Chapter 80: Ch80 When A Saint Gets Pissed
The thugs laughed in that grating, hyena-like way that made every decent soul on the street want to cover their ears. Their leader pointed a blackened dagger toward the mercenaries and sneered.
"Best look the other way, friend. Don’t poke your nose where it don’t belong," he warned, spinning the dagger lazily in his hand. "You really wanna get on his bad side? One word from him and your whole little band will vanish. Poof." He snapped his fingers dramatically.
The spear head leader, a tall, broad man with streaks of silver in his hair and a scarred cheek, didn’t even flinch. "Destroy our group? Heh. You talk like a rat bragging about its master," he retorted, resting his hand casually on the hilt of his spear. "You think power gives you the right to bully a woman because she didn’t move fast enough for you?"
The thugs only grinned wider.
"Who told her to be slow?" the spiky one said mockingly. "This is our street. You crawl, you get stepped on."
That was when a faint blue glow pulsed at Luther’s ear. His crystal shimmered faintly — like a sigh through glass — and the wind suddenly shifted.
A single whoosh of air followed by a smack! echoed down the street. A large leaf, torn from a nearby cart’s decoration, spun through the air and slapped the spiky thug squarely across the face with a loud, comedic whap!
The thug froze. The mercenaries blinked. Even the bystanders paused mid-step.
Luther, hands in his pockets, smirked. "Oops," he said dryly. "Nature must have bad aim."
Alina, who had been trying to suppress her laughter behind her hand, let out a quiet giggle.
The sword let out a long, annoyed groan.
"Really, this is how you start fights now? With gardening equipment?" it muttered.
"Worked, didn’t it?" Luther replied dryly, eyes half-lidded. "Besides, I’m trying not to make a mess today."
"Keyword: trying," the sword said under its breath.
The smugness didn’t last. The leaf mark on the thug’s face turned red as his veins bulged. "You—!" he barked, magic crackling at his fingertips.
He drew his hand back and formed a black arrow — thick with swirling mist — and flung it not at the mercenaries, but at one of the children clutching their mother’s skirt nearby.
The crowd screamed.
Before the black arrow could hit, a silver streak cut through the air. Clang! The projectile shattered mid-flight, dissolving into wisps of shadow.
A second arrow had struck it down. The mercenary archer lowered his bow, glaring daggers. "Cowards who attack children don’t deserve mercy."
The air grew colder. Luther’s eyes narrowed as he watched the black mist fade.
Luther’s eyes narrowed. That magic... it reeked of something sinister, something foul. Not human. Not normal. His fingers twitched toward his sword.
Contaminated?
The spiky-haired thug laughed, stepping forward. "What’s the matter, mercs? Never seen real magic before?"
Luther tilted his head lazily. "Magic? No, that’s not magic. That’s a toddler throwing paint on a canvas and calling it art."
A few nearby people snorted before catching themselves.
A bystanders grin faltered. "You got jokes, huh?"
Luther’s voice stayed calm. "Just facts. Though I’ll admit, the smell’s impressive — like rotten eggs soaked in despair. Really adds character."
The sword chuckled faintly. "Oh, I’m starting to like you again."
But before another word could be said, chaos erupted.
One of the thugs hurled a dagger toward the frightened woman. She dodged instinctively — but the blade grazed her shoulder and stabbed the little girl beside her.
Her cry was sharp and pure, cutting through the street like glass breaking.
"Lira!" the woman screamed, collapsing beside her daughter. Blood seeped from the girl’s small shoulder, her brother crying beside her.
The mercenary leader’s face darkened. "You bastards!"
He charged, his spear gleaming in the sunlight. His men followed, weapons clashing as the battle burst into motion.
The thugs, however, were not normal. Black mist poured from their hands as they swung crude weapons, each strike leaving trails of corruption in the air.
The mercenaries fought bravely, but their blades hissed and smoked when they met the dark weapons. Every contact spread the mist further. One by one, the mercenaries stumbled — coughing, falling.
The spiky-haired thug laughed as he backhanded one mercenary across the face, sending him crashing into a barrel. "See this power? This is real strength! Not your puny steel tricks!"
He raised his hand again — the black mist coiled like snakes, forming a sword in his grip. "Now die knowing what true despair means"
The crowd panicked and scattered, some tripping over crates and barrels, others dragging their children away.
Through it all, Luther and Alina stood motionless, the wind swirling faintly around them.
"Saint..." Alina’s voice trembled, her grip tightening on her staff. "They’re using... tainted magic. The same used to attack the temple"
Luther’s jaw tensed. "Yeah. But not by choice either. Look at their eyes."
Indeed — the thugs’ eyes weren’t merely hateful. They glowed faintly with a dark purple shimmer, like puppets forced to move.
Still, it didn’t make Luther feel merciful.
The spiky thug, now fueled by the mist, laughed madly as he kicked the last mercenary down. "Ha! Lame! You lot think you can stand against real power? This—" he raised his sword, now fully formed from black mist— "is strength beyond your pathetic little lives!"
"Uh oh," the sword muttered. "That one’s gone full cliché villain mode."
"Yeah," Luther said softly, cracking his knuckles. "And I’m already out of patience."
"Out of patience? You mean you had some to begin with?"
Luther’s lips curved faintly. "I was trying to be good today."
The spiky thug raised his blade, preparing to finish off the wounded mercenary. But before the sword could fall—
Wham!
A blur shot through the air.
The thug’s body twisted violently as a boot slammed into his ribs with bone-cracking force. He was sent flying — crashing through two wooden crates before sprawling on the ground, groaning.
Silence.
Everyone stared.
Luther lowered his leg and brushed imaginary dust off his sleeve. "I was really trying to stay calm," he muttered. "Really, really trying."
The sword on his back snickered. "Oh, I can tell. That was practically restraint."
The remaining thugs stared in shock, gripping their weapons. "You bastard!"