Bang!
Suddenly, Matthew slammed the table and stood up.
The loud noise not only startled the four people at his table but also attracted everyone's attention.
The tavern owner came running out, his fat jiggling as he panted:
"Valued guest, please don't be angry! Tell me, what has displeased you?"
Matthew pushed the bald, fat man aside, scanned the room, fished a Silver Stag from his bundle, and sneered:
"I see everyone is having fun, but the stakes are pitifully small. It's really not exciting enough!"
His sigh was laced with mockery.
The drunks stared at the Silver Stag, their peripheral vision sizing Matthew up and down, greed practically oozing from their eyes.
Harwin tugged on Matthew's arm and whispered:
"Are you sure about this?"
Matthew glanced at him, nodded slightly, then tossed the Silver Stag in the air, caught it in his palm, and shouted:
"Now, I am willing to put up one Silver Stag to make a bet with you all. I bet that none of you can beat me in a fistfight. Do you dare to take the bet?"
The drunks immediately shouted:
"One Silver Stag for every loss?"
Matthew rolled up his sleeves and smiled:
"Of course. But what if you lose?"
"Kid, who do you think we are?"
The drunks were riled up, heads held high, shouting wildly, treating Matthew's words as a joke.
Although Matthew was tall and strong, his youthful face couldn't be hidden, nor could his developing voice.
"How could we lose? Has your hair even grown in yet, kid? Hahaha..."
Seeing this, Matthew immediately said:
"If you lose, you must swear allegiance to me. Do you dare?"
Thud, thud, thud...
The sound of mugs and bottles hitting tables rang out.
The mercenaries couldn't laugh anymore.Following their leader, they stood up one by one, glaring at Matthew.
The atmosphere in the tavern turned strange.
The farmers didn't dare laugh either; it was as if their throats were suddenly blocked, coughing intermittently.
Matthew showed no fear, staring straight at the old man who had stood up first.
"What? Don't dare to bet?"
He tapped his finger on the table lightly, glancing at Ser Harwin out of the corner of his eye. His tone was heavy then light, dripping with sarcasm.
Ser Harwin looked at Morty, then stood up.
Morty quickly followed suit.
Their armor clanked loudly, a crisp and resonant sound.
The old man looked left and right at the two fully armored men behind Matthew, furrowed his thick black brows, and spat on the floor.
"Trying to buy our freedom for one Silver Stag? Are you insulting us?"
Then, he spread both hands wide, held up nine fingers, grinned, and laughed recklessly:
"At least ten Silver Stags."
"Bernarr! Bernarr! Bernarr..."
The mercenaries started laughing again, banging on tables, going wild.
Matthew didn't back down. He laughed along with them until the mercenaries couldn't laugh anymore.
The old man cursed in frustration:
"You piece of shit, what are you laughing at? Can you even cough up the money?"
Matthew shrugged, turned sideways, patted Ser Harwin's scale armor, and replied:
"Bernarr, at your age, you should have some judgment. Do you think ten Silver Stags could buy armor like this?"
"Then let's take it outside."
Bernarr's face soured. He slapped the table, grabbing his belt and accessories.
Hearing this, the tavern owner was overjoyed.
As long as they didn't fight inside the shop, he was a million percent in favor.
He even shouted:
"Whoever wins gets a free keg of ale!"
"Lollys, you're not tricking us again, are you?"
"No, as long as you win, absolutely not."
The fat owner walked over to the mercenaries, whispering like a thief, but his face was sincere and swearing oaths.
"Ale! Ale! Bernarr, you have to win..."
With that promise, the mercenaries went from suspicious to excited, raising their hands and running outside noisily.
Morty, acting familiar, put his arm around Matthew's shoulder, patted his belly lightly, and laughed, stirring the pot:
"You have to do your best. That way we can spend less money."
Matthew felt uncomfortable. He touched his belly, pushing Morty's hand away.
Right now, his belly was flat, occasionally rumbling, but luckily not loudly.
Matthew rubbed it twice more, comforting his cooperative stomach.
Walking outside, the crowd formed a line, clearing enough space for the two.
Passersby nearby, seeing the commotion, also gathered around.
Matthew didn't care. Walking opposite Bernarr, he put down his weapons and rolled up his sleeves.
Little Fish hugged the crossbow and longsword, pouting as he asked:
"Matthew, do you really have to fight?"
Matthew nodded and walked forward.
Bernarr stood with arms crossed, having removed his chainmail, waiting for him.
Walking to the center, Matthew didn't rush to attack.
Looking at Bernarr's hand missing a pinky finger, he extended a hand and smiled:
"I'll let you make the first move."
Bernarr noticed Matthew's gaze. His neck and ears turned from pink to deep crimson instantly.
He hated people bringing up his missing finger.
"Kid, let me teach you a lesson. Never underestimate anyone out here."
Bernarr roared and charged.
Closing in, he swung his long, thick arms. His left hand swung at Matthew's head first, hiding his right hand behind.
Those with keen eyes whispered:
"Careful..."
The old man was slightly taller than Matthew—at most two finger-widths—but it made it hard to hide his small movements.
Matthew saw it clearly. He immediately turned sideways to block the left hand, waiting for the right.
Reeking of alcohol, Bernarr threw a right hook as expected.
From below, aiming straight for the liver.
If that punch landed, anyone would be puking for half a day.
But often the most dangerous place is the safest.
Matthew smiled; he had guessed this move.
He twisted his body nimbly, grabbed the sandbag-sized fist with a backhand grip of his left hand, and twisted it forward.
Pain shot through him, and Bernarr fell to his knees screaming.
He wanted to resist, but his right arm twisted more and more, feeling like it was about to snap.
The bystanders were stunned.
They hadn't expected the situation to reverse in an instant.
The mercenaries wanted to rush the field, but Ser Harwin drew his sword and shouted:
"This is a sacred duel between the two of them! Who dares violate the sacred oath and interfere?"
Morty stood on the other side, chest out, looking disdainful.
His armor gleamed gold, dazzling the eyes of onlookers.
Although they didn't know why the kid in the center was dressed so poorly, the farmers around understood these men were not to be trifled with and backed away.
For a moment, the atmosphere cooled.
Seeing this, the mercenaries lost their nerve; no one dared to step forward.
After all, Bernarr wasn't really hurt yet.
Losing a bit of face wasn't a big deal.
Having thought it through, the mercenaries retreated three steps, cheering Bernarr on instead.
Bernarr's face was so red it looked ready to bleed; he couldn't hear a thing.
Matthew narrowed his eyes and teased:
"Old man, just give up. Losing to me isn't shameful."
Bernarr wanted to spit, but before he could move, his hand cracked loudly.
Matthew twisted the arm swiftly, moved behind him, kicked his ankle, and pressed down with his knee.
The old man couldn't dodge; his face was pressed into the dirt, getting a mouthful of mud.
"Do you yield?"
Matthew held the upper hand, pressing down with his body weight, relaxing none of his strength.
Seeing Bernarr being tortured, the bystanders couldn't watch anymore and shouted for him to surrender.
The more the old man listened, the more he struggled.
But after a while, the old man settled down.
Breathing out but barely breathing in—no one could stand that.
Seeing something was wrong, Matthew eased the pressure on his knee slightly and asked again:
"Yield?"
Bernarr turned his head and took a deep breath.
But as soon as he moved, he was pinned again.
seeing no other way, he raised his left hand and mumbled:
"I lost. You win. As long as you pay me enough, I'm willing to work for you."
Seeing the old man still wasn't being honest, Matthew secretly dug his knee in harder.
No matter how robust the old man was, his body was still weaker, especially his bones.
With his spine compressed, he thrashed his legs like a dying fish and screamed in pain.
The surrounding farmers covered their eyes, afraid to look, as if witnessing hell.
The mercenaries were agitated, shouting insults.
At this moment, Matthew turned a deaf ear, acting like a demon. He snorted coldly, pressed down harder with his knee, and asked again:
"The bet for ten Silver Stags was for allegiance, right?"
The old man couldn't stay tough anymore. He slapped the ground hurriedly and shouted:
"Yes, yes, yes! You're right!"