Clap, clap, clap...
Matthew released Bernarr, dusted off his hands, and walked to the side.
A smile still playing on his lips, he looked around.
"Who else wants to try?"
Ser Harwin and Morty both laughed.
Little Fish jumped and cheered.
Only Dale frowned, looking bitter and resentful.
He just wanted to get to Sow's Horn quickly and had no mood for watching a show.
But no one paid him any mind.
Thumping his chest, Matthew watched the old man crawling up dejectedly and shouted to the crowd:
"Beat me, and you get ten Silver Stags. Lose, and you only pledge allegiance to me. Pledging allegiance to the strong is no shame. Who's next?"
The crowd buzzed, looking at Bernarr clutching his back as he walked away. They said all sorts of things, but no one dared step forward.
Everyone was a regular at the tavern; they all knew, more or less, how tough the old man was.
Seeing him played so miserably, who in their right mind would dare stick their neck out?
Seeing no one come forward, Matthew was disappointed.
He wanted to make a bigger scene to attract truly capable people.
Unfortunately, the people here seemed to lack even basic courage.
But Matthew didn't give up.
Shaking his head, he shouted to all sides again:
"Does anyone dare?"
His voice was loud, his tone flat, but a wave of disappointment and disdain slapped everyone in the face along with the hot wind.
Matthew intended to mock them thoroughly to see if he could find gold in the shit.
Sure enough, someone couldn't take the provocation. Pushing through the crowd, he stepped out.
Not a mercenary, but a strong farmer—likely a blacksmith, holding a hammer in his hand.
Matthew looked at him with interest.
This man was at least half a head taller than him. To look at his rough, dark, honest face, Matthew had to tilt his head back.
He was shirtless, revealing massive pectoral muscles scarred with many burns.
"Hey, Big Charcoal, do you know the stakes?"
Perce nodded and replied woodenly:
"I know. If I lose, I pledge allegiance to you."
Seeing him speak so foolishly, Matthew's impression of him soared.
Right now, he needed workhorses like this.
Rolling up his sleeves again, Matthew squatted slightly into a horse stance, slapped his thigh, and laughed:
"Come on."
Perce threw down his hammer, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Then, charging straight ahead like a bull.
His two hands were like horns, ready to clash head-on with Matthew for a pure contest of manhood.
Matthew wasn't afraid.
On the contrary, he looked eager.
His fight with Bernarr had relied on tricks and exploiting weaknesses.
Real men wrestled.
Money was just a side dish; only supreme power and absolute strength could make people submit willingly.
Winning a contest of pure strength would leave a great impression.
Watching Big Charcoal roaring in with the wind and dust, Matthew lowered his center of gravity again and reached out to intercept.
As soon as they grappled, the sandy soil scraped loudly, four black trenches dragging in the dirt.
"Yah!"
Perce gritted his teeth, using all his strength to push forward, but he couldn't budge him.
The loose sand couldn't hold their force; the sliding pits grew deeper.
Matthew wasn't having an easy time either. Veins popped on his forehead, his neck turned red, and his toes curled tight inside his boots as if trying to burst through them.
For a moment, both were stuck in place, neither able to overcome the other.
Creak... groan...
Four palms ground together until they were blood-red, bones popping continuously.
The crowd grew larger.
Everyone loved watching this kind of blood-pumping wrestling. Men, women, young, and old found it exciting.
Cheers rose and fell, mostly cheering for Perce.
Perce was determined. Eyes wide, he pushed hard with both hands, stepping forward inch by inch, trying to overwhelm Matthew with sheer body mass.
Matthew wasn't a rookie. Taking advantage of his lower center of gravity, he pushed back, engaging in a head-to-head struggle.
Perce, uncomfortable being pushed back, had to take a step back.
The watching farmers gasped, daring not to make a sound.
No one expected the strongest man in the village to lose a contest of strength.
He was clearly half a head taller.
The farmers couldn't understand it, and neither could Perce.
Holding his breath, cheeks flushed red, legs trembling, he tried desperately to turn the tide.
But he couldn't advance an inch.
"Go on... Iron Egg, go on... crush him..."
Those arriving late couldn't squeeze in, so they jumped up and down, shouting loudly to feel involved.
Hearing this, Perce roared, trying to push forward with his head for a final struggle.
Matthew, no rookie, didn't panic.
Lowering his center of gravity again and maintaining distance, he gripped Big Charcoal's scarred hands, sank his chi, and squeezed out every ounce of strength in his body.
Perce was pushed back directly, his feet sliding heavily, digging deeper and deeper.
Not until his toes were completely buried in the soil did he stabilize.
Just as everyone breathed a sigh of relief, with a rip, Perce's straw sandals stuck in the mud suddenly burst apart.
Stumbling, he pitched forward, losing most of his strength instantly.
"Ah..."
The little kids in the front row screamed, covering their eyes, unable to watch.
Matthew, afraid Big Charcoal would get hurt, quickly supported him and then gently laid him on the ground.
This guy was heavy as hell; he didn't want to hold him up.
Lying on the ground, Perce was shaken. Spitting out some dirt, he stood up slowly.
Seeing his dusty face made people want to laugh.
Perce touched his head, thinking he had lost face by losing like this.
He smiled sheepishly, then lowered his head awkwardly, unsure whether to stay or go.
Matthew walked up, patted his shoulder, looked at the broken shoes split down to the arch, and said:
"Go back, wash your face, change your shoes, pack your things, and come back."
Perce nodded and left quickly.
Withdrawing his gaze, Matthew stood in place, looked around again with a commanding stare, spread his hands, and shouted arrogantly yet confidently:
"Who else?"
Someone in the mercenary group wanted to go up but was stopped by Bernarr.
"Don't go. It's enough that I follow him."
The others looked at Bernarr silently but with various thoughts, eyeing the old man sideways.
Sensing something wrong, Bernarr looked back.
Then he got angry.
"You idiots, what can you do up there? Go up and get beaten like me?"
Blowing into his beard and glaring, he kicked the guy behind him in the hip and cursed:
"I've already lost face big time. You want to join me?"
The mercenaries laughed and joked, not taking it seriously at all.
The kicked man patted off the dust and replied:
"Boss, you've already lost face. It won't hurt if we lose some too. Look at those bastards in armor; we want to follow the big shot and live the good life too."
Bernarr spat, looked back quickly, then lowered his voice and cursed at his subordinates:
"Cut the crap. It's enough that I stick my neck out. If there are no problems, do you think I'd let you starve?"
The mercenaries nodded, understanding what Bernarr meant.
Choosing a boss these days was a technical skill. Choose wrong, and you die fast.
They laughed:
"Oh... cunning old Northerner."
Bernarr snorted, turned back around, and continued watching Matthew showing off and forcing people into duels.
The corners of his mouth curled up slightly, looking rather smug.
When you get old, cunning is just wisdom.
But a moment later, someone leaned in and asked weirdly:
"Boss, did you really lose to that kid, or did you throw the fight just now?"
That sounded like he had shamelessly thrown himself at the kid.
Bernarr blushed, glared back, raised his big hairy hand, and prepared to strike.
The mercenaries started laughing and running out of the crowd.
Once they left, the farmers didn't stay either. Talking and laughing, a large group left all at once.
To the farmers scraping a living from the soil, this had just been entertainment.
Even if life was hard, no one wanted to take risks.
Life had crushed them into numbness; fear of trouble was their base color.
Unless they truly couldn't survive, they would never abandon their small plots of land.
Watching the people almost gone, Matthew could only sigh:
"The people here are no good. Given a chance to change their fate, they can't even grasp it."
caveleather