Round Fifteen: White Beard

Holy light has little effect on ordinary humans; at best, it only makes them appear sacred and majestic. Usually, it’s even less intimidating than drawing fake scars on one’s face.
Fortunately, it does boost strength and speed effectively.
The only way to deal with packs of wolves is to have ample stamina and distribute it wisely. The two holy warriors managed their stamina usage quite skillfully, but even so, nearly a week of continuous pursuit had left them somewhat exhausted.
Kastor leaped nimbly, firing deadly arrows one after another. Often, before the first arrow even hit its target, the second arrow was already drawn and nocked. Each arrow struck the target’s eye precisely, as if Kastor never aimed at anything other than the eyes.
“Do you have enough arrows? What if they run out?” Josen, a noble knight renowned for his social skills, asked.
Kastor pulled out the last arrow from his quiver, this time aiming for the right eye.
A strong ogre roared and charged forward, while a thief took advantage of the ogre’s cover to thrust a long spear at Kastor. He even had time to shout at his companions, “The archer must be weak in close combat. He’s already run out of arrows. Let’s go…”
By the time the thief said those words, Kastor had drawn his slightly longer dagger from his waist and stabbed it into the ogre’s mouth. The blade emerged from the back of the ogre’s head, shining brightly under the faint light of the setting sun, its surface soaked in blood and brain matter.
By the time the thief said his second sentence, Kastor had drawn his dagger again. As the ogre fell, Kastor leaped nimbly to avoid the thief’s spear, swung his arm, and sent the dagger flying through the chest of another approaching ogre, embedding it in the forehead of a dwarf behind him.
Before the thief could even utter his final “Ah,” Kastor had drawn his shorter dagger from his waist and stabbed it into the thief’s mouth, turning his tongue into a bloody mess. Naturally, he couldn’t shout anymore.
Before the thief could fall, Kastor pulled out an arrow stuck in the eye socket of a corpse nearby, did a light backflip, landed beside the dead dwarf, pulled out the dagger from the dwarf’s forehead, and looked around. The thieves had unconsciously cleared a space for him. That idiot thief’s assessment of the archer’s combat strength had been thoroughly proven as nonsense.
Incidentally, Kastor had already fired the retrieved arrow into the air. Whether it hit its target was obvious even without guessing.
“Mind your own business. Your companion doesn’t seem to have much strength left,” Kastor said, showing no arrogance—perhaps because he belonged to one of the proudest races.
“Her? She’s far stronger than me,” Josen said with a bitter smile, watching Milia’s agile figure.

And Milia continued to use the corpses of her enemies to rebuild the confidence and will she had once lost. She no longer fought with elegance; instead, she became somewhat reckless. Her minions, falling one after another, were gradually overwhelmed by Milia’s imposing presence, and the three of them moved closer to the center of the circular complex.

Hoffman was shaving his beard. With his head tilted to the side, veins bulging on his neck, which was almost as thick as his head itself, a few coarse stubble strands stood out irregularly like cacti in the Gobi Desert. He gripped one of those slightly yellowed, curly hairs with fingers twice as thick as normal and yanked hard, as if that beard held a deep grudge against him. He tried several times, but the beard persistently eluded him. Even if each hair were as thick as a pig’s bristle, it would still be too thin for Hoffman—his fingers could easily bend a gold coin, but pulling out a beard from his chin was another matter entirely.

“Boss—them—” A thief in leather armor rushed in in a panic, his face tense. “We need to use—”

Hoffman slapped him across the face, cutting him off and venting all his frustration from the failed attempts to shave his beard on this unlucky guy. Now he wouldn’t know what he wanted to use anymore, because with his head spinning, he didn’t need anything else. Hoffman seemed a bit better mooded after ending a life himself. He wiped his chin, temporarily forgetting about the beard that had ruined his mood, took a deep breath, and his bare chest expanded slightly with it. His muscles moved beneath his skin like a bunch of lead balls pushing against each other. He narrowed his eyes, looking at his reflection in the mirror—just in pants—the eight-foot-tall, muscular giant in the mirror satisfied Hoffman greatly.

Another robber rushed to the door, but his comrade on the ground signaled him to stop. Hoffman admired his muscles—he posed in several ways, his muscles shifting between flexibility and hardness, contraction and expansion, making one worry that the crisscrossing scars on his body might reopen from such repeated stretching. Suddenly, Hoffman leaned closer to the mirror to examine his hooked nose—there seemed to be a pimple. He reached out to touch it and tried to squeeze it.

“Boss…” The robber at the door could no longer hold back. Bending slightly, ready to dodge at any moment, he reported cautiously, “What is it?”

“What!” Hoffman turned to glare at his subordinate, still fiddling with the pimple on his nose. If he hadn’t noticed how far away the man was, he would have slapped him again. “Can’t I have some private time?”

“I’m sorry, boss…” the robber said nervously. “Those three are really strong… We’re struggling a bit… Use those things…”

Blood gushed from Hoffman’s nose. A piece of flesh, along with the pimple, was torn off by force.

“There are five hundred people outside.” Hoffman rubbed his nose, looking at his blood-stained fingers. Red veins appeared in his dead-eyed gaze, and he grew excited, like a bull seeing a red cloth fluttering in the wind: “You mean those five hundred from the White Beard Bandit Gang can’t stop just three of them? One of them could take on all of you—well, over 160 of you?”
He took a step forward—a simple step, but it scared one of his subordinates so much that he jumped back far and sat down on the ground.
“I don’t remember my subordinates being this weak.” Hoffman rubbed his nose as if trying to scrub the blood off along with his skin. “Is it because we’ve expanded too rapidly lately and brought in all kinds of people into the gang? Come here. Why are you hiding? I’m not going to eat you. Come on!”
The bandit got up and shakily approached Hoffman. Sweat covered his face. Hoffman’s strong body odor and perfume made him want to sneeze, but he held back, causing the muscles on his face to twist into a strange expression. “Boss… I…”
Hoffman’s expression suddenly became very kind. He stretched out his big hand and patted the bandit’s shoulder gently, but the bandit felt as if he had been hit by a war hammer. “This won’t do! We need to practice the basics hard!”
“Yes… Boss… but… they’re holy knights…” The bandit looked gloomy, suddenly thinking that staying outside and dealing with those three enemies might be a better option.
“Hmm, I see. Go find Deputy Leader Roy—where is he?”
“I… I don’t know… maybe in the cell?”
“Hmm.” Hoffman turned back to continue looking at himself in the mirror. “Go find him. Tell him to try to capture them alive. Don’t let the elves touch them. He can deal with the other two—as for that woman too, right?”