Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 93: Tension (2)

SILENCE!

The inn fell into stunned silence, the air thick with the sudden, sharp scent of blood. Every eye was fixed on the scene, the tension that had built to a fever pitch now breaking with the sight of crimson splattering across the wooden floor.

The sound of the sword cutting through the air and the subsequent spurt of blood seemed to echo in the minds of everyone present, a brutal punctuation to the violence that had erupted so suddenly.

Radgar stood frozen, his sword still raised, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. His eyes were wide, his expression a mix of rage and disbelief. For a moment, it was as if he couldn't comprehend what had just happened.

The young man, still seated, had not moved from his chair. His smirk had not faltered, and his pitch-black eyes remained fixed on Radgar.

But the blood—everyone could see it now—was not his. It was Radgar's blood that stained the floor, dripping steadily from a deep gash across his forearm, where the traveler's unseen blade had cut through flesh and muscle with precise, lethal efficiency.

The patrons, who had shrunk back in their seats, now stared in a mixture of horror and morbid fascination.

While fights had broken out in the inn before, and there had been threats and bluster aplenty, this was the first time they had seen blood spilled so openly in this place—especially the blood of a man as feared as Radgar.

The shock of it reverberated through the room, turning the once lively inn into a space of hushed whispers and fearful glances. No one dared to move or speak too loudly lest they draw attention to themselves.

Radgar, still reeling from the sudden wound, staggered back, clutching his arm. His sword clattered to the ground, forgotten in his pain and confusion.

The look on his face was one of utter disbelief—disbelief that this young man, whom he had dismissed as a mere traveler, had not only mocked him but had drawn his blood with such ease.

The young man slowly stood up from his chair, his movements calm and deliberate. As he rose to his full height, the small cat that had been sitting on the table hopped back onto his shoulder as if it, too, were unfazed by the violence that had just occurred.

The traveler's eyes never left Radgar, his expression unreadable as he regarded the man who had tried to cut him down.

"You… you bastard…" Radgar hissed through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with a mixture of pain and anger. But the fire that had driven him moments before had dimmed, replaced by a growing fear that he could no longer hide.

The traveler finally spoke, his voice as cold and cutting as the blade that had wounded Radgar. "I told you," he said softly, the words barely more than a whisper, yet carrying the weight of a death sentence. "You made a mistake."

The inn remained deathly quiet, the tension so thick it was almost suffocating. Greta, who had returned from the kitchen just in time to witness the aftermath, stood frozen in place, her eyes wide with shock.

The sight of the blood on the floor, the realization that the young man had drawn it without so much as standing up, filled her with a mix of fear and awe.

The men who had followed Radgar into the inn were now standing in a tight cluster, their faces pale with fear and anger.

The sight of their leader, Radgar, cut down so effortlessly had shaken them to their core, but there was something else gnawing at them—an indignation that burned just beneath the surface.

They had spent months, even years, building their reputation in Rackenshore, thriving on the fear and respect that their newfound power had afforded them.

And now, in mere moments, that reputation was crumbling before their eyes.

Radgar, though wounded and clearly in pain, couldn't let go of the humiliation. His gaze flicked between the young man seated before him and his own men, and the rage that had fueled him moments before began to rekindle.

He hated this, hated the fact that he had been bested so easily, hated the idea that the people in this inn—people who had once cowered before him—were now watching his downfall.

He gritted his teeth, trying to push through the pain and the fear that threatened to overwhelm him.

'I can't let it end like this,' he thought, his pride screaming for retaliation. His eyes met those of his men, and in that brief exchange, a silent understanding passed between them.

Each one of them nodded, their expressions hardening as they prepared to restore their shattered honor.

But before they could take a single step, the young man raised his head, his black eyes locking onto theirs with a calm, cold gaze. His voice, when he spoke, was soft but carried a chilling certainty that made the blood in their veins turn to ice. "What you're thinking right now… is not a good idea."

The men froze, their bravado faltering as the young man's words cut through the tension like a knife. They exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier confidence wavering under the weight of his gaze.

But then, one of them, a burly man with a scarred face, managed a smirk, his attempt to regain control evident in the forced expression.

"And why's that, huh?" the man sneered, his voice tinged with a bravado that rang hollow in the silence of the room. "You think we're just gonna let you walk out of here after what you did to Radgar?"

The young man didn't blink, didn't move. His expression remained unchanged, the calm in his eyes unwavering. "Because once my blade is drawn," he said quietly, his words laced with an edge sharper than any sword, "it never goes back into the sheath without cutting."

The meaning behind his words was clear—deadly clear.

"Hence, I suggest you stand back…..Or else, I will not show any mercy this time."

The moment the young man's words hung in the air, the men felt it—a cold, suffocating pressure that seemed to descend upon them, wrapping around their chests and squeezing the breath from their lungs.

It wasn't just fear; it was something far more primal, something that clawed at the deepest recesses of their instincts.

'What is this…?' one of the men thought, his heart hammering in his chest as a wave of sheer terror washed over him.

It wasn't just the young man's calm demeanor or his threatening words—it was something far darker, something raw and unbridled, that filled the room like a dense, suffocating fog.

The intent they felt wasn't just any ordinary killing intent—it was bloodthirst, pure and unfiltered.

It was the kind of bloodthirst that only a seasoned killer, one who had taken countless lives, could exude. The air was thick with it, heavy and oppressive as if they were standing in the presence of a beast, a predator that had no qualms about tearing them apart.

Their instincts screamed at them to run, to flee from this force that was so much greater than anything they had ever encountered. The young man before them was no mere traveler—he was a slaughterer, someone who had bathed in the blood of others, someone who knew how to kill and wouldn't hesitate to do so.

"Young man."

The oppressive atmosphere in the inn was suddenly punctuated by a voice, deep and resonant, coming from the entrance.

All eyes turned toward the source of the voice. Standing in the doorway was an old man, his figure broad and imposing despite his age. His belly was large, a testament to a life well-lived, but there was no mistaking the strength in his stance or the authority in his presence.

His face, though lined with the wrinkles of time, radiated a fatherly warmth and calmness that contrasted sharply with the suffocating tension in the room.

The young man, still seated at his table, slowly turned his head to regard the newcomer. The bloodthirst that had hung in the air like a thick fog seemed to waver, its oppressive weight shifting slightly as the old man's calm voice cut through the silence.

"Young man," the old man repeated, his tone gentle but firm, "it's better for you to control that bloodthirst. You're suffocating everyone here, not just those fools." He gestured with a broad hand to the other patrons, some of whom were visibly struggling to breathe under the weight of the young man's raw, unfiltered killing intent.

It was only then that the young man seemed to notice the effect he was having on the others in the inn. The smirk that had played on his lips faded slightly, and his eyes softened as he surveyed the room.

The faces of the patrons were pale, their eyes wide with fear. Some were gripping the edges of their tables, their knuckles white, while others were gasping for breath as if the very air had been stolen from their lungs.

For a split second, the young man said nothing.

"Sigh….."

Then, with a slow, deliberate breath, he closed his eyes and released the bloodthirst he had been exuding. The effect was immediate.

The oppressive weight lifted from the room, the air seemed to clear, and the patrons let out a collective sigh of relief as the pressure on their chests eased.

The old man nodded approvingly, his gaze steady as he approached the young man's table.

The fear in the room didn't dissipate entirely, but it lessened significantly with the old man's presence as if his very being was a calming balm against the terror that had just gripped them all.

"Thank you." the old man said, his voice kind but with an undertone of sternness, as he turned to look at the Radgar and others.

"Leave this place in this instant, you fools. Don't you read the atmosphere?"

The old man's voice, though calm, carried an unmistakable authority that sent a shiver down the spines of Radgar and his men.

His words were a command, not a suggestion, and the weight of his presence made it clear that defiance was not an option.

Radgar, still clutching his wounded arm, felt a surge of humiliation wash over him. He had already been bested by the young traveler, and now this old man was ordering him around as if he were a child.

But the pain in his arm, coupled with the oppressive atmosphere that still lingered in the room, sapped any lingering defiance from him. The memory of the bloodthirst that had nearly crushed him was too fresh, too vivid.

The others, who had been on the verge of drawing their weapons in a desperate attempt to salvage their pride, suddenly found themselves unable to meet the old man's gaze.

"Tch."

And with a click of their tongue, Radgar turned on his heel and hurried toward the door, his steps uneven as he tried to maintain some semblance of dignity despite his defeat. His men followed suit, their expressions a mix of fear and shame.

The bravado that had fueled them earlier was gone, replaced by a desperate need to escape the situation as quickly as possible.

The patrons watched in silence as Radgar and his cronies fled the inn, their hurried footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

The door swung shut behind them with a finality that seemed to seal their fate, leaving the inn once again in the calm, almost sacred, silence that had descended with the old man's arrival.

"Tsk. Youngster these days."

The old man spoke and then walked towards the bar.

"Greta, give me a beer."

And requested a beer.

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