CHAPTER 92: CONTFRONTATION

The two cloaked figures stopped in front of them. Up close, the pressure from the taller one was suffocating. A sword rested at his waist, the sheath etched with faint runes.

Then, the giant spoke — a deep, gravelly voice that made the floor seem to vibrate.

"Are these fledglings supposed to escort us?" he said, his tone dripping disdain. "Is this the best your guild can provide?"

A wave of murderous intent burst from him — raw and suffocating. The room went silent. Conversations cut off mid-word. Mugs slipped from hands. The very air felt thick, heavy enough to choke.

Oliver’s breath hitched — his pulse pounding, his instincts screaming danger. Ariana paled, her fingers tightening on her staff as her knees trembled. Around them, even the seasoned adventurers in the hall began to falter, some dropping to one knee under the invisible pressure.

But Isolde didn’t flinch.

Her expression turned cold — utterly still. Then, her lips curled into a dangerous smile.

"You’re radiating quite the killing intent," she said quietly. "Let’s see how it fares against mine."

The moment her voice dropped, the world seemed to tilt.

Her murderous aura flooded the hall like a storm, invisible yet suffocating. The air itself seemed to shatter under the pressure. Those already struggling gasped and fell flat on the ground, unable to move. The wooden beams above creaked and groaned.

The massive man’s aura collapsed. He and his smaller companion both dropped to one knee, blood dripping from their noses, faces pale with shock.

The silence was deafening — broken only by the sound of ragged breathing.

Then, a calm, measured voice drifted down from the upper floor.

"That’s enough."

Everyone turned.

An old man stood at the railing above, robes marked with the guild’s insignia. His expression was calm — almost kindly — but his eyes were sharp as glass.

"Miss Isolde," he said, his tone steady. "I believe they’ve learned their lesson."

Oliver quickly stepped closer, touching Isolde’s shoulder lightly. "That’s enough," he murmured.

For a moment, it looked like she might ignore him — then, with a faint exhale, she drew her aura back like a tide receding from shore.

The suffocating pressure vanished.

The two cloaked figures gasped for breath, clutching at their chests. Around the hall, adventurers slumped against tables and walls, sweat dripping from their faces, eyes wide in stunned fear.

The guild fell eerily silent.

And when their gazes turned toward Isolde — the woman who had just made even a giant kneel — it was with something between awe and terror.

She didn’t spare them a glance. Her eyes stayed fixed on the cloaked man, cold and unyielding.

"Next time," she said flatly, "learn some manners before speaking."

No one dared to breathe too loudly after that.

Both of the cloaked figures slowly pushed themselves up from the floor, their movements stiff and unsteady. The taller one wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his pride clearly more wounded than his body. His companion — the smaller hooded figure — steadied him with a gloved hand.

Oliver let out a small sigh and signaled toward Ariana. "Go on. Patch them up a little before they collapse again."

Ariana blinked, caught off guard. "Huh— ah, right." She raised her staff, the faint light-blue glow of healing magic forming around the tip. "Mend," she whispered, and soft waves of energy drifted toward the two strangers.

The glow spread across their bodies, sealing small ruptures, soothing the violent strain left behind by Isolde’s aura. Even so, the tall man’s breathing remained uneven.

Ariana’s hands trembled slightly as she maintained the spell — not because of the exertion, but because of the tension. The memory of Isolde’s killing intent still lingered in the air like an invisible poison. Her pulse hadn’t slowed since it happened.

Gods, she thought nervously, if this is what being in their party means... I may have overestimated my courage.

When the last traces of healing light faded, Oliver gave Ariana an approving nod.

"Good work."

"T-Thanks," she murmured, lowering her staff.

Oliver turned his attention toward the pair in front of them, his expression calm but sharp. "Whatever the reason, looking down on someone the first time you meet them is still rude, isn’t it?"

Before the towering man could speak, a soft, composed voice broke through the tension — distinctly feminine and strikingly gentle in contrast.

"W-We’re sorry for our earlier rudeness."

Everyone blinked, slightly surprised; the smaller hooded figure had stepped forward, her tone sincere despite the hesitation in her voice.

Though her words were polite, the tall man beside her — Ronald, judging from the way she turned toward him — still looked defiant. His jaw was tight, his hands curled at his sides.

Isolde’s lips curved into a faint, teasing smile. "You’re apologizing, yet your companion’s eyes seem to say otherwise."

The woman sighed softly, almost exasperated. "Ronald, what are you doing? It was our fault. Please, apologize."

Ronald clenched his teeth before bowing stiffly. "I am sorry for my earlier rudeness," he said, though the words came out like forced gravel. "I acknowledge your strength — but I will not forgive you for harming my master."

The woman immediately stepped between them, her tone flustered. "Please don’t mind him. He’s my knight, and my safety is his first duty. He only acted out of loyalty."

Isolde’s amusement vanished, replaced by cool indifference. "I understand loyalty," she said evenly, "but that doesn’t give anyone the right to throw their weight around. Nobles or not, you started this."

Oliver sighed and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Alright, alright. Let’s not drag it out any further. They’ve already apologized, so let’s just move on." He turned to the cloaked pair with a half-smile. "Even though our first meeting was... memorable, why don’t we try again properly?"

He gestured toward his team. "I’m Oliver — C-class adventurer. That’s Ariana, B-class, a support-type mage. And the scary one beside me is Isolde — S-class combat mage."

The smaller hooded figure bowed lightly. "I’m Elara," she said after a pause, deliberately withholding any family name. "And this is my knight, Ronald."

"Good," Isolde said curtly, folding her arms. "Now that the pleasantries are done, shall we get moving?"

Elara nodded, glancing at Lena as she offered a polite farewell before walking toward the exit.

Oliver stretched his neck, muttering as he followed, "Oh come on, calm down, will you?"

Isolde only smirked faintly but said nothing. Ariana trailed close behind, clearly still nervous but curious about their mysterious client.

The moment the heavy guild doors shut behind them, the silence that had hung over the hall broke.

Dozens of adventurers — who’d been frozen in place the entire time — let out a collective sigh of relief.

"Holy hell," one of them muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "I thought I was gonna pass out from that killing intent."

"Did you see the big guy’s face when she pushed back? He almost puked!" another whispered, and laughter, uneasy but alive, rippled through the guild at last.

Behind the counter, Lena shook her head with a faint smile. "That group... they’re going to be trouble," she murmured, watching the door swing shut again.

Oliver followed them out to the small clearing beside the guild where a handful of mounted knights were fussing with saddles and packs. Morning light lifted off metal and leather; the air smelled of horse sweat and oil. A few horses stamped impatiently as their riders tightened straps.

Ronald moved ahead to confer with the captain, voice low. Even from a distance Oliver’s senses — still keyed from recent runes — picked up fragments.

"Is everything ready?"

"Yes, captain."

"Good. We leave on my mark."

A murmur rippled through the mounted men. One of them leaned in, an edge of ill-temper in his voice. "Did someone really accept the mission? We expected a proper escort, not a circus."

Ronald didn’t answer immediately; he only turned his head toward them. The riders followed his gaze. Up close, their scoffs were plainly audible.

"They look so young. What can they even do?" one sneered.

Another, less subtle and crueler, spat, "At least they can be used as meat shields."

The words hung in the air and landed like a slap.

Ronald’s face went hard. He stepped forward, boots scraping on the packed earth, and for the first time Oliver noticed the coiled power in the man’s shoulders — the latent violence in a man who’d learned to kill. He gave the speaker a look that could have frozen fire.

"Don’t ever try anything with them," Ronald said, the contempt in his voice like a blade. "Or you won’t even know how you died."

The mounted men stammered, half-embarrassed, half-angry. Whatever bravado they’d been working up shrank a degree or two under that look. Ronald returned to Elara’s side, whispering something quick to her; she nodded and smoothed her cloak with trembling fingers.

They rode over then, the horses’ hooves thudding lightly as the small party organized itself. Elara’s face was pale but composed when she stepped forward. "Everything is ready," she informed Isolde and Oliver. Her voice wavered only once — when she added, "We should depart now."

Isolde looked the knights over, expression flat. "Are they coming with us?" she asked.

"Yes," Ronald replied. "They’ll be following in a flank. They ride under my command."