Kon had intended to spend only a few days in that village, but he ended up staying an entire month.
After a few days among those people, life became dull; nothing ever happened. Kon had heard many of them speak of Old Norman in a vile and incriminating way, as if he were some kind of demon, and that was the most interesting thing he had heard from them. The rest of the time, he helped with planting, harvesting, and tending the animals.
Kon's routine included one large meal a day — when all the villagers ate together outdoors — playing with the children, and a few hours of training. After all, Kon was the great warrior who had subdued King Harald, so they could not miss the chance to learn from him.
Dillon was especially happy about it. Under normal circumstances he would have held a grudge, but not against Kon. Dillon admired brave warriors, and this was the first time in his life he had stood face to face with one. Even if Kon never grew any stronger as a warrior, never went to the royal capital and beyond, he would certainly be remembered among those low-class folk in the regions where his story had reached the people's ears.
The day of celebrating at the foot of the tree had come again. Kon was bored as he dodged a few blows from the hard-working Dillon, who felt somewhat frustrated because, after so many days, he had not once managed to lay a finger on Kon without being allowed to. The other men watched, entertained, making mocking remarks at Dillon's expense. The rest of the villagers were preparing for the celebration that would take place that night.
"What's wrong, Dillon? My hen handles a stick better than you handle that hammer!"
"Kon, close your eyes! Maybe then he'll stand a chance!"
"I'd say Dillon's no different from a rabid bear… but I think the bear would be more useful in a fight!"
"Oh, shut your mouths, you sons of bitches!!!" Dillon roared, forgetting about Kon for a moment and charging at his friends with friendly murderous intent.
The nearby children who had been watching began to repeat what Dillon had shouted — "sons of bitches" — and the mothers were not pleased. Now they were furious with him. He might stand a chance against his friends in a fair fight, but against the madams? He had none.
He got his ear pulled and was put to work like everyone else. There would be no more training that day.
Kon sighed, curious. This way of life was not essentially bad, but for someone who wanted to conquer the world, it was not ideal. He could not remain there forever, and with that in mind, he went to the elder's house to meet him.
Inside, the old man was seated, drinking a cup of green tea. When he saw Kon, he opened a wide smile.
"Sit here with me, Kon!" he invited.
Kon sat down, but he did not want tea.
"I need to leave, my good sir. I have a goal to fulfill," Kon said without preamble.
The elder choked and, after coughing for a few seconds, replied,
"D-don't you want to stay a few more days?" the old man asked, visibly shocked.
"No. I'm grateful for the hospitality, but I've already seen everything interesting there is to see here. With the exception of Old Norman, of course — but he can't be very interesting either," Kon replied, clearly uninterested in the village's affairs.
"I beg you! Stay a few more days!"
"Huh? Why?"
When Kon asked that, a commotion rose outside the elder's house. People were shouting, and the sounds they made resembled fighting. The two of them quickly stood to see what was happening, since the entire month had been peaceful.
"This is the last time we'll say it: surrender! My father won't ask again. If you try to resist, this time we have the power to kill you!" announced a middle-aged man in the middle of the village. On his hands he wore a pair of bronze gauntlets. Kon did not need to think long to see that the gauntlets were far more impressive than Dillon's hammer.
They did not seem to match the man's appearance. He clearly did not know how to fight — but even a child is dangerous with a deadly weapon in hand.
At the feet of the man with the gauntlets lay Dillon, his hammer full of cracks. He was coughing blood, clearly unable to move away.
"BARCLAY! WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?!" the elder exclaimed, far more shocked than he would normally be when speaking to one of Old Norman's sons.
"You've annoyed us enough, old man. My father won't be so kind anymore. Now you can kneel and swear loyalty — or die trying to repel us!" The man with the gauntlets had a vicious scar across his face, and one of his arms was visibly defective, somewhat crooked and thin, an obvious contrast to the rest of his muscular body.
When Dillon saw Barclay entering the village alone — whereas before he always came with his brothers — he snorted coldly and charged at him without hesitation, hammer in hand. He could not have expected the gauntlets to suddenly appear over the man's fists, nor that they had the power to crack his hammer and subdue him with a single blow.
Now Barclay stood over him, preparing to deliver a finishing strike and send Dillon's soul to the beyond.
"Well, old man? This time I can take all of you together and kill you at once — watch!" When Barclay said this, he punched the air in a random direction where no one stood — except for a house. A blast of wind shot forth from the punch, and the house was demolished in less than two seconds.
The people panicked and ran toward the elder and Kon, hiding behind them — including all the men who could have fought to protect their lives.
Barclay looked at the huddled mass of people and smiled coldly. He was enjoying spreading terror like that. This time he aimed his fist downward, indicating that the next victim would be Dillon, not a house.
"C-companion Kon…" the elder began, before being interrupted.
"So that's why you wanted me around, huh?" Kon concluded.
"Yes… forgive me," the old elder yielded, his pleading gaze fixed on Kon.
"Very well."
"LOOK, OL—"
Before Barclay's bronze fist could descend even a centimeter, Kon closed the distance in a single step and drove a punch into the man's chest.
Barclay flew three hundred meters backward before being stopped by a tree, which bent under the impact. He coughed up two mouthfuls of blood, enough to fill two wine goblets. Kon took another step and once again closed the distance between them.
"You're even less impressive than Harlan Rei. Is your father stronger than you?" Kon asked casually as he examined Barclay from head to toe.
Barclay stared at Kon in terror, utterly incredulous. Minutes ago he had been confident he could finally take control of that cursed village and had therefore refused his brothers' help, presumptuous. Now he was drenched in his own blood, his back in agony, unable to feel his legs from the way his spine had slammed against the tree that now leaned crooked behind him.
"Your father must be stronger. Otherwise, it wouldn't make sense for you to hold such a treasure. Usually the head of the family is the strongest man, isn't he? Regardless of age." Kon turned as if addressing everyone behind him, who watched in disbelief — yet excitement.
The elder hurried to explain:
"You're right, Kon! But until recently, Norman and his sons did not possess magical treasures! Someone must be supporting them — or they found a gold mine to buy something like that!"
"Eeeh…" Kon turned back to Barclay, making the man tremble involuntarily under his curious gaze — it was fear. And when he heard Kon's name, he felt as if he were standing before a demon.
Kon stepped on the gauntlet covering Barclay's left hand. It cracked and shattered easily under slight pressure. Barclay screamed — not because of the gauntlet, but because his hand was crushed beneath it.
"P-please! Let me go! I-it w-w-won't h-h-happen again… AAAAAGGGHHH!!!"
As he begged, his right hand was broken as well, just like the left. The gauntlets became shards under Kon's foot, and so did the bones beneath skin and flesh.
It was the first time the people of that village had witnessed a middle-aged man scream and cry the way Barclay was. They were excited — but also felt a twinge of guilt, as though Kon had gone too far. The most terrifying part was that he did not seem to care about committing such violence.
"Very well. You may go," Kon said, and turned his back, returning to the villagers. He had expected a proper fight, but it had been like an eagle hunting a snake: no matter how venomous the snake, it is not as swift and fierce as an eagle.
The people parted for him to pass, but he stopped before the elder.
"Whether I let him go or not, it will draw that Old Norman's wrath. I want to see with my own eyes whether he's strong. So perhaps I should stay a few more days after all," Kon said, a look of anticipation on his face.
"…Yes." The elder did not know how to respond. Before, he would have been grateful to hear that. Now, however, he felt something was wrong. He wanted to drive Norman and his sons away — not kill them. The elder sighed in resignation, feeling infinitely anxious. He could sense that something big and terrible was about to happen. Kon should not have gone so far.
The others felt the same, though none were bold enough to say it aloud. They were ordinary people accustomed to peaceful routines. The only deaths they witnessed were of the sick or of animals slaughtered for food. Killing people was the business of bandits or warriors; no one there was either — not even Dillon, despite his temper.
Barclay rose with difficulty and ran off clumsily, stumbling and falling many times on his way home. It took a while before he disappeared from everyone's sight.
Night fell and the sun was gone. The festive and cheerful mood from before no longer existed. The people still gathered around the sacred tree, brought instruments and food, but they lacked the light and joyful spirit to celebrate. The elder recited the poem and asked them to play something. The rest spoke more naturally, unlike the previous month when anything sparked laughter and jokes. Even the children were subdued; Barclay's scream had touched their souls.
Kon ate a chicken leg seasoned with honey and orange, feeling as though he had discovered one of the wonders of the world. Or perhaps he was simply excited for what was to come. Before he realized it, he was thinking about what kind of man Old Norman must be. In Fallen Flowers he had friendly matches, but here, in the middle of the world, he would have only real battles. Beyond the limits of a city, beyond the limits of law, the strongest rules… and Kon was eager to reach the top. That was why he ate without concern.
That night even the elder did not wish to come too close to him. The old man wondered how terrible Kon must have been in his revolt against Harald Rei. He did not want to think much about it; he was unsettled enough already.
Dillon was bedridden. The gauntlets' blow had struck him squarely, but he was in no danger of losing his health or life.
Meanwhile, within one of the forest's arms eight kilometers to the east, a man coughed up blood. He had been coughing for hours; it was improving, almost like a respiratory illness. He was furious, however. Before him knelt an old man begging for his life. Behind the old man stood his five sons, including poor Barclay, who looked more frightened than all the others — because he had caused that coughing.
"Of all the places he could have gone, why there?" the man asked rhetorically. He was calmer now and would no longer kill Old Norman and his sons.
The middle-aged man was dressed like a nomad, the kind who wanders the world without a fixed destination. A few strands of white hair crowned his head, and he wore a full beard of which he seemed very proud, constantly wiping it to make sure no drops of blood remained.
"Kon! The new celebrity of the commoners!"
Old Norman was just a bald old man with a thin beard and mean eyes. His sons were equally unimpressive, except for Barclay, who seemed like something more — not in appearance, but in strength.
"Time to go there and finish him myself. I've always hated people with frivolous fame!" the middle-aged man declared.
"Y-yes, my lord!" Old Norman agreed without hesitation. Deep down he was excited, though still visibly frightened by the outburst of rage the middle-aged man had shown earlier. His sons felt the same — especially Barclay.
"I need to prepare a few spells first. I will meditate. Do not interrupt me," the middle-aged man said.
They all agreed and watched him enter one of the makeshift huts where they lived. Once he was out of sight, they were finally able to breathe in relief.
"That old Quinlan is a lucky bastard! Just when I thought I could easily take his lands, he gets support from the most talked-about little rat around here!" Old Norman said, now releasing his own fury.
"You can't even blame Barclay. Any one of us would have ended up the same way!" said the youngest son, the fifth.
"But there's nothing to worry about. Our Blood Lord will deal with him! No rising rat or small-town lord can stop him!" said the fourth son, fanaticism shining in his eyes.
"Of course. When our lord comes out of meditation, we'll become the masters of those peasants! We'll enslave the men and take their women!" Old Norman concluded.