Roan announced what Roland asked him to.
The room buzzed with quiet anticipation as Roland’s words sank into the minds of those gathered. They stood in tight rows, shoulder to shoulder n and won both, cloaked in shadows of their past, broken and hardened in equal asure.
So bore visible scars, others hid theirs deeper, behind stone-cold expressions and eyes that had seen too much.
Roan stood beside Roland, arms crossed, his expression calm but his heart tight. He knew what kind of crowd they were dealing with.
Rogues, assassins, ex-rcenaries, ex-slaves, street orphans raised on blades, fallen knights there wasn’t a single soul here who hadn’t killed or been near death. Many didn’t even flinch when addressed. They didn’t need loyalty,they needed fear or respect. Roan didn’t yet have the forr. Roland had both, and this was his mont to cent it.
Roland scanned their faces. Most didn’t even et his eyes. Their loyalty was paper-thin, bound by paynt and vague promises. That wouldn’t last not in war, not when temptation and betrayal whispered from every corner.
So he stepped forward, voice sharp and steady.
"You’ve all co here from different places, different fates. So of you suffered, so of you made others suffer."
He let that hang in the air. A few twitched. A flicker in their eyes.
There was recognition. While so had guilt and defiance.
"It doesn’t matter anymore. The past is dead. What matters is the choice you make now. The chance to start again. To build sothing new."
He paused, letting silence fill the room before continuing.
"This isn’t like other agencies. You serve and you’re free to walk. You don’t get hunted. You don’t get chained. In your free ti, do what you want.You can drink, whore around,sleep, fight. But betray once, and you won’t live to regret it."
Still no reaction. Stoic faces, guarded eyes.
Roland’s lips curved into a faint smile.
"I know what you’re thinking. Who is this man to demand loyalty from us? What power does he hold? Let’s not waste ti then—"
He walked to the side, toward the weapon rack—but instead of picking a sword or spear, he casually grabbed a small kitchen knife. Thin. Rusted near the hilt. More fit for slicing fruit than defending yourself.
He held it up for them all to see.
"Anyone who can leave a single scratch on or just a drop of blood gets one thousand gold coins and a special technique scroll from my private vault."
Now, finally, their expressions have changed. Eyes lit up. Greed. Interest. Contempt.
"All of you can co at once," Roland said, standing tall in the center of the training hall.
A few chuckled darkly while thinking inwardly
’This guy’s insane.’
’Arrogant bastard.’
’Hope he’s not made of glass.’
Weapons were drawn with steely clicks daggers, sabers, short spears, even a chain whip. Footsteps echoed as they slowly began to spread out, circling him like wolves around a lone prey.
Roland smiled inwardly.
’Let’s see how far you can go.’
The air tensed.
Then they charged.
The first wave ca fast with three from the front, two from behind and ard with short blades, clubs with utmost focus.
These weren’t thugs, but trained fighters, rcenaries perhaps. Their steps were coordinated, and attacks were quite precise. But Roland didn’t move from his spot.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded.
Thrum!
His perception flared to its maximum, and the world around him seed to blur and slow. The scrape of boots on gravel. The sharp inhale of a lung before a strike. He felt it all. Ti seed to bend at his will.
The first attacker lunged, a short sword thrusting for his heart. Roland’s body twisted with fluid grace, stepping just outside the blade’s arc. His foot snapped like a coiled whip, smashing into the man’s ribs. A sickening crunch echoed as the attacker flew sideways, skidding over the stone and colliding with a pillar.
BANG!
"WHAT?"
Gasps were heard from those who were afar.
At the sa mont, the second assailant ca from behind with a horizontal slash.
Roland didn’t even look as he ducked, spun, and raised his finger to grab the wrist and tapped two fingers against the man’s wrist.
There was a dry crack following which the bone dislocated and the man let out a strangled cry, collapsing to his knees, clutching his limp hand.
More surged forward which was six, maybe seven in number with eyes fierce, forming a loose crescent.
Roland’s body blurred.
A twist here, a duck there. A barehanded block absorbed a blade’s montum, followed by a rising knee that shattered a jaw. A sidestep had two n swing toward him—and collide with each other, knocking themselves down.
Roland then stepped around, too fast for others to react.
Seeing this, the remaining fighters exchanged glances, a silent decision made. They no longer underestimated him. It was ti to coordinate.
From all sides, five of them sprang at once. One aid for his eyes, two others for his torso and back, another at his knees, while the last charged from above with a downward strike.
They attacked without restraint, blades aid at all his vital spots. It was a well-synchronized assault, designed to overwhelm.
Roland’s eyes lit up with satisfaction.
Finally... Sothing interesting.
Just when the attackers thought they had him cornered, a thunderclap rang out.
BOOM!
A shockwave erupted from Roland’s body. It wasn’t energy in a magical sense rather it was raw force, compressed from motion, skill, and a perfect sense of timing. A pulse burst forth with invisible fangs.
In the blink of an eye, all five attackers were blasted away, flung like ragdolls. They crashed into the ground with bone-jarring force. Cries of pain echoed as blood spurted from mouths. So rolled over groaning; others didn’t get up at all.
The onlookers froze, stunned.
"What the hell...?"
"How is this possible?!"
"This
...he didn’t even draw his weapon!"
One thing Roland noted that till now none of them addressed him as Lord.
’Too unruly to even acknowledge and call Lord...Then I will just beat the shit out of you all until you recognise .’
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