'Human bandits... How is this any different from goblins?' Ogre reached out to grab the reins of the dragon-blood horse, attempting to get a handle on the mount.
By now, Macar had already charged into the occupied village with sword in hand.
'Was it only just taken over?'
As he drew closer, Macar also spotted the captured villagers... and the dead guards.
Among them were corpses wearing the blood-stained black robes of the Church of Dawn.
'Damn it!'
This discovery stoked Macar's anger several fold!
It was clear that there were Professionals among these bandits!
"Not good, a gray-robed knight of the church!" At this moment, the raiders also clearly recognized Macar's attire.
"Damn it, how did they get here so fast?!"
However, though these raiders were somewhat surprised by Macar's identity, not a single one retreated.
Instead, they proactively launched an attack toward him.
This had no effect on Macar, however; he even managed to kill several of them with the sword qi projected from his furious strikes before they could even let out a cry.
This was the utter suppression of non-Professionals by a Professional!
What was more, Macar was a Paladin of Dawn, renowned for his martial prowess.
The armor-like film formed by his Dawn battle qi allowed Macar to completely ignore these weak attacks.
On the other hand, his counterattacks were lethal to these non-Professionals—grazes maimed, and direct hits killed.
"What are you afraid of? There's only one of him!"
Just as Macar cut down four or five people in quick succession, a voice like a bear's roar boomed out.
Immediately following the sound was a mountain-like 'meatball.'
Bam—!
The entry of this 'meatball' could be described in a single word—smash!
Indeed, this lump of a 'meatball' had leapt and smashed down from the heights of a scout tower like a falling meteor.
The sheer momentum of the descent forced even Macar to dodge to the side, temporarily avoiding the brunt of the impact.
However, the 'meatball's' attack was far from over; the smashing landing was merely his entrance.
After carving a massive crater into the ground, the 'meatball' utilized the rebound to 'bounce' back up.
His target was none other than Macar, who had just dodged the initial strike.
Macar naturally would not stand there idly and let himself be crushed.
This secondary bouncing impact might not carry as much force as the initial descent, and there was a high probability he would be fine even if he blocked it head-on.
But Macar was not the type to enjoy getting hit for no reason, so he had no intention of taking an unnecessary blow.
Thus, evading remained his best option.
But just as Macar prepared to dodge, the unexpected occurred.
'Not good!'
Macar looked up slightly and noticed something off about the airborne 'meatball'—the opponent had actually forced his body to unfold in midair.
Immediately after, a thick, sticky, gel-like substance spewed from the 'meatball's' belly button at extreme speed.
Furthermore, it perfectly predicted the position Macar was moving toward.
Unable to dodge, Macar could only reflexively swing his sword to meet it.
Sparkling, pure white battle qi enveloped the blade.
It collided with the bizarre projectile.
'Oh no!'
As an abnormal sensation traveled down his blade, Macar realized he had miscalculated—the moment the sticky attack clashed with the battle qi erupting from his sword, it burst and scattered!
Ultimately, it turned into a fibrous web, spreading down from the blade to wrap around Macar's entire body.
Yet that was not the worst of it. The worst part was that the 'meatball man' had already pounced toward Macar, following the trajectory of the web.
Right now, Macar's old strength was spent and his new strength had yet to gather, and his movements were further restricted by the hot, sticky web.
Unable to maneuver, he could only serve as a stationary target for the flesh-ball's impact.
Bam—!
"Ugh..."
The heavy collision forcibly blasted Macar out of the web's restraint, throwing him dozens of meters backward before he finally managed to slow his momentum by driving his sword into the ground.
"He's a consumer of a forbidden potion..."
A mouthful of blood trickled from the corner of Macar's mouth.
Caught off guard just now, he had indeed suffered a major setback.
"Good job, Third."
A cold, sinister voice came from the entrance of the village. Unlike the previous meatball man, this newcomer gave off the immediate impression of a humanoid serpent!
"Warlock..."
Macar wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and called out their identities.
Forbidden potions were always the fastest shortcut to becoming a formal Professional. As long as one didn't die from consuming them, they would gain power comparable to what other Professionals spent years of day-and-night bitter cultivation to achieve.
Furthermore, there was virtually no threshold.
As for future potential—did such a thing even matter to the raiders and hoodlums of the frontier lands?
They had no future potential to begin with, and they cared even less about things like personality alteration, shortened lifespans, or drastic physical mutations.
All they had to worry about was how to scrape together enough money, and whether their constitution and willpower could withstand the low-grade potions found in the black markets of the frontier.
The mortality rate of forbidden potions was already high to begin with, let alone the inferior, contraband ones sold in the frontier's black market—calling them experimental prototypes would be an understatement.
Yet even so, they were tempting enough for gamblers, as there was no faster way to acquire power.
It was only the cost threshold that deterred many who harbored such thoughts—those daring enough to drink them couldn't gather the funds, while those who could afford them had no need to take the risk...
...unless one desperately craved power.
Thus, even as a Paladin, Macar rarely encountered users of forbidden potions.
Yet unexpectedly, on this trip, he had run into two of them at once. He didn't know whether to consider himself lucky or unlucky.
"Leave him alive?" the meatball man, addressed as Third, asked.
"Try to leave him for Big Sister," the snake-man said, flicking his tongue and licking his finger. "She loves this type."
'Three?!'
By this time, Macar had pulled his sword from the ground. Relying on his sharp hearing, he was able to catch their conversation from a distance.
It was clear that the worst-case scenario had materialized.
There were three Professional-grade raiders present...
'Miss Gelin.' Macar's first thought was not how to face the enemies, but rather to turn his head back.
Seeing that Ogre was staying far back on the dragon-blood horse, he let out a sigh of relief—if he proved to be no match for them, he could at least have Gelin escape first, and then figure out a way to extricate himself.
Macar had never once worried about dying here.
As a Paladin from the Church of Dawn, even if he couldn't defeat three Professionals, escaping would not be an issue.
His previous setback was merely the result of being caught off guard.
"Well then, round two... let us begin!"
Turning back, he raised his sword. The white light enveloping Macar gradually grew intense as he channeled more of his battle qi.
With each step he took forward, the pure white light eventually condensed into flames, incinerating every trace of slime and filth clinging to his body.
Rate on N.U.
