NOVEL NEXT Chapter 51: Turmoil Among the Stalls
The hustle and bustle of the district remained wrapped in the cacophony of merchants and businesspeople pleading desperately with two thuggish figures. These men, in their late twenties, had been marked by the hard life of rough, scarred skin, telling tales of a life steeped in violence. They stood brazenly in front of a metal scrap shop, their posture exuding an air of authority born from fear.
One of the thugs-an incredibly tall fellow with a sneer on his face, unslung the axe that had been riding his back. The blade gleamed with cruel brightness under the sun as he set its head firmly against the solid ground, laying his right hand on top of the handle. Then he pulled out an older man-they must have been the shop owner-with a cruel grin and paying no heed to the wailing of the man's wife.
"Please, just one more week! We'll pay, I promise!" the woman pleaded, her voice cracking under the weight of desperation.
The thug's barbaric laughter echoed through the district like a grotesque melody. "If we don't chop off his hand, how will you remember to pay next time?" he taunted, his words dripping with mockery.
Beorn's eyes flickered between the unfolding scene and Nyxander. Droplets of perspiration rolled down his pale face, fear sticking him to where he stood. But before a protest could lodge itself in his throat, Nyxander was off, running like an unseen shadow toward the heart of the commotion.
The thug's arm faltered; something was obviously amiss. His axe, so readied for destruction, refused to rise. Puzzled, he tried lifting again, the muscles bulging in effort, but that weapon would not move. A low grunt escaped his lips as his eyes trailed down to the handle of it, where two fingers rested lightly upon its tip. Up those fingers his gaze climbed to Nyxander's calm, disdainful expression.
"Hey, kid, didn't your parents teach you not to meddle with strangers?" the thug growled, trying to mask his unease.
Nyxander's lips curled into a mocking smile. "That's true, but they also taught me that strangers without manners are no different from wild beasts, and beasts belong in cages or the wilderness."
The words cut like a whip, inflaming the thug's anger. He tugged at the axe with all his might, veins bulging on his arms, but it remained anchored by Nyxander's two fingers. Nyxander increased the pressure by a fraction; the ground beneath the axe cracked. The head of the weapon sank deeper into the solid earth. Anger boiled over, but before he could act,
Before the thug could even react, Nyxander's left fist sprang forward, like a coiled spring released, cutting through the air with precision until it came to a stop an inch from the thug's chest, hovering there with an almost surgical intent. With the flick of his index and middle fingers, Nyxander sent the man flying backward. The thug's body arced through the air before crashing into a series of goods carriages, splintering them into chaos. He somersaulted across the ground like a dislocated rag doll, stopping far away from the scene.
The second thug, his face contorted with righteous anger, reached behind him to draw his axe. Screaming a battle cry, he charged towards Nyxander, his weapon flying in a downward arc through the air. Nyxander calmly pulled the axe embedded in the ground upwards with the ease of raising a feather. Their weapons clashed, but the force of Nyxander's swing sent the thug's axe spinning into the air; the thug himself was lifted off the ground, his grip on the weapon betrayed him.
Nyxander seized the opportunity, his left index and middle fingers striking like a serpent. The thug was flung backward, tumbling into the remains of the broken carriages and slamming into his recovering comrade. Both men groaned, struggling to stand, their battered bodies sprawled amidst the shattered remains of the carriages.
As they struggled to their feet, Nyxander struck the flying axe with his and sent it flying in a perfect arc. It impacted into the ground a few inches from the trembling legs of the two thugs. Now frozen in sheer terror, their wide eyes watched Nyxander advance toward them, his aura screaming an overwhelming presence into their minds.
"If you cause any more trouble, I won't guarantee your heads will stay attached to your necks," he said in a voice low and laced with unshakeable authority. A small burst of energy was let out by him, pressing against the thugs like an unseen weight.
Sweat poured down their faces as they supported each other to stand. One of them, his voice shaking yet defiant, managed to stammer, "I hope you can keep that confidence when he comes."
Nyxander's sharp eyes narrowed. The man's trembling voice belied a strange confidence that piqued his curiosity. "Fine. I'll keep this axe with me until then," Nyxander replied coldly, his tone measured but deadly.
The thugs exchanged a wary glance before retreating, one dragging his axe behind him as they hobbled away. Nyxander's piercing gaze followed them, his mind now intrigued by the implication of their words.
Nyxander casually hoisted the axe over his right shoulder, the blade glinting under the midday sun like a shard of molten silver. His grip on the handle remained firm, a quiet testament to his readiness. His gaze lingered on the retreating forms of the thugs, their figures shrinking into the distance as if consumed by the horizon itself.
"Zion," a voice called from behind, breaking the thread of his focus. He turned to meet Beorn's beaming face.
"Wow! Just a single fist, and you sent them flying like leaves in a storm. I really underestimated you," Beorn marveled, his voice brimming with admiration.
Their exchange was interrupted by the old couple approaching them, their steps hurried and grateful. The elderly man clasped Nyxander's hand with a trembling grip.
"Thank you, young man! You've saved us," the old man said, his gratitude spilling over like a river after heavy rains.
"That's nothing," Nyxander replied with a modest tone. "It's our duty as members of Aqua Astro to help."
But the old couple's gratitude was unyielding. "At least let us give you something as a token of our appreciation," the elderly woman insisted, stepping closer with earnest eyes.
Nyxander smiled faintly and took a step back, raising a hand to politely decline. "I appreciate the thought, but we're quite busy right now." Without giving them time to press further, he turned away and began walking, his stride measured and purposeful. Beorn hurried to keep up, his admiration spilling into words as they moved.
"Look at you! Carrying five boxes with one hand as if they were Scoop up leaves, while I nearly dislocated my arm just getting one to the kitchen," Beorn joked, a faint smile lighting his face. "Our Astro leader would be floored by your strength. A single fist, and they were airborne!"
Nyxander barely registered the praise. His mind churned with thoughts, his expression shadowed by contemplation. "Thankfully, Nullpoint stopped me before my true fist landed," he thought, the memory of the almost-unleashed force sending a shiver down his spine. "If I hadn't held back, they might've been dead, and that would've drawn unnecessary attention. Worse, I could've faced a full station inquiry. I need to tread carefully here and stay under the radar."
Beorn, unaware of Nyxander's inner turmoil, slung a friendly arm over his shoulder. "Why don't you join me?" he said, his tone conspiratorial. "With your strength and mine, we could put the Saint Race on edge and reform the heavens!"
Nyxander turned to him, his thoughts still clouded by his incomplete understanding of the station's inner workings. "I'll think about it," he replied, his nod polite but noncommittal.
Beorn's smile faltered slightly, but he masked it with a shrug. "Fine, take your time. Just don't keep me waiting too long." He gestured toward the border between their patrol zone and the Flame border, where the day's light began to wane. "Since we're almost done with our shift, why don't we relax for a bit?"
Nyxander nodded silently, but the brief respite was shattered by a sudden roar from across the wide pathway marking their patrol boundary.
"Well, if it isn't our heroic boy!" a mocking voice called out, dripping with condescension.
Beorn stiffened beside Nyxander, his composure visibly shaken, though he quickly masked it. Nyxander, however, remained unfazed, his eyes narrowing as he turned toward the source of the voice.
Across the boundary stood two figures, Ken, his sneer as sharp as a blade, and Centric, whose stern demeanor acted as a counterbalance. Ken's mocking grin widened as he continued.
"You need to learn to keep your mouth shut, Ken," Centric admonished, his voice cool but firm.
The tension that had momentarily dissipated now surged back like a tide, thickening the air between the two sides. Nyxander and Centric locked, their eyes burning with an intensity that could shatter steel. Even from across the border, their silent defiance radiated like the heat of a smoldering forge, a silent warning to anyone foolish enough to cross them.