In the wind and snow, a young man from Gefra gasped for breath.
Every breath sent a large cloud of white mist billowing from his mouth, blurring the things before him for a moment.
The weather was bitterly cold, yet his whole body was drenched in sweat. Fighting was always the most physically demanding activity.
The club in his hand was no longer as nimble as it had been at first. Someone had struck him on the head with a club, and his skull was still ringing.
This was a brawl. The nobles were unwilling to enter the fray themselves in such frigid weather, and of course, their elegant selves would never get their hands dirty.
The incident of the Small Earl beating the old nobles and their men several times had already fermented. In the nobles' eyes, it was clearly an uncivilized act.
Like their noble ancestors in the Middle Ages, they led their retainers into battle—mainly sending their retainers to fight while they stood aside and watched.
That way, they could preserve their dignity while venting their anger. It suited the nobles perfectly.
A fight like this had broken out today.
Two nobles had clashed over a business dispute. In the past, they had no good way to deal with such hatred, but now they did.
After stumbling, the young man caught his opponent off guard and slammed his club into the other's shin. His lower leg suddenly broke, and combined with his fear of pain, that sent his opponent crashing to the ground.
His opponent had struck him on the head moments ago. Everything he had seen since then was tinged red, and the world kept spinning. Even standing upright made him feel as though he were losing his balance!
His fury had reached its peak. Perhaps