Chapter 30
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 30
Chapter Title: Martial Artists, You Bastards
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So, this is what happened one day.
Lately, I'd been raking in good money, so I figured I'd splurge a bit. Humming to myself, I strolled into a tavern that night.
The place was quiet, the vibe perfect.
Since I was eating alone anyway, I claimed a big table right away. The menu prices were surprisingly low across the board, so I ordered beer and skewers without hesitation. Settling in comfortably, I enjoyed my drinks, and damn, those skewers were way better than expected.
The smoky, salty flavor from some mystery monster meat hooked my taste buds completely. For that price relative to the portions, I was enchanted—I ended up bingeing like it had been ages, without a care for my wallet draining.
Usually, cheap menu items mean pathetic portions. But this place? Portions, taste, price—all a dream.
I was in high spirits. The booze was great, the meat was great.
My mood soared to the heavens.
That's when shit hit the fan.
"Hey, move."
As the buzz was kicking in nicely, a pack of burly guys barreled into the tavern. That alone wouldn't have mattered much, but one of them barked some nonsense at me. Now that was my business.
"You deaf? I said move."
"What the fuck is this guy's deal?"
For a split second, the alcohol made me wonder if I'd misheard. Rewinding my memory confirmed it—he was talking to me. A well-built dude glared at me with clear annoyance. This was serious. A sigh escaped my lips.
Should I draw my sword?
But we're indoors, in the city no less. In a tavern. Pulling steel first just because some asshole picked a fight? That'd make me a straight-up thug. Civilians brawling with blades downtown spells trouble. This world ain't kind to adventurers who stir shit—hell, city guards, basically cops, beat the crap out of offenders all the time.
Anyway, I wasn't a thug; I was an adventurer (though the difference escapes me sometimes). So I decided to at least ask why.
"You fucking moron... no. Why the hell should I move?"
"Can't you see we're short on seats?"
He glanced at his crew like it was obvious.
Sure, I'd hogged a big table solo, but if that was the issue, they could've politely asked, "Mind switching seats? We've got a group." Done.
Instead, these pricks were flexing because they outnumbered me?
A massive rage pounded in my skull. I explained as nicely as I could.
"No clue what bullshit you're spewing, but if anyone's short, it's your parents, right?"
"Huh? What're you on about?"
"Your mom's dead. Got stabbed by some dickhead with a shitty dick. That's what I mean by short. You only got your dad 'cause Mom croaked."
He froze at my savage mom-jab, face blank as he processed it, mumbling to himself.
"...!"
Then his face turned beet red. He'd finally got it.
"You, you motherfucker!"
The bastard exploded in curses. His face twisted like a demon—ugly as hell. So he could dish a mom-burn but can't take one? These types always strut when they start shit but rage when it's returned.
"Duel! I can't let this insult slide—my pride as a martial artist won't allow it!"
"You're a martial artist?"
Ah, that explained the lack of a weapon at his waist.
Outside the walls, monsters lurked everywhere; back alleys crawled with cutthroats ready to shiv you. Travelers or market-goers all packed self-defense gear as common sense.
Exception: martial artists. They shunned weapons. At most, knuckles, gauntlets, claws—cute little toys.
Who knows why. Religious? Body-tempering? Mind-cultivating? Whatever. This idiot didn't strike me as the enlightened type.
I followed the fuming prick outside.
His crew piled out after us. Let's count: one, two, three... total five. All unarmed. Martial artist guild outing or what?
"Fine, a duel... duels are great."
I drew my sword without hesitation.
"You're a martial artist, so bare hands. I'm an adventurer, so sword. Cool?"
"You coward! Fight fair!"
"Shut your dumb mouth, retard. You're fucked, you shithead."
"You, you bastard!"
As I pointed my blade, the guy who'd been all bravado hurling abuse at a stranger turned meek lamb real quick.
He assumed a stance, but unless you're a master, no way bare hands beat a sword. And this clown? Total noob.
He challenged first, too.
My swings? Legal.
"What? Come on."
The fool facing my blade started glancing nervously.
"..."
"What, pussy? Got a problem? Ask your mom for a sword next time, you unarmed fuck."
Common sense: swordsmen don't lose to equal-level martial artists. No weapon? You lose to armed foes. Damage and reach gaps are huge.
Bludgeoning with bone and muscle? Versus slashing with steel? Steel wins, plus bleeding. Punch range versus arm-plus-blade? Obvious.
Common sense, yet so many clueless folks.
Like this martial artist.
"You madman...!"
At my shout, he sweated bullets, eyeing his buddies. Why weren't they helping after he called the duel? I get the confidence from numbers, but you picked the fight—pay up.
Least I'd earned booze money.
Beat 'em down, loot everything—problem solved. His crew worried me, though... hasty swings might make him bolt. I stalled, assessing.
While debating killing him, he suddenly bellowed.
"Th-this bastard's disrespecting martial artists!!! A swordsman mocks martial artists!!"
"What?"
His formerly-spectating crew swarmed me in seconds. Quick think—I backed to a wall. Avoid full encirclement.
Three upfront. Unarmed, so manageable.
Half-surrounded by five total? Swing the sword wild—they won't rush. No true warrior ignores blades.
But... huh?
"What the fuck are all you shitheads?"
I panicked a bit.
Not five. Every damn martial artist nearby heard the yell and swarmed in.
"A swordsman disses martial artists? Can't ignore that."
"Here?"
"What'd he say?"
"Who's mocking martial artists?"
"Hey! Call everyone around!"
"Swordsman punk dissed us martial artists!"
Situation nosedived to despair fast.
This rainbow nightmare almost made me foam at the mouth and pass out. Hell, foam was already dribbling. Over ten muttering martial artists gathered.
Way beyond my "two or three unarmed scrubs" expectation.
"What are you all?! Get lost!"
I screamed hysterically...!
"You the swordsman dissing the Martial Artist Guild?"
"What? What guild? I only dissed that one fucker behind you!"
Then a leader-type stepped forward.
All from the Martial Artist Guild.
To claim "martial artist," you join the guild. Solidarity? When one’s in trouble, they swarm.
Fucking gangsters!
"Doesn't matter. Swordsman insulted martial artist—we can't let it slide. Pride issue."
"Hey, hey...! Bullshit! One-on-one! Duel! Duel! Know what that means? Irrelevant fucks, scram!"
I swung my sword wildly, yelling.
Pride my ass! One guy's beef turned into a dozen mob? If pride fills from this, your moms must gangbang for self-esteem, you shits! I didn't say it.
Too scared I'd die.
"Didn't you start by mocking martial artists?"
"You retards! That fucker without a mom picked the fight first! Unrelated to you! Not gangsters, yet you swarm when it's punchback time? That's your pride?"
"Doesn't change that you insulted a guild member in front of martial artists."
The thick-headed leader wouldn't listen.
"Gaaaahhh!!!!!"
Thus, I got dogpiled like a stray on a hot day by musclebound martial artists. No room to swing as they shoved in.
That's why I ended up laid out in the relief monastery.
"Ah... fuck..."
Treatment cost a whole silver. Rage shook my battered body. Their numbers and brutal hits turned my sword into a toy.
I held out till city guards intervened, saving my loot, but my body turned ragdoll. No mercy in their savage punches.
Bare hands can't beat swords.
Nor solo versus group. One-on-one, I'd slaughter those strong bastards.
But mobbed? Even swordless.
I had a sword, but their rush? Hopeless.
"Feeling better now?"
A blue-haired nun who'd healed me asked.
True fantasy—heal for one silver mended massive wounds instantly. Lucky they stuck to strikes, no joints... fair enough.
No permanent damage anyway.
"Ah, still hurts a bit..."
"Further treatment costs extra."
"Whoa, all good now. Can I head out?"
"I'll help you."
She supported me outside.
No major issues. Unlike Krasheim Alchemist Guild's 2-silver detox salve, this Isbrandt Relief Monastery branch priced fair.
She walked me out, waving cheerily.
"Come again."
Come again? Fuck that, lady.
You telling me to get beat again?
"Ah... fucking bullshit."
I trudged out, depressed.
Worst: demolished by martial artist scum. My pride shattered.
I'd always looked down on them. In this harsh world, weaponless bodybuilders? Pathetic.
Beat by them? Body hurt, heart worse.
One-on-one, I win. But...
"That's why groups matter."
Affiliation.
Yeah. Belonging is key.
Those fucks united under "Martial Artist Guild" to pound me. Groups form for a reason. Churches too—bandits avoid them. Touch one, holy knights, paladins, inquisitors swarm.
Adventurer's Guild? Just a job broker. No backup.
Maybe join a religion? Tempting perks, but tons of rules. Not for freedom-loving me.
"Hm?"
On my way back to the inn.
A fancy big sword hung on a signboard, catching my eye.
Large building.
[Swordsman Guild - Parel Dog]
Swordsman Guild below the sign.