The Extra's Reincarnation

[Location: Elandria, The Leaky Barrel]

The waitress by the bar table finished gathering the scattered plates and mugs onto the counter, her delicate Elven fingers moving with practiced efficiency despite the tremor that ran through them…

The Leaky Barrel, despite its rough exterior and questionable clientele, was known for its surprisingly efficient service.

Or, at least, it usually was. Tonight, however, the Elven waitress seemed to be having a particularly difficult time.

She fumbled with mugs, tripped over her own feet, and spilled drinks with alarming regularity.

It was clear to even the most inebriated patron that this was no seasoned server, but a novice, and a rather clumsy one at that.

She had just about managed to gather the shattered remnants of a drunken brawl when a gruff voice startled her, causing her to nearly drop the tray she was carrying.

"Say, pretty thing," the man slurred, his breath reeking of ale and desperation, "why don’t you leave this dump and come work for me? I’ll pay you double, triple even. And you won’t have to deal with drunken oafs like..." he gestured vaguely towards a snoring patron slumped over a nearby table, "...him."

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The waitress, her cheeks flushing crimson, stammered a response.

"I-I... um... I appreciate the offer, sir, but I... I can’t."

"Don’t be silly," the man insisted, leaning closer, his hand reaching out to grasp her arm.

"A beauty like you shouldn’t be wasting your time in a place like this. You deserve better. I can give you a life of luxury, of comfort..."

"…!"

His touch sent a wave of panic through her. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened on her wrist, while his fingers dug into her arm.

"Please," she whispered with a trembling voice, "let me go."

"Now, why would I do that? I’m just trying to be friendly." The man’s face twisted into a leer and he leaned closer, just within ears reach.

"And I’m sure a pretty little thing like you wouldn’t want to cause a scene, would you?"

The waitress’s eyes widened with fear. She was trapped, cornered by a man who clearly had no respect for her boundaries.

She glanced around frantically, hoping for someone, anyone, to intervene.

But the other patrons, lost in their own drunken revelry, seemed oblivious to her plight.

Except for one.

The cloaked stranger, who had been silently observing the scene unfold, put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

"I believe the lady said she’s not interested."

The drunken man turned towards him, his face contorted in a mixture of confusion and anger.

"And who are you, to be sticking your nose in my business?"

The cloaked figure stood motionless, his hand still resting on the man’s shoulder. Despite the confrontation, his posture remained relaxed, almost bored.

Only his eyes—those piercing red orbs glinting from the shadows of his hood—betrayed any emotion, a cold calculation that seemed to assess and dismiss the drunken patron in the same moment.

"I’m nobody," the cloaked man replied, his voice a low, melodious rumble that somehow carried above the tavern’s din without rising in volume.

"Just someone who thinks a lady deserves the right to refuse unwanted attention."

The drunk’s face flushed an even deeper shade of crimson.

He released the waitress’s arm, turning to face this unexpected challenger.

The waitress took the opportunity to back away, clutching her serving tray to her chest like a shield.

"You’ve got some nerve," the drunk growled, puffing his chest out.

Up close, his clothes revealed finer stitching than first apparent, and a guild emblem glinted on his collar—not the mark of a common laborer after all.

"Do you have any idea who I am?"

The cloaked figure tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question.

"Someone who doesn’t understand the word ’no,’ apparently."

A few patrons nearby chuckled, which only fueled the drunk’s growing rage.

He straightened his posture, attempting to match the stranger’s impressive height and failing by at least a head.

"I am Balthazar Venn, Sixth Rank Hunter of the Silver Talon Guild!" he proclaimed, voice carrying through the now-quieting tavern.

"One of the top five guilds in all of Elandria!"

He jabbed a finger into the cloaked man’s chest.

"And you, sir, are interfering with my recruitment efforts."

"Recruitment?" The stranger’s voice remained level, almost conversational.

"Is that what you call harassment in Elandria these days?"

Balthazar’s right hand drifted to the ornate dagger at his belt.

"You’re not from around here, are you? That explains your ignorance. Let me educate you on how things work in Silverleaf City. When someone of my station takes an interest in a common server, it’s considered an honor."

The stranger sighed, a sound of profound weariness.

"And here I thought Elven culture was supposed to be sophisticated."

His gloved hand moved from Balthazar’s shoulder, brushing imaginary dust from the guild emblem.

"Let me educate you on something simpler: when a woman says no, you let go."

"Let go?" Balthazar sneered, his hand now fully gripping his dagger’s hilt. "Like this?"

In one fluid motion, the dagger cleared its sheath.

Balthazar lunged forward, the dagger’s enchanted blade gleaming with a sickly green light—poison, no doubt, meant to incapacitate rather than kill.

His movement was surprisingly quick for a man so deep in his cups, suggesting years of combat training beneath the drunken exterior.

What happened next occurred so swiftly that many patrons would later argue over the exact sequence of events.

Some would claim the stranger had moved with inhuman speed, while others would insist he hadn’t moved at all.

The cloaked man simply... released his grip on Balthazar’s shoulder.

That was all.

No punch thrown, no counter-attack launched, no defensive spell cast. He simply removed his hand and took a small step backward, as if giving the guild hunter space to complete his attack.

SWOOOSH

Balthazar’s dagger sliced through empty air where the stranger had been standing a heartbeat before. The momentum of his strike, met with no resistance, sent him stumbling forward, off-balance and vulnerable.

"What the—"

BOOOOM!

An invisible force slammed into Balthazar with the power of a charging bull.

His eyes widened in shock as his feet left the ground, his body hurtling backward as if fired from a catapult.

AAAH!

He sailed across the tavern in a graceless arc, arms windmilling uselessly.

CRASH!

The wall of the tavern—solid oak reinforced with elven craftmanship that had withstood centuries of drunken brawls—splintered like kindling under the impact of Balthazar’s body.

Wood fragments and plaster dust exploded outward in a cloud that momentarily obscured the newly created exit.

A stunned silence fell over the tavern.

Every eye fixed on the cloaked stranger, who hadn’t so much as shifted his weight during the entire exchange. He hadn’t raised a hand, hadn’t muttered an incantation, hadn’t even changed his posture.

Yet somehow, a Sixth Rank Hunter of one of Elandria’s most prestigious guilds had been flung through a solid wall as effortlessly as a child might toss aside a rag doll.