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Fights between mercenaries were always impulsive. When they’re on a job, they would coldly calculate profit and loss, but when they were off the clock, they would draw their weapons over the pettiest squabble.
In an industry where one proved their worth through force, staying quiet when someone challenged pride only cheapened their own value. Any challenges had to be met head-on, one way or another.
Gustav gripped his zweihander tight, channeling his Aura to burn away the last of the alcohol fogging his mind.
With a hiss, pale steam rose off his bronze skin. The pressure he gave off was so menacing that even the mercenaries who’d come with Jerome instinctively stepped back.
Gustav, leader of his mercenaries, was in the upper tier of B-ranks—already brushing against A-rank.
“Lead the way,” he said to Jerome.
“Still barking orders at me?” Jerome snapped.
Unlike his underlings, Jerome hadn’t lost his composure. His mocking tone dripped with contempt.
Gustav, on the other hand, answered without the slightest ripple, “Look at you, coming here itching for a fight—yet you don’t even have the spine to step forward first? Scavenger.”
“Hah!” The smirk vanished from Jerome’s face as he growled, “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”
“Are you joking?” Gustav sneered, snorting...
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