A fat, middle-aged man with a face full of jowls was hiding under the table.
When the tablecloth was lifted, the fat man in aristocratic clothing was so frightened that he wet himself.
"Don't kill me!!! I have money—yes, I have money!!! As long as you don't kill me, I'll give you as much as you want!!!"
Feeling Maud's icy gaze upon him, the fat man trembled like a sieve.
"Come out."
Maud's voice was cold.
"All right, I'm coming out!"
The fat man really did roll out from under the table, displaying a powerful will to survive.
Maud sized up the potbellied middle-aged man and asked, "What's the deal with this room?"
"Th-this..."
The fat man hesitated.
Click.
Maud pushed the dagger's sheath open with his thumb.
The fat man shuddered violently. Lowering his head, he said in a trembling voice, "This room... it's a shooting range we usually use for entertainment..."
"A shooting range?"
At that, Maud glanced at the people bound to the crosses, and his brows furrowed.
Lafitte came to a nearby table and lightly touched the soup in a plate with his index finger. It was still warm.
It seemed they had interrupted these nobles' fun.
A shooting range?
What a sick hobby.
A trace of disdain pulled at Lafitte's lips. He picked up a hand crossbow from a chair. It was about the same size as a short-handled flintlock pistol.
The bolt loaded onto the bowstring was thin and small. With a sleeve arrow of this size, it would be difficult to inflict a fatal wound on an enemy without coating it in poison.
Lafitte handed the hand crossbow to Maud.
Maud took it and glanced at it, then expressionlessly looked at the fat man, who was scared half to death.
He had no