Chapter 39: The Outlaw (3)

“Who… sent you? Julia? Or some other gang?”
George drew a deep breath, suppressing the irritation churning inside him. His voice came out cold, yet restrained.
Even as he asked, George was perfectly aware in his heart—no gang would dare threaten him except Julia.
Julia… the she-wolf from the city of Ravennica, a frigid land in the North where her people mined ore and forged weapons like a shadow empire. She had long clashed with George in Venezia, sometimes covertly, sometimes openly, but never backing down.
Julia’s power came from iron and blood; her gang dominated the arms trade.
George ruled through information and underground networks, controlling smuggling and the flow of opium, stimulants, poisons, slaves, and mercenaries.
George’s true power lay along the smuggling routes stretching from the Empire’s borders to distant ports. He didn’t forge steel, nor did he lead armies. What he held were the secret veins through which steel from Ravennica and contraband from the East flowed across the world.
In Ravennica, Julia could raise armies using ore and forges. But to sell weapons, to trade steel for gold, she could not avoid dealing with the name George.
If Julia was strong because she possessed steel and arms, George was strong because anyone wanting steel had to pass through his hands.
Thus, the two powers both needed and hated each other. Julia wanted to crush George to avoid relying on him as a middleman. George wanted to eliminate Julia to monopolize both the steel and the market. Both knew well—if one fell, the other would devour the remaining power.
The conflict began seventeen years ago.
The Imperial Capital had once been the mighty Kingdom of Kakor, independent and proud. But after the Empire’s conquest, it was transformed into the new imperial capital, now simply called the Imperial City.
Some of the old nobility were executed, marginalized, or exiled, living as mere shadows of their former glory. Among those cast aside… were Gen’s parents.
The town of Venezia lay on the outskirts of the Imperial City, near the border with the Dungeon.
The Empire considered Venezia “a stain hard to erase” but could not—or would not—destroy it completely, as it served as a buffer zone between the capital and the Dungeon threat. It was precisely this power vacuum that allowed George to rise as the “lord in the shadows.”
Ravennica lay to the North, deep in the freezing Ironfang Mountains with abundant mineral deposits. Once under the old kingdom’s rule, it came under imperial occupation, where only the extraction of minerals mattered. Ravennica thus became a semi-autonomous region, as long as tribute in ore flowed steadily. This neglect allowed Julia to build her “shadow empire of iron and fire.”
George and Julia were two opportunists exploiting cracks left by the Empire—one leveraging border chaos, the other exploiting industrial neglect.
Gen did not answer immediately. Beneath his black armor, he silently assessed George.
George’s wavy blond hair and unusually large nose might look comical at a glance. Yet no one could laugh at the piercing, surgical sharpness of George’s eyes. That hint of absurdity became terrifying because it suggested that behind this ridiculous mask lay absolute ruthlessness.
Gen guessed George had misunderstood. He belonged to no faction—a lone wolf walking his own path. But in a world where power ran on blood and gold, who would believe someone acted purely on personal motives?
Finally, Gen’s voice rang out, calm yet resolute, slicing through George’s doubts: “This is personal… no one sent me.”
George frowned.
“No one sent you? So… you’re acting alone?”
A short, harsh laugh followed, each word cold as steel: “In Venezia, no one has the strength to face a whole power alone. Tell me, what exactly are you looking for here?”
Gen stepped forward. The heavy clank of his armored boots echoed on the stone floor like a hammer striking the tense air. He lifted his head, his voice calm to the point of being terrifying: “I came to ask just one question.”
George narrowed his eyes. “What question?”
“Do you enjoy showing up when others are eating?”
George inhaled sharply, his chest feeling pressed by some invisible weight. His gaze cut like a knife through the figure before him. He growled: “You break gates, smash doors… just to make a joke like that?”
“Not a joke. I’m asking about the inn.”
Gen expression didn’t change; his tone was steady and decisive.
Mo Hamus’s face suddenly shifted. He remembered this morning…
“You…” Mo Hamus exclaimed in astonishment, eyes wide as he stared at Gen. “You’re the one from the inn…”
George glanced at Mo Hamus, already piecing together the situation.
Gen turned his gaze under his helmet directly toward Mo Hamus, his voice icy: “Yes. I came to ask… was it your own choice, or is there someone behind this?”
The hall fell into complete silence. A few guards glanced at each other, lowering their spears slightly with trembling hands. Everyone could feel the chill in that voice.
“So… you’re not Julia’s?”
George furrowed his brow, clenching a hidden hand beneath his robe. Though his tone was suspicious, in his heart he had made up his mind.
“You storm in here… just to ask a single question?”
“No. I came… to make sure I found the one who must pay.”
Gen stepped forward again, his voice unwavering.
George felt as if all his careful calculations had been shredded by an invisible hand. The chess pieces that should have fallen exactly where he wanted had slipped beyond his control.
George hated chaos above all else. This passive feeling was like a thorn piercing his flesh. For years, he had always been the one leading, sitting above the board and deciding the fates of those below. Yet now, he was forced to react, dragged along by someone else’s rhythm.
“Pay? What do you mean by that? A stranger storms into my territory and dares to stand before me, threatening me?”
George squinted, a sense of provocation rising within him. Could it be that he had been far too lenient with his opponent?
Gen replied, “At the inn, a man stooped to a vile act against a mother and her child. He sent his subordinates… and when they failed, someone else carried it out this morning. I want to know… did that person act in his own name, or under orders from above?”
George let out a cold, mocking laugh, his voice sharp: “An inn? Every day in Venezia, a few lives are stabbed, a few dozen exploited. You want to ask who’s behind it? Then I ask you in return—do you think I have the time to concern myself with a few insignificant vermin in this rotten town?”
“So it wasn’t your order?”
“I don’t waste my time on trivial matters. This town… isn’t even worth the benefit I could reap. You think I need to stoop to harass a few pitiful townsfolk? Not worth it.”
George’s gaze was piercing, every word weighted.
Gen remained silent, listening, before speaking cautiously, like a probing knife: “Then that person… Callum, he’s just some brat acting on his own?”
“You ask too many questions. The only answer is this: no one dares act in my name without my command. And if someone did dare… he wouldn’t survive for you to come here and ask.”
George’s tone deepened, cutting the conversation like a blade.
Gen realized it—George wouldn’t admit it outright, but clearly, there was someone “tolerated” running rampant in this town.
Gen tilted his head slightly, his voice cold, like a sentence being passed: “You say… no one dares act in your name. So that means… someone is allowed to?”
George hesitated for a moment, then a contemptuous smirk crept onto his lips. “Clever. But you’re treading too far on a thin line… Ask one more question, and you’ll fall straight into the abyss.”
“So… that person carries your name?”
Hearing this, George didn’t need to probe further. By now, he genuinely believed Gen was not sent by Julia. Otherwise, he would already know that Callum was his son.
George let out a soft laugh, his broad nose tilting upward, adding to the disdain in his chuckle.
“You truly are reckless. You’ve touched the right nerve… and you think I would blush to deny it? Wrong.”
George’s fingers drummed on the stair railing, his voice echoing with decisive force: “Yes. That brat carries my name. Callum is my blood. Therefore… he has the right to do what no one else in this wretched town dares.”
Mo Hamus flinched slightly, sweat forming at his temples, for this was a rare moment—George openly acknowledging something before an outsider. Moreover, in George’s eyes, Gen hardly seemed a significant threat.
“You may call it tyranny, you may call it indulgence. I call it… privilege. Callum wants to harass someone, break something, or take a life… here in Venezia, all must bow and accept it. Because he is my son.”
The air in the hall became suffocating. Even the guards, who had witnessed countless brutal scenes, felt their spines tingle.
Gen spoke coldly: “So you admit it. You allowed him to commit vile acts against a mother and child. To seize control of an inn at his discretion. Your protection turned this town into a playground for wolves.”
“This town was always a place ruled by wolves. I am simply the largest wolf. And anyone who dares block Callum… is blocking me.”
“You understand? Here in Venezia, the law is not in books. The law… is in my hands.”
A corner of George’s mouth curled upward, stating the obvious.
“You just admitted it? So that means… the ones I need to deal with aren’t just him.”
Gen slightly raised his head, glancing at Mo Hamus before turning back to George.
George’s lips curved into a small smile, as if he were hearing an amusing tale.
“Hmph. You don’t know what game you’ve stepped into, outsider.”
He then glanced behind him, his voice booming throughout the hall: “Mo Hamus. Last time, you failed… today, you will wash away that disgrace.”
“Understood.” Mo Hamus tightened his grip on his dagger.
But before he could make a move, George began descending the steps himself.
“Don’t think I only sit on my throne and judge, stranger… I am a Martial Path.”
“[Muscle Berserk].”
George’s voice deepened, his right hand raising. At that instant, a crimson glow flickered around him. Muscles beneath his loose clothing expanded, bulging; veins popped like red-hot chains.
Every step he took caused the wood beneath his feet to groan as if the stairs themselves were straining under immense weight.
George’s footsteps thickened the air with tension. The guards instinctively stepped back, aware that it had been a long time since George had personally intervened.
“Oh… damn…” one guard muttered under his breath, voice trembling.
The others widened their eyes, not daring to look away from the swelling muscles and imposing figure.
The entire mansion seemed to hold its breath as George reached the stairs’ bottom.
“Julia… or anyone else cannot intrude on Venezia. This is my territory. And if I must personally intervene, your only path… is death.”
How long has it been since I had to step forward myself? George thought. Deep inside, pride mingled with a surge of anger. People like Gen should have been crushed outside by the rules. That he had to come down here himself… was an insult. There would be no gentle death for this opponent.
Martial Path — the path of the Fighter.
Muscle Berserk — a dual-level skill evolved from the basic enhancement skill Muscle Strength.
Muscle Berserk is a “brutal” branch, focused on raw strength, dominance, and sheer power.
Another branch of Muscle Strength is Muscle Refine — a “refined” path for those who do not wish their body to deform like George’s, especially for women. Muscle Refine emphasizes efficiency, endurance, speed, and compact strength.
Behind him, Mo Hamus gripped his dagger tighter, eyes following every heavy step of George. Each groan of wood stirred memories in his mind, vivid as if it had happened only yesterday.
This scene… was no different from the Dungeon years ago.
Back then, George only possessed the rudimentary beginning of Muscle Strength. Much like now, he stepped forward, his small yet resilient frame allowing Mo Hamus to strike critical blows from the shadows.
Years had passed… yet the sensation remained. The difference now was that the figure before them was no longer a grotesque dungeon monster, but a man clad in full armor.
Mo Hamus’s lips curved briefly. It wasn’t a smile of mockery or confidence—it was the smile of someone who had already chosen his path.