Jared shot Flaxseed a withering side-eye, the kind one gave a friend who had gone one joke too far. Heat flickered behind Jared’s calm gaze, but kept silent, at least for now.
Under the rough hands of the two black-robed cultivators, the young woman’s garments were yanked away, falling like wilted petals until skin shivered in open air.
Flaxseed’s eyes bulged. A silver thread of drool slid down his chin before jerked his head up, wiping it away as if nothing had happened.
“Mr. Flaxseed, is that enough of a demonstration?” Jared asked, his voice cool.
Flaxseed managed a brisk nod, throat bobbing.
“Stop right there! Broad daylight, and you’re kidnapping a civilian? Have you no respect for the law?” With that roar, Flaxseed sprang forward.
Though short and slightly stooped, landed before the woman like a pocket-sized hero, yet his eyes still flicked, unwilling, toward the curves claimed to defend.
Relief washed over the woman’s face. She scrambled for torn clothing, clutching shredded fabric against herself, barely hiding the most private places.
The two men in black robes recoiled, then sneered when they sensed only a faint ripple, Human Immortal Realm Level One.
“Where did this rogue cultivator crawl from?” one of them mocked, his tone dripping contempt.
“Listen, old geezer!” the other growled, spiritual light crackling around his fist, “Walk away before we grind you into the dirt with her!”
Flaxseed puffed out his chest. “Not happening. Let the lady go, or I won’t be polite!”
He whipped out a fan of hand, drawn charms-precious inks, painstaking strokes. Normally, treasures to hoard, now trembling between his fingers as braced for a fight, counting on Jared’s silent presence at his back.
Seeing this, both captors burst into laughter. “You? A first-level human immortal thinks can posture before us?” Their mirth echoed like tin bells on cold stone.
The woman’s hope dimmed. Realizing Flaxseed’s cultivation was even lower than hers, heartbeat climbed once more.
“Old geezer, thank you, but you can’t beat them, please, save yourself,” whispered, voice tight with fear and gratitude.
Her words stung. Flaxseed’s brows shot up. “Young lady, I may look seasoned, yet i’m no doddering grandpa.”
“For the record,” declared, sweeping an imaginary cloak behind him, “I am the prized disciple of Zalano of the Guild of Theurgists, honorably affiliated with the Skywrath Sect!”
Even as boomed, tightened his grip on those charms, ready to prove the boast with burning paper and righteous fire.
Flaxseed jabbed a crooked finger at the young woman, his voice ringing with wounded pride. “Every stranger I meet bows and calls me Mr. Flaxseed. Where do you get off calling me old geezer?!”
Flaxseed’s grin faltered. and a vein twitched at the corner of his scarred forehead. The honorific mattered to him; to be demoted to “old geezer” meant the woman found worthless.
Even if I save her, still won’t let me have any fun afterward…
He brooded, the sour thought curdling his mood.
“Mr. Flaxseed, I’m so sorry. I truly didn’t know you were so renowned!” the woman blurted, bowing so quickly hair brushed the dust.
“I’ll let it slide. Just stand back and watch, once l cripple these two punks, we’ll talk again.” Chest thrust out, Flaxseed delivered the promise with the swagger of a man certain the world would oblige him.
“Old fossil, you must be tired of living!” one of the black-robed cultivators snarled.
The nearer attacker lunged. His fist tore through the air with a shriek, wind spiraling around the knuckles like a miniature cyclone.
Gravel whipped up in his wake, swirling into a tiny vortex that hissed across the barren ground.
Flaxseed knew better than to meet that blow head-on. He pivoted hard, body angling like a reed in a gale. Despite modest cultivation, his footwork was nimble. He skipped sideways, sprang backward, then ducked beneath the howling fist, a monkey flirting with a tiger.
“Jared! Quit gawking and lend a hand!” He barked the plea while dodging another punch, beads of cold sweat flying from his bald scalp.
Flaxseed understood all too well that, alone, was no match for the pair of black-clad bruisers.
