—three precise wounds marked the guard's back, evidence of Jamie's swift handiwork. The strikes had been lethal, aimed at vital points to ensure a quick end.
Thomas hesitated, his hand hovering over the coin pouch. A sense of unease settled over him. 'Looting the dead… Is this what I've come to?' he wondered. But then, practicality intervened. 'Well… he won't be needing it anymore,' he reasoned, securing the pouch at his belt.
Out of the corner of his eye, a faint glow caught his attention. Golden letters appeared.
| You have defeated one of the Cutpurses' Main Guards.
| The God of [Mischief] is feeling proud.
| 250 Experience Points obtained
A serene smile spread across Thomas's face. It was the first time he'd obtained that much experience.
[author]
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