Emmet’s hollow mask remained perfectly still, but his focus was absolute. His Unwoven Eyes immediately began their ruthless work, scanning and cataloging the room's intricate power web.
“Mr. Craft,” Clyne murmured, his voice a low, disciplined whisper that only Emmet could discern. “It is precisely as our intelligence suggested—a gathering room after Level 1. A calculated bottleneck designed to force confrontation and establish hierarchy before the next stage.”
Clyne’s sharp gaze swept the multitude. "And it seems our allies are here too," he added, his eyes briefly resting on the group wearing the familiar Rebel insignia—the crossed swords shattering a crown.
The people inside weren't resting; they were engaged in a constant, silent, and brutal calculation—a meticulous process of gauging each other’s strength and weakness. Every posture, every piece of rare armor, and every visible flicker of an aura was weighed and judged, establishing the initial pecking order.
However, the primary disruption to this complex calculus was the overwhelming, self-important presence of Matt, the Warrior Divinant, and his coterie of high-ranking Rongan Kingdom soldiers. Matt’s continuous, booming pronouncements and his men's blatant acts of extortion had completely monopolized the room’s emotional and tactical attention.
Emmet internally noted the strategic advantage this chaos provided. Matt’s noise and arrogance acted as a perfect screen, causing the general populace to overlook the quieter, far more strategic threats. Due to Matt's brute-force dominance, several mysterious and potentially lethal factions were being ignored: the utterly silent Demon Cult group, the chilling figures in the white robes, and the disciplined Silent Blades—all groups that thrived in anonymity—were left to observe the escalating drama with detached, dangerous concentration.
Emmet filed away the data. Through his Unwoven Eyes, the air around Matt didn't just look strong; it pulsed with a thick, golden aura that seemed to bind the room. Emmet saw the weak points in that binding—the tiny fissures that indicated over-reliance on raw power rather than refined control.
The groups Emmet assessed in detail included:
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The Demon Cult remaining deep in a shadowy recess, their hooded figures motionless. Their collective, unnatural silence felt heavier than any shouted threat.
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The imposing figures in pristine white robes, marked by elaborate, ritualistic tribal tattoos. They radiated a cold, scholarly aura. One, whose tattoo was a swirling vortex, made a minute gesture. His companion instantly dropped his hand to a hidden scroll, not drawing a weapon, but recording the observed power levels, treating the escalating conflict as a scientific anomaly.
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The visibly fearful nobleman, heavily guarded by the professional mercenary squad.
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The weak but cunning "Scavengers of the South" huddled by the wall, their wide eyes betraying their absolute terror.
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The "Silent Blades," the professional assassins, stood motionless. Their collective minds struggled to chart the physics of the impending confrontation. For them, any fighter who could defy the geometry of combat was an existential threat.
Matt’s soldiers continued their open extortion, forcing a whimpering team to dump their belongings.
“They’re exploiting others in the open, not even bothering to conceal their blatant criminality," Emmet murmured, his voice low and deliberate. "Their arrogance is a tactical gift that must be seized.”
A large, armored soldier, thick with misplaced confidence, began to swagger toward Emmet's group. Emmet did not hesitate. As the soldier neared, Emmet moved with a sudden spatial warp, a near-instantaneous dash that bypassed the soldier's perception entirely. The man registered nothing until the crushing force of Emmet’s fist slammed into his solar plexus, delivering a stunning, instantaneous knockout. Emmet lifted the enormous, heavily armored body—hoisting the weight like it was a hollow shell—and hurled him like a discarded tool across the thirty-foot room toward Matt. Matt’s Divinant reflexes were the only thing that saved him from being struck by his own man.
“Oops, my sincere apologies! My hand seems to have slipped at a most inopportune moment,” Emmet called out, the mocking lightness of his tone ringing through the shocked silence.
Emmet then sent a rapid, silent directive via Unwoven Breath to his team: "Locks, protect the others. We are establishing a new hierarchy. We extort everyone, starting now. I must ensure no one ever contacts us again."
He addressed Matt, the cutting edge of his voice now sharp. “It seems you enjoy taking from others, oh strong warrior.”
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Matt, his authority challenged and his public image instantly ruined by an unknown figure in a mask, was consumed by blinding, humiliated fury. “Just wait your turn, nobody,” Matt snarled, his grip white-knuckled on his sword hilt. “I will deal with you once this rabble is cleared out.”
The goal is total, comprehensive psychological dominance, Emmet thought, the strategy perfectly clear. I need to be viewed as the most terrifying, unpredictable monster here. By inflicting extreme, public punishment, I guarantee every faction avoids us for the rest of the raid, securing our operational secrecy.
“So, this is the noble conduct the esteemed warriors of your glorious kingdom offer?” Emmet pressed, injecting cold scorn into the word 'noble.'
Matt fought desperately to reclaim his authority. “Here, status is irrelevant. Strength is the only law. What happens here stays here. Killing you is no crime."
“Ah, good,” Emmet said, the word a deadly confirmation. “That is truly wonderful news.”
With another impossible burst of speed, Emmet dashed again, closing the distance instantly. Matt was caught completely flat-footed. Emmet stopped mere inches from Matt’s helmet. He silently exhaled, allowing a thread of Unwoven Breath to negate the psychic pressure of Matt's aura, a subtle, cold barrier the Divinant couldn't detect.
“You are utterly too weak to be pretending you are the one in charge here,” Emmet whispered, the sound not travelling through the air, but seeming to resonate inside Matt's skull, clear and icy.
Matt physically recoiled, the combined shock and insult overriding his judgment. He scrambled back, drawing his massive sword, his face contorted in frustrated fury. “You! How dare you call me weak!” he roared, his voice thick with strained emotion. “I will show you my true power!”
Provocation secured. The execution begins, Emmet confirmed.
Emmet utilized his Unwoven Breath to project his voice not with mere volume, but with perfect, chilling clarity, ensuring every word resonated throughout the hall. “Aren’t you? I suppose I must personally demonstrate to everyone here just how utterly insignificant you are.”
Emmet began a slow, deliberate walk toward Matt, the casual pace a profound insult to the warrior’s readiness. Matt, blinded by rage, unleashed a desperate, furious torrent of lightning-fast sword strikes. Emmet, moving with fluid, impossible grace and utilizing micro-bursts of speed, casually evaded every single blow with minimal physical effort. To the terrified spectators, Matt was a storm of death; to Emmet, he was a slow-motion target. Frustrated, Matt gasped for air. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“The name is Mr. Craft, of the Unwoven mercenary group,” Emmet stated. “Worry not about my lack of a kingdom reputation. But you, Divinant, are certainly famous. Now, hand over everything, or everyone here will forever remember you as the pathetic weakling I’ve already announced you to be. Prove me wrong.”
Disgraced, Matt unleashed his full force. His Warrior Aura exploded outward, vibrant colored rings of energy encircling his feet, and his sword instantly ignited with blinding Warrior Divinity. The crowd was momentarily awestruck by the sheer power.
Perfect. I have every single eye and every nerve ending, Emmet calculated. Time to shatter their perception.
Emmet ignored the divine aura, walking directly through the radiating pressure. The Demon Cult stirred, their focus intense. The Silent Blades were utterly still, their collective minds unable to chart Emmet’s physics-defying movement.
Matt launched his final, defining strike. Emmet was faster. Utilizing a concentrated burst of his Unwoven Speed, he executed a shimmering dash that placed him impossibly inside Matt's guard. The colossal sword stroke sailed harmlessly over Emmet's shoulder. Emmet delivered a surgical, low uppercut that connected violently beneath Matt's chin, followed simultaneously by a cunning slide-kick against Matt’s exposed left foot, instantly collapsing his balance. Before the heavy armor could hit the floor, Emmet had already rotated, appearing precisely behind the falling warrior. He drove a devastating, targeted elbow punch into Matt's back, impacting the critical junction near the lumbar spine. The force drove Matt's body into the stone floor with a horrible, final impact, the sickening sound of cracking stone mixing with the wet snap of the warrior's broken vertebrae. He lay flat, massive form having cratered the floor beneath him.
The entire exchange took less than two seconds. The crowd was utterly petrified.
The atmosphere in the hall violently fractured. The residual fear of Matt was instantly replaced by a profound, cold terror of Emmet. Every eye was a mirror reflecting naked fear.
Emmet’s voice, amplified by the terrified silence, cut through the tension: “Anyone else wanting to exploit me? I thought not. All you soldiers from this Rongan Kingdom—you will surrender every scrap of loot to me, or suffer the same comprehensive fate.”
He drove the heel of his boot onto Matt’s back, grinding the shattered spine further, eliciting a wet, gurgling scream and a fresh pool of blood. With a final, furious kick, Emmet sent Matt’s limp body hurtling into the stone wall, where the force resulted in sickening sounds of further skeletal collapse.
“Your renowned Divinant is finished. Now, surrender your loot, or I’ll break every bone in your squad. For the record: I intend to let none of you leave here unharmed.”
Clyne watched the brutality, a knot forming in his gut. This is why we follow him, he thought, because he trades fear for safety. Emmet's public, merciless display was his core strategy: to brand himself as an unprecedented, terrifying force.
Emmet commanded Locks. Her hair exploded outward, becoming a defensive and offensive array of spiked, corrosive white tendrils. The rest of the team assumed rigid combat stances.
Emmet addressed the crowd one last time: “My apologies, that only applies to the Rongan military and their noble parasites. Since they enjoy taking, I am merely implementing a temporary tax. Carry on with your business, but know your boundaries. I won’t tolerate interference. Does anyone wish to interfere?”
The silence was the only answer.
“Then I’ll conclude my private business,” Emmet finished. Turning back to the terrified Rongan forces, he commanded, “Line up. Surrender your loots. I will spare your miserable lives.”
The soldiers and nobles frantically converted their points. Once the sizable piles were formed, Locks struck, impaling the right arm of every soldier and noble with her corrosive hair, ensuring they were crippled, permanently marked, and neutralized.
“Now,” Emmet commanded, “open your portals and crawl out of here. Get healed.”
Clyne and two team members collected the haul, opened a portal, and sent the items through. Finally, two members of the allied Rebel group smoothly slipped into the newly vacated spots in Emmet’s team, their entry confirmed by Clyne. Emmet's violent establishment of authority was complete.
Good sirs and kind ladies, I beg a small favor of thee… If by some miracle you have trudged this far into my humble tale, might I implore you to grant me a scrap of kindness? Please, rate my poor novel and leave an honest review.Your words shall either be the torch that keeps me writing through the dark, or the whisper of the universe telling me to lay down my quill, for I am unworthy. The story is free, my heart poured into every line, and this is all I ask in return.I kneel before you, hat in hand, pleading—pretty please, spare a thought for this desperate author and leave a review…
<3 JLance
Good sirs and kind ladies, I beg a small favor of thee… If by some miracle you have trudged this far into my humble tale, might I implore you to grant me a scrap of kindness? Please, rate my poor novel and leave an honest review.Your words shall either be the torch that keeps me writing through the dark, or the whisper of the universe telling me to lay down my quill, for I am unworthy. The story is free, my heart poured into every line, and this is all I ask in return.I kneel before you, hat in hand, pleading—pretty please, spare a thought for this desperate author and leave a review…
<3 JLance