"Prince Rostislav, is Rostislav here?"
Just as Rostislav turned his horse, intending to return to the Hungary palace with Yan, a rider arrived in a hurry, calling out Rostislav's name, his anxiety evident.
That person was Rostislav's personal attendant, though he wasn't wearing armor now, only a simple hunting outfit. Seeing him arrive in such a rush, the Moscow Prince quickly responded.
"I am here. What happened? Is there a problem at the camp?"
Seeing his attendant's hurried appearance, the Moscow Prince instinctively thought something was wrong on their end and quickly asked.
The soldiers in the camp hadn't been peaceful lately; they had been reveling and even bringing prostitutes into the camp.
This was because, considering how far they had traveled and the battles they had endured, and the Magyars' warm reception of the Slavics, the Princes temporarily allowed them to let loose.
But this revelry led to many problems, either drunkenness today or brawling tomorrow. One time, most ridiculously, they even set a tent on fire, giving Rostislav a real headache.
All he could do was try his best to rein in his subordinates, to keep them from causing too much trouble, though, of course, they still needed to have their fun.
"Prince, Prince, no, nothing is wrong."
The attendant was panting, clearly having ridden at full speed. He took a while to recover on his horse.
His words made Rostislav feel like his concern had been wasted. You rushed here in such a hurry just to tell me nothing's wrong?
However, his next sentence immediately changed Rostislav's mind.
"Our people got into a fight in the market, and the other side has more people!"
"What? Take me there immediately!"
Hearing about a fight and that the other side had more people, Rostislav immediately grew anxious, mainly fearing something might happen to his own people and, even more, that the fight might escalate into something troublesome to deal with.
Most of the Slavic merchants selling in the market were actually representatives of the Princes, so they were undoubtedly the Princes' people.
And for Rostislav personally, the market today was mainly selling the wine he brought from Moldavia. It would be too terrible if something happened and the wine was ruined.
The Moscow Prince said, finding two riders, giving them a few Gryvna silver ingots, taking their horses, and mounting with Yan.
"Yes!"
The rider immediately responded, pointing the way for the Prince.
The matter was urgent, so the three rode very quickly, causing chaos along the way and even overturning several stalls.
There were also startled livestock running wild, their owners chasing them frantically behind.
Rostislav couldn't bear to watch the scene, so he directly scattered a handful of Slavic silver coins as compensation, which caused a scramble among the crowd.
Disregarding the chaos behind them, they hurried through the streets.
Fortunately, the merchants and pedestrians ahead saw three reckless riders and quickly cleared the way, so no major incidents occurred.
Of course, the public was quite frightened.
As they got closer to their destination, the sounds of shouting and fighting became clearer.
Finally, as the attendant stopped his horse, Rostislav was able to see the brawl.
The fight was on the edge of the market, where Slavic merchants had set up camp and opened their stalls. Because the Slavics brought a lot of wine to sell, they also set up several temporary wine taverns, so there were always many customers coming and going, and it was always lively.
But now, that bustling scene had vanished. All that remained were overturned tables, chairs, and wine barrels, with bright red wine spilled on the ground like sewage. And fighting amidst this 'sewage' were Magyars and Slavics.
Both sides had anger on their faces, many still fighting even with bruised and swollen faces, but no one had drawn weapons.
This relieved Rostislav; it was truly a blessing in disguise. No knives meant everyone still knew the bottom line. If knives were drawn, it would be truly difficult to handle.
But the situation was still urgent; though no knives were drawn now, the situation was not much better than if they were.
Many people, not knowing better, had already fallen into the red liquid, which was either wine, blood, or a mixture of both.
And looking at those still fighting, drawing knives was only a matter of time. If someone got emotional and drew a knife to attack, the situation would be completely different.
"Rostislav, what do we do now?"
Watching the brawl, Yan's drunkenness instantly vanished. His expression was very serious; this situation was not easy to handle.
"What to do? Both sides are seeing red. If we don't act now, this group might draw knives."
Rostislav's face was grim. He roughly calculated that there were still about ten people fighting on the field, and even more had fallen. It seemed they had been fighting for a while, which was good; their stamina was already significantly depleted. It was time for a performance.
"Let's end this brawl. Knock everyone down!"
Rostislav made up his mind. Since it seemed difficult to separate this group now, knocking them all down would suffice.
Yan raised an eyebrow, and interest sparked in his eyes. Such a thing was rare.
And at that moment, Rostislav had already charged forward, swinging his fists.
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"Bastard! I…"
The curse was cut short by a punch to the face, and the person's nose immediately gushed blood from the blow.
Rostislav gave him no respite, following up with another punch to the person's face, which directly knocked him to the ground, leaving him struggling there, unable to get up.
And there were already about ten such people, all lying behind Rostislav, while Yan and the attendant who had delivered the message were checking on the fallen.
Both of them had a fair amount of blood on their clothes; it seemed they too had participated in the brawl, though the attendant was clearly not as relaxed and at ease as Rostislav and Yan; his fatigue was the strongest among the three.
"Whew, that was satisfying."
Looking at the blood on his fists, Rostislav seemed highly amused. He had just knocked down six people at once. This pure brawl gave him great satisfaction.
This was different from battlefield slaughter; this was just the clash of fists, a pure collision of blood against blood, the most primal collision.
The attendant looked at Rostislav with a hint of awe. The Prince had knocked down most of the people here in just a few minutes.
Yan, however, looked normal. He had been with Rostislav for so many years, and they had grown up in the same city since childhood. Wasn't he clear about his boss's fighting ability?
Rostislav had been a child king since he was little, but he rarely fought, simply because after one fight, the other children never wanted to experience a second.
Rostislav casually found a box to sit on, grabbed a small wine barrel, and directly poured it into his mouth, not caring that the wine spilled all over him; he just kept chugging.
This contained a fine vintage from Moldavia, not the common stuff sold outside, but Rostislav didn't care about that now; he just wanted to drink.
The fine wine that should have been savored was thus guzzled down. Rostislav felt incredibly refreshed after finishing the wine in the small barrel. This feeling was very comfortable; nothing was better than chugging like this after a fight.
It was at this moment that the onlookers who had distanced themselves due to the brawl also gathered around, pointing at Rostislav and discussing the fight.
Some who had witnessed Rostislav's fighting prowess just now kept boasting to those around them about the Moscow Prince's skill. In their words, Rostislav became increasingly formidable, as if he had knocked down everyone there himself.
Next, the enforcing Magyars and Slavics arrived one after another, and what they saw upon arrival was Rostislav sitting among the defeated. His clothes had red stains, whether blood or wine, and the Moscow Prince gave them a smile.
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