Bear School Astartes

Chapter 1015 - 997: A Talented Individual

A massive body does not mean being inflexible.

Those who saw what Lann displayed just now should have no doubts about this.

The huge black cloak would occasionally reveal glimpses of the person inside as it billowed through the air.

Sturdy, upright, and even aesthetically pleasing.

And such a robust and tall body was nothing like the clumsy oafs one might imagine.

As Lann swept through the air, his cloak was caught by the gusts, billowing and snapping, almost like the thunderous crack of lightning!

"Whoosh!"

Sketch himself didn’t even have the chance to retreat more than two steps.

His pointed boots had just ’thudded’ back twice into the muddy ground when that massive dark shadow almost reached him.

The man in the sealskin hat, with a crossbow arrow horizontally stuck in his neck, hadn’t even had a chance to collapse from blood loss.

Soon after, his skull was gripped firmly in a large hand.

Lann spun around, like an athlete throwing a discus, using the centrifugal force of his turn to hurl the body away, gripping its skull!

This was a corpse weighing about ninety kilograms, and although the muscles and fat could absorb some shock, once it was thrown by Lann at such speed, the cushioning ability likely meant little.

A human, even just by walking into a wall at a normal pace, could suffer dizziness or a broken nose bridge.

So, like a game of bowling, the thrown body crashed into a cluster of gathered people.

Sounds of bones breaking and screams erupted.

But it wasn’t over yet.

During the rapid stops and starts, Lann’s cloak exploded with thunderous cracks again due to the snapping and stretching of the fabric.

After throwing the corpse, he didn’t pause for even a moment.

It was like an ever-moving black shadow.

He appeared in front of another thug, pushing his palm against the man’s chest.

This prevented him from using his fist to punch through the man’s body.

Yet, even so, the thug, struck hard in the chest during Lann’s charge, had both his heart and lungs shattered.

The body, thrown backward, killed even more...

The cloak cracked like thunder four or five times during the high-speed movement, indicating Lann had stopped and started four or five times.

And after these four or five times, in this dirty little courtyard, aside from the terrified prostitutes and tenants hiding inside the buildings, only Sketch was still standing.

"Clap clap."

Lann stretched out his hand from under the cloak and clapped, the outside of his steel-plated leather gloves still stained with sticky blood.

Unfortunately, there was no dry sand here; otherwise, he could have wiped it off.

The courtyard fell into a deathly silence.

The people hiding in the buildings dared not interfere, while the thugs responding to their gang leader’s orders were all sunk into the muddy ground.

Laying there, limp and twisted, as if they had no bones.

Lann walked up to Sketch, towering over him as he looked down.

His movements were very calm, but every slight flutter of the cloak made a ’whoosh’ sound, causing the gang leader before him to shiver.

A fear of the superhuman.

He suffered from the same condition as the Niflgaard survivors on Sodden Mountain.

It turned him from a ruthless gang leader with the dead, fish-like eyes of someone who had killed many, into someone afflicted by this psychological illness.

Lann took just under five minutes in total.

Violence, domination, impactful imagery... once the plan was set, breaking a person’s will was hardly difficult for Lann.

When Lann stood in front of Sketch, the gang leader, who five minutes ago was still in command in the headquarters building, who ruled with a word.

Now, his lips trembled, his Adam’s apple moving up and down with difficulty.

"There’s only one question."

Lann didn’t waste words.

"You just emphasized to Marsh: what’s important is the Half-Elf, even if there’s no money, find the Half-Elf."

"Why? For gangsters like you, to say ’even if there’s no money’?"

"Will you, can you spare me if I say?" Sketch stammered.

"Go on, Sketch." Lann spoke gently.

But he promised nothing, "Just say it."

Sketch knew what this meant, and he spoke despondently and fearfully.

"Half-Elf Dudu Bieberwitt... what’s most important to us isn’t the money. We didn’t expect to make much from that shipment. The important thing is, it’s a Temple Guard leader of the Eternal Fire."

Sketch swallowed, continuing with difficulty.

"That Temple Guard leader ordered us to catch Dudu Bieberwitt, alive, and deliver him. We’re just a small gang, we can’t say no."

"Temple Guard leader..." Lann chewed over this identity, "What’s his name?"

"Ritu, Ritu Mangi. And he has a brother named Cale Mangi, also an officer in the Temple Guard. That’s all I know."

Lann nodded under his hood, not letting Sketch remain immersed in fear any longer, tormented by dread.

His fist clenched, moved past Sketch’s head at a speed invisible to the normal eye.

Sketch’s body, without a skull, was punched straight and spun in the air.

With a "boom," the gang leader’s death was no different than his subordinates.

Now, in this yard, there was no one alive except for Lann.

The prostitutes clinging to gang life, the ’waiters’ watching addicts consume drug powder, all watched in terror through the door crevice at the tall cloaked figure that seemed to sweep in like a nightmare, then re-entered the house that had just been shot with a volley of crossbow arrows.

Already with poor lighting conditions, now even the candlelight was extinguished by the earlier chaos, yet the room was not dark.

For a supernatural light was emanating from the witch’s hand in the corner, illuminating the room.

Tables piled around Triss had several crossbow arrows stuck in them, arrowheads deep in the solid wood, with wood chips and splinters erupted from the surface.

But Triss was unharmed.

If just seeking to protect herself, then under such chaotic and dangerous circumstances, a warlock would not easily come to harm.

This is also why some warlocks go to great lengths to cultivate a few trustworthy elite warriors.

Blood soaked through the creaky wooden floorboards, staining them a dark red.

Lann stepped back in, and besides the female warlock, only a group in the corner was still alive.

Francis Bealan’s group.

The bald man’s subordinates behind him, seeing Lann coming in again, did not need their boss’s push anymore; they, like frightened girls, squeezed into the corner.

This, in turn, made Francis stand out.

The man pressed his lips, his face with folds of flesh showing tension, yet one could see a forced calmness.

"It’s rare you didn’t run around."

"Because even if we ran, we’d never outrun the tens of thousands of Niflgaard soldiers, Your Grace."

Francis tried to calm his tone.

"You recognized me." Lann showed no surprise.

"There might be many powerful mages in this world." Francis cautiously saluted Lann, and seeing no rejection, he vaguely sighed in relief.

"But as for mighty warriors like you, I can’t think of a second one. Duke Lann of Sintra."

"A duke without a fief, better not mention it."

Lann waved his hand nonchalantly.

"I actually have some affection for you, Francis, even though you’re a gangster I look down on the most. Because on the way here, before you recognized me, you seemed to want to take Triss and me away from Marsh."

"Can you tell me what’s going on? How come gangsters have a heart these days?"

Lann dragged a chair for Francis from the floor, and the bald man sat down properly, feeling honored, barely perching with half his butt on the chair.

His fleshy face mumbled a few times, awkwardly whispering something.

Under the hood, Lann raised his eyebrows in slight surprise.

"What did you say?"

Francis thought the other truly didn’t hear, so he reconsidered Lann’s force value, took a deep breath, and, with a broken jar, loudly said:

"I said... I don’t often help people either."

"I have no choice, sir. I was born liking to help people, enjoy gratitude. But I’m stuck in a mess, I must be ruthless enough to protect myself, so... I basically follow my heart once every two to three years, to help someone. You just happened to catch it, and to be honest, I didn’t even help."

Now, besides the two talking, even Triss who was holding the magic light, and the little brothers hiding behind Francis, were all surprised.

Apparently, he truly controlled his noble impulse well in this muddy environment.

Lann’s hood nodded up and down.

"I heard Marsh say..."

Lann turned back to point at the thug leader who brought him over, but unfortunately, the gentleman had already perished in the earlier volley of arrows.

Now he lay limp on the ground, a pool of crimson blood spreading.

So Lann nonchalantly waved his hand: "Was this idea of using the city’s beggars and marginalized people as an intelligence network first conceived by you?"

"This is exactly what I wanted to confess to you."

Francis, uneasy, stared at the face that Lann had never shown, hidden in the shadow of the hood.

"If I lay out this whole plan to you, can I exchange it for my brothers’ lives?"

Lann flicked his cloak, revealing his blood-stained fist.

Francis shivered on the chair and then simply spilled all the beans.

About his attention and compassion while passing by beggars, prostitutes, and thieves, then how he realized that these people were ignored, not valued in the city.

How they could use this neglect to eavesdrop on all sorts of secret talks and plans in dark street corners... they are the ’invisible’ observers of the streets.

Few people in the city would be cautious in speech in front of these worn and humble wretches.

If Francis were like an ordinary gang and never saw these people as human, he wouldn’t have discovered their potential.

But he wasn’t, hence he discovered this power now.

"You’re a talent."

Lann watched the stiffly sitting Francis, gently praising after hearing his thought process.