Accidental Elf: My Passive Allure is Ruining My Plans

Marly dashed out of the kitchen, her face stark white and her heart in her throat. Alaster and Jinneth followed hot on her heels.

Behind them, the sweet, comforting aroma of caramelized popcorn quickly evaporated, replaced by the heavy, suffocating stench of cheap ale, stale sweat, and raw tension that filled the main hall.

The tavern floor was a scene of chaos.

Regular patrons huddled against the walls or scrambled onto benches, desperate to stay clear of the brewing vortex. Every eye in the house, wide with a mix of terror and grim anticipation, was locked on a overturned table in the far corner.

There, three city guards—their light plate armor dented and slick with sweat—were closing in on Barnaby.

Despite his massive frame, the innkeeper moved with a fluidity that caught everyone off guard.

One of the guards, his features twisted by drunken malice, hoisted a heavy clay mug sloshing with ale and hurled it straight at Barnaby’s head.

—Watch out! —Jinneth and Marly shrieked in unison, clapping their hands over their mouths.

Barnaby reacted on pure instinct. He ducked his head at the absolute last millisecond.

The projectile buzzed past his ear and shattered against the back wall, exploding in a jagged spray of ceramic shards and dark foam.

Seeing his opening salvo fail, another uniform rushed the giant with fists raised. But Barnaby, whose formidable Level 40 status utterly eclipsed these low-tier troublemakers, didn't even need a weapon.

He planted his heavy boot firmly against the floorboards and delivered a brutal front kick.

The strike landed dead center on the guard's chest, launching him five meters backward. The man sailed through the air until he wrapped around a heavy wooden support pillar, collapsing in a heap.

Without a tight military formation to back them up, these grunts were nothing more than punching bags for the tavern owner.

—I'm getting help! —Marly barked, realizing the situation was spiraling past her control.

Without wasting a breath, she sprinted toward the main entrance, threw the double doors open, and vanished into the night to track down a neighborhood patrol.

Meanwhile, at the epicenter of the brawl, the ringleader—a man with a crooked sneer named Grolen—slipped comically on the expanding puddle of spilled ale.

Infuriated and thoroughly humiliated, he scrambled halfway to his feet. He hoisted a heavy oak chair over his shoulder, aiming to bring it crashing down onto the back of Barnaby's neck in what could easily be a fatal blow.

However, the chair never found its mark.

A violent blur of white cut through the tavern's murky air.

A dull, heavy impact echoed through the room, and Grolen was thrown violently in the opposite direction. He skipped through the air and smashed dead center into a nearby table, splintering it into kindling with a deafening crack.

Barnaby blinked in astonishment, steadying his footing as he stared at the downed guard.

Grolen lay twitching amidst the wreckage, completely blanketed in a dense layer of conjured frost that was already freezing the moisture on his eyelashes.

—Alaster... —Barnaby muttered, his voice still thick with adrenaline, his massive fists remaining clenched.

The elf stepped forward, emerging from the shadows of the kitchen hallway.

—You don't mind if I snap a few bones on this piece of trash, do you, Barnaby? —Alaster asked, his voice dripping with a casual calmness that made the room's temperature feel like it dropped ten degrees.

Shivering violently from the sudden frostbite, Grolen fumbled for the hilt of his sword and tried to stand.

But the moment his eyes locked with the elf's, he scrambled backward in sheer terror.

Alaster’s eyes were glowing with a frigid, unnatural shade of violet. The mana in the air had turned suffocatingly dense, manifesting as an invisible, heavy pressure that made it difficult for anyone in the room to draw a full breath.

—Y-You! You dare cast magic within city limits?! —the drunken guard bellowed, pointing a trembling, calloused finger at him—. I’ll throw you into the deepest, darkest dungeon we have, you damn point-ear!

Alaster let out a dry, raspy chuckle—a sound of pure amusement that held absolutely no warmth.

—Magic? What magic? —the elf asked, sweeping his gaze across the common room with mock curiosity—. Let's see... did anyone here see any magic being used?

The patrons packed into the tavern were utterly sick of the constant extortion and relentless abuse from this particular trio of corrupt guards. Nobody was going to lift a finger to help them.

—Nope —a young female adventurer declared firmly. She had been quietly eating dinner with her companion behind a flipped table until a few minutes ago—. I didn't see a thing.

—No magic here —an older merchant seconded from the back, crossing his arms tightly—. We just saw a couple of drunks fall over their own feet because they don't know how to handle their liquor.

Alaster’s grin widened into a predatory smile, his focus locking back onto the uniform.

—See? You’re just going to end up as another bloodstain on the cobblestones, and every single witness will swear you slipped on your own vomit —Alaster purred, taking another deliberate step closer—. No witnesses... no crime.

Grolen scooted backward on his backside, his face draining of all color.

—You elven bastard... mind your own damn business!

While the entire room was transfixed by Alaster’s threat, Jinneth had used the distraction to slip through the crowd with absolute stealth.

As she skirted past an abandoned table, her eyes caught a plate with a half-eaten loaf of hard bread. Her gray eyes flashed with inspiration. She grabbed the bread, winding her arm back to throw it with all her might, but paused for a fraction of a second.

Looking at the golden crust, she took a massive bite so as not to waste good food, and then threw the remaining chunk with perfect, unerring accuracy straight at the guard's face.

The stale bread bounced off Grolen’s forehead with a loud thud.

That petty strike broke the dam. Instantly, the rest of the clientele, emboldened by the elf and the baker girl, began pelting him with everything within arm's reach.

Leftover stew, chicken bones, squashed vegetables, and heavy wooden tankards rained down upon the three cornered officers.

—HALT! CITY GUARD! —a thundering voice boomed from the threshold, silencing the riot in an instant.

The heavy front doors were thrown wide open as a squad of ten heavily armed guards marched in formation, led by their commanding officer.

Commander Tarz stopped dead in his tracks, his analytical eyes sweeping over the disaster area. The scene was an unmitigated nightmare: two of his men were groaning on the floor, and Grolen was standing with a drawn sword, surrounded by an enraged mob of over twenty-five citizens looking at them with naked hostility.

Tarz grimaced in deep disgust. «I don't like this at all... There are way too many eyeballs on this. This isn't something we can sweep under the rug or fix with a few threats,» he calculated.

A sergeant leaned into his ear, sweat dripping down his temple.

—Commander, this is turning ugly fast. There’s a crowd gathering outside.

Marly, fully aware of how deeply the rot ran within the urban guard, hadn't just looked for a random patrol. She had sprinted through the neighboring alleys, sounding the alarm to the blacksmiths, cobblers, and shopkeepers she had known for years.

The community, pushed to their limit by years of shakedowns, was mobilizing. People were rapidly assembling outside the inn, armed with torches and iron ironworking tools.

«Shit!» Tarz cursed internally. He stormed toward Grolen, his voice a low, furious hiss:

—What the hell do you think you’re doing, you idiot?! Your father is currently campaigning to become High Commander of the Legion, and you’re here starting a riot in a third-rate tavern!

Grolen, his cognitive faculties entirely derailed by the alcohol, pointed the tip of his sword toward the corner.

—I didn't do anything! It was that elf—!

However, when Tarz whipped his head in that direction, the corner was completely empty. Alaster had vanished like smoke.

—Shut your mouth! —Tarz snarled, backhanding the youth's breastplate—. We’re leaving before this turns into a bloodbath.

—Bah! Are you really losing your nerve over a bunch of backwater peasants? I can do whatever the hell I want! —Grolen barked, a drunk hiccup rattling his chest. He turned and yelled toward the counter—: Innkeeper! Bring out that tight little piece of a daughter you’ve got to pour my drinks!

The direction of Grolen's venomous gaze didn't escape the commander's notice.

Tarz made an imperious gesture toward Barnaby. Three guards from the fresh reinforcement squad closed in on the tavern owner.

Barnaby, exercising the restraint of a mature business owner, didn't offer a shred of resistance. He knew damn well that fighting the city guard on active duty meant the permanent closure of his livelihood and a one-way ticket to a penal colony.

He extended his thick wrists and allowed them to snap a pair of heavy iron manacles into place.

Crouched low behind the sturdy wooden bar, Alaster monitored his breathing, keeping his presence hidden.

«I can’t afford to draw any more heat,» he analyzed coldly. «These guard captains answer to the nobility. If I let them drag me in, it won't take them long to realize I don't have identification papers. I'll end up sold to the mana mines as an undocumented elven slave.»

—Move him out! —Tarz ordered, waving his hand frantically—. Dammit, move! If we stay here another minute, this mob is going to lynch us, and we'll be the ones playing the victims.

—CORRUPT BASTARDS! —a bizarrely deep, forced voice echoed from the thick of the crowd.

Tarz narrowed his eyes, trying to spot the instigator among the sea of angry faces. His eyes landed on a young, copper-blonde beauty who was trying to mask her identity by putting on a ridiculously gravelly voice.

—We should lynch them all! Let's grab them and... and impregnate them! —Jinneth shouted, bursting into a fit of giggles at her own absurd joke.

Commander Tarz let out a sharp puff of air, finding a brief, involuntary spark of amusement in the girl's sheer nonsense, but his internal alarm didn't drop.

—Move out, now! —he commanded, turning on his heel.

Then, the situation took a catastrophic dive into the abyss.

Grolen, entirely blinded by liquor and devoid of an ounce of self-control, lunged forward. He snatched Jinneth by the arm, violently dragging her out from the safety of the crowd.

The blonde tried to sink her teeth into his hand, but the man wrenched her arm with disproportionate force, breaking her guard.

With a swift, degrading motion, he slammed her face-down onto a nearby table, pinning her chest against the wood and leaving her lower half completely exposed to him.

Tarz spun back around, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull.

—What the hell are you doing, you lunatic?! —the commander roared.

The tavern exploded into pure fury. The patrons surged forward as a single, enraged wall to protect the girl.

The ten official guards were forced to draw their swords in a panic, forming a frantic wall of interlocking steel around the table to hold back the tide, all while Grolen began tearing at Jinneth’s clothes as she screamed for help.

Barnaby, seeing his daughter handled like a piece of meat, transformed into a feral beast.

His massive muscles flexed with such explosive power that the links of his iron manacles shrieked under the strain.

—MY DAUGHTER! What are you doing to her, you goddamn animals?! —the innkeeper roared, back-elbowing two guards who were trying to pin his arms.

BAM!

The heavy pommel of a broadsword descended squarely onto the back of Barnaby’s skull. The cowardly, blind-side strike dropped the giant to his knees, his vision going completely dark.

From outside, the roar of the neighborhood crowd shattered the window panes: Rapists! Corrupt scum! Murderers!

Inside, the sound of steel drawing steel began to echo among the patrons; local adventurers were pulling their own blades.

Tarz watched the room collapse into violence with absolute panic. «This is a total collapse,» he realized. He began marching toward Grolen, intending to knock the idiot unconscious himself before the mob slaughtered them all.

However, he had barely covered two of the five meters separating him from the table when a mass of heavy plate armor flew past him like a cannonball.

The armored body hit the floorboards with a deafening metallic crash. Tarz looked down to see one of his elite veteran guards completely unconscious, his breastplate severely caved in.

Tarz whipped his head around to find the source of the trajectory.

Plunging through the defensive line, sending three more guards flying like ragdolls, came the elf.

Alaster advanced with his brow furrowed into a terrifying scowl, his teeth bared, and his cerulean hair whipping violently from the sheer pressure of his mana aura. His violet eyes burned with the lethal focus of an apex predator.

An uninjured guard tried to throw himself in the way, hoisting a heavy steel kite shield.

—Stay back! You are interfering with an official proced—!

The man never finished the sentence. Alaster slipped the shield with a fluid, ghost-like sidestep.

He caught the man’s weapon wrist with one hand and grabbed the heavy collar of his armor with the other. Channeling the raw, augmented physical attributes of his elven physique, he hoisted the fully armored grown man clean off the ground and tossed him aside like a bag of feathers.

Alaster’s rage was an unquenchable wildfire.

—An official procedure?! You call assaulting an innocent girl the goddamn law?! —he roared, his voice cracking from the sheer volume, vibrating the very foundations of the inn.

Outside, the clamor of the townspeople reached its absolute crescendo.

Tarz felt all the color leave his face as Alaster finally closed the distance to Grolen. The attacker was so heavily inebriated and slow that he barely registered what was happening before the elf's hand clamped around the back of his neck like a hydraulic vice.

With a single, brutal upward jerk, Alaster hoisted Grolen and launched him straight toward the ceiling.

The guard’s body slammed into the heavy oak rafters above, snapping several thick support planks with a sickening crack before dropping like a stone onto his back.

Giving him zero time to draw air into his lungs, Alaster delivered a savage, spite-driven kick directly into the man's ribs.

The impact sent Grolen skittering like a metal ball across seventeen meters of flooring—shattering chairs, splintering tables, and only stopping when his head cracked violently against the stone wall at the far end of the room.

He slumped over, completely unconscious, his chest heaving as he breathed heavily.

Alaster stood panting, his shoulders heaving, ready to vent his remaining fury on whatever uniform moved next.

Suddenly, he felt a warm, sudden pressure wrap around his left flank, locking around his torso.

He raised his fist, ready to strike on pure combat reflex, but as his eyes dropped, the motion froze instantly.

Two massive gray eyes, overflowing with an unstoppable river of tears, stared up at him. Jinneth was clutching his tunic with desperate, white-knuckled intensity, burying her damp face against his chest while shivering uncontrollably.

—A-Are you hurt? —the elf managed to ask, his violent, booming tone instantly melting into something incredibly gentle.

Jinneth didn't answer with words. She simply wept harder, pressing herself deeper into the young man's warmth.

Alaster wrapped his arms around her protectively, but his violet eyes snapped right back up, locking onto the only officer left with a command structure.

Commander Tarz felt the elf's gaze like a heavy guillotine blade resting directly against his throat.

The situation was a catastrophic disaster. Not only had they been caught red-handed in a blatant act of corruption and felony assault in front of an entire neighborhood, but they now had the direct testimony of an elf—a race legally and culturally renowned for their uncompromising alignment with justice.

In any high court of the realm, before any magistrate or territorial lord, an elf’s word held an astronomical value compared to an ordinary human's. Let alone a squad of common grunts who reeked of cheap liquor.

Any local noble, upon hearing the elf's account, would simply hang them from the nearest tree without bothering to open an investigation.

«That point-ear is our death warrant...», Tarz realized, a cold sweat drenching his spine. His mind, sharpened by years of military survival, worked at breakneck speed, searching for the only hatch that could save his own skin.

In a flash of pure, cynical pragmatism, Tarz drew his short sword.

Pointing the blade directly at the groaning bodies of his own vanguard on the floor, he barked an order that left the entire room utterly dumbfounded:

—What the hell are you standing around for?! Arrest these drunken derelicts immediately for violating city ordinances and bringing shame to the uniform! And secure that idiot Grolen so he can answer to the High Magistrate!

For Tarz, the choice was simple. It was far better to make a bitter enemy out of the Southern District's Captain General by arresting his deadbeat son tonight than to end up butchered by an enraged elf or dancing from a rope.

Besides, as far as the paperwork would say, he was simply doing his civic duty. He wasn't about to risk his neck for a lunatic drunk like Grolen.