Cork became a mercenary as soon as he became an adult. He never picked fights or challenged anyone stronger than himself. It was common sense that skill and experience determined the winner of a fight, and Cork knew his limits and exercised restraint until he had grown enough.0

One day, Cork and his friends visited a tavern to celebrate his promotion to Gold-class. 0

“Oops!”0

One of his friends, drunk, spilled beer on a man sitting at a neighboring table. The man was alone, cloaked, with neatly kept hair and clean clothes. It was obvious he was either a knight or a noble.0

But the alcohol made the mercenaries lose their fear. More than that, it was mostly because the man was alone and looked like an easy target.0

“Oh no, I’m sorry about that! Your clothes look expensive too. Heh, heh!”0

The drunken mercenary chuckled as he made his clumsy apology.0

“Tsk.”0

The young man clicked his tongue, shoved the mercenary aside, and left the tavern. His dismissive attitude irritated the drunk mercenary.0

“That brat thinks he can click his tongue at me? Does he think nobles can’t die?”0

The mercenary drew his sword and followed the young man outside.0

Cork and his companions didn’t bother to stop him. To them, the young man didn’t seem particularly strong due to his uncalloused hands and casual walk. 0

Clang! Clang!0

The sound of clashing swords echoed from outside the window.0

Splat!0

Cork shot to his feet when he saw that blood spattered against the windowpane.0

“Damn it, don’t tell me he killed him?”0

It wasn’t guilt or concern; it was the fact that they had to flee quickly if the young man was dead.0

When Cork and his friends rushed outside, they were shocked. Lying on the ground wasn’t the young man, but one of them. He wasn’t moving because he was already dead.0

“Zort!”0

The drunken mercenaries, now sobered, gripped their weapons and charged at the young man who still had his sword in his hand. The way he adjusted his sword stance confirmed their...0